Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Friday, October 30, 2009

The Opinuary Column




The Opinion regarding Halloween which states "During this period demons are assigned against those who participate in the rituals and festivities. These demons are automatically drawn to the fetishes that open doors for them to come into the lives of human beings. For example, most of the candy sold during this season has been dedicated and prayed over by witches" has died.

The Opinion, born in the fevered pumpkin head of Spooky America, has died this time of year many, many times before, yet it is still carried in the hearts and minds of some of the most addled, frightened and morbidly stupid people this planet has ever known. The true face of evil has no face: it denies you medical care and then blames its shareholders. It tells you what to think, which it does by telling you not to think. The greatest demon in the world today is ignorance, and its reign is secure, its throne unassailable, its primacy unmatched.

In lieu of some vaguely Satanic gift like flowers, the family of the late Opinion ask that you give candy to strangers one night a year, that you answer your door that night with a smile and a "Boo!" and that you live your life as if it was just as much fun as you can imagine it to be. Happy Halloween!




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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Martin, the Porch Spider



on our porch there lives a spider
whom we have taken to calling "Martin"
he is rather large
i suspect he would like to drive my car
if he got pulled over he would freak out the cop

when i return home from work i duck my head
at the entrance--i don't want that huge spider in my face
i look up and say hello to Martin
I try to make small talk:
How are the kids?
Putting on a little weight?
Saw a neat rainbow today
you know, small talk

it would be fun if i had a hat to tip at him when i come home:
"Evening, Martin" said the man, tipping his hat.

Martin never speaks (to me)
but he does flinch when i'm nearby
i suspect that my perfunctory greetings
are grating on him
but he bites his tongue (i think it's a tongue)
and plays it cool:
he's got a good thing going
he eats very, very well
lives in a nice neighborhood
nobody hits him or sprays him
or tells him to get a job

Halloween is coming this Saturday
tomorrow i'm going to ask Martin
if he'll give out the candy
even though he gets cranky sometimes

he'll probably not respond directly to my question
he'll just make that weird face he makes
and then he'll snap his jaw off and scream horribly
hissing his ghastly cries
venom dripping slowly down where his chin used to be
his arms slapping me like hairy scissors
his web alive, crawling with disgorged offspring
thousands of spiders attacking me
dragging me to the driveway
leaving me there to die while they drive away
shrieking hideously, a triumph of hell unleashed

i think i'll wear a hat tomorrow

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image by mjs

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Monday, October 26, 2009

Ardor among the arbor



the trees wear their leaves
until the wind seduces
soon, a nude winter

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image by mjs

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Friday, October 23, 2009

Sing it, Jesus!



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The Opinuary Column



The Opinion "You can't buff a turd" has died as a result of injuries suffered during a turd-buffing contest that was held in our nation's capitalism. Apparently, you can buff a turd if it is of a consistency that allows for that sort of thing, but a government that operates on such a belief is likely to be so busy buffing turds that it will be covered in shit before you can say High Colonic. It is believed that a surfeit of lobbyists offering to put a shine on a mounting pile of shit may have led to the death of the Opinion (a case of too much of a shitty thing). The Opinion leaves behind a stench of work-related miseries and a shitload of friends and relatives.

Born among the assholes of our Founding Fathers, the Opinion led a quiet life until television came along, an appliance whose ride to media primacy eventually led to citizens asking embarrassing questions as to why our country was trying to kill small yellow people working in rice paddies. The first known public "buffing of the turd" was held on the White House lawn during the annual Easter Egg Hunt festivities in 1967, at which time napalm was used to counter any and all egg-cloaking foliage. This event turned out to be a turd of such epic proportions that it had to be buffed by a team of fecal-buffing experts, working around the clock until they all ended up with shit for brains. Seriously, if you ever visit our nation's capital stay off the White House lawn.

After the 2000 selection of George W. Bush to be our nation's Cheerleader, turd buffing became the nation's largest growth industry, resulting in the massive hiring of thousands of lobbyists, pundits, apologists, fabulists and fatuous carnival barkers, who plied their trade polishing the ever increasing pile of shit that had grown inside the bowels of our businessment* class. Be it wars based on lies, sweetheart deals for government contracts, environmental degradation, securities fraud, et al, each scurrilous exploitation of the Commonwealth required deft and rapid turd buffing on a scale never before seen on this or any other planet. Oh, what times it had!

In lieu of flowers the family of the deceased Opinion asks that you wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

*Business + Government = Businessment (this portmanteau was employed here because fascism jumped the shark and stubbed its anus).

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Monday, October 19, 2009

Fly away, birds



summer was a time for wings
flying on the winds from china
we could fly to rivers running
we could sing beyond the sorrows
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

lanterns light the evening sky
smoke and wine and laughter sighing
we could lay upon the golden ground
flying kites that pull upon the string
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

loss is not a punishment
this is how the pageant marches
but for a time and then a silence
we are not a riddle to be solved
fly away, birds
fly away
ride the wind
sing what you say
fly away, birds
fly away
sing your songs
and then we'll fly away

autumn comes in from the forest
the smell of darkness, land of shadows
the colors of the ancient pageant
leaves they are all falling down
no time for sorrow when you're falling down

looking at the book of nature
the pages all connected strangely
no words to tie it all together
everything already bound
no time for sorrow when you're falling down

loss is not a punishment
this is how the pageant marches
but for a time and then a silence
we are not a riddle to be solved
fly away, birds
fly away
ride the wind
sing what you say
fly away, birds
fly away
sing your songs
and then we'll fly away

lanterns light the evening sky
smoke and wine and laughter sighing
we could lay upon the golden ground
flying kites that pull upon the string
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

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Friday, October 16, 2009

The Opinuary Column



The Opinion "You're no fun anymore" has died as a result of uncontrollable, nay hysterical laughter, apparently experienced while sitting on the couch eating pizza and drinking pork soda and farting and burping and scratching itself and engaging in all manner of disgusting personal proclivities that make for poor theater but excellent television, while wearing very dirty underwear that didn't belong to it and spitting repeatedly on the cat. Authorities have released a statement which reads, in part, "...the Opinion was a turd-monger" and "...not only are you still fun but you smell terrific as well."

The Opinion, born during the vegetative Reagan, pre-Bush 41, ultimately mid-Clinton era of casual prosperity, welfare queen-bashing and bank regulation euthanasia had been enjoying a a renaissance of sorts, commencing with the Bush 43 administration, as wars in Iraq and Afghanistan weren't and aren't terribly fun, and Hurricane Katrina wasn't the laugh riot many had hoped it would be. Not even Condoleeza Rice's buck teeth could get the nation giggling, nor Dick Cheney's habit of shooting people he was out having gun drinks with. No, none of it was much fun, and a lot of people died and had to move and were tortured and conspired against and exploited and manipulated and stomped on and, well, it may have been a lot of things but fun certainly wasn't one of them.

That changed today when I learned that Monty Python was going to be on American television in a documentary about spam which will be shown beginning Sunday (Oct. 18th) through the following Friday (Oct. 23) at 9 p.m. EDT on IFC. Family of the Opinion, who aren't completely dead but aren't at all well, have asked that you stay the hell away and mind your own business. It's bad enough just as it is, thank you, so don't go mucking it up any further. Now run along and do something with your life, for crissakes. Go on. Go.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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Friday, October 09, 2009

Dreams Are Like Spiders in Heaven



dreams are like spiders in heaven
weaving their webs in the dark
lightly they scatter the starlight
some say they're lost in their art
lost in their art

mountains don't share their opinions
rivers don't carry the sun
water is everyone's lover
sometimes you just better run
just better run

here is where fantasy started
here is where romeo died
here is the place
where lover's embrace
here is where juliet cried
say goodbye

the roots of the master are lively
digging like crabs in the earth
taste is for lips of desire
blood is what comes with your birth
comes with your birth

line up the numbers and quiver
crunching the lines on the grid
let it all go, and what do you know
take a look and see what you did

here is where fantasy started
here is where romeo died
here is the place
where lover's embrace
here is where juliet cried
say goodbye

someone is crawling in ether
they broke the formaldehyde jar
the veins of the forest are emptied
the needles all burned in the car

the metal is twisted and careless
the curves are like waves in the sand
she fell from the wreckage all broken
clutching leaves that looked like a man

here is where fantasy started
here is where romeo died
here is the place
where lover's embrace
here is where juliet cried
say goodbye

dreams are like spiders in heaven
weaving their webs in the dark
lightly they scatter the starlight
some say they're lost in their art
lost in their art

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Image by mjs

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The Opinuary Column



The Opinion "No, they would never do that!" has passed away after a long, dull illness, leaving behind a large contingent of disbelieving friends and relatives who are aghast that apparently there are indeed those in the world who would "do that" and they'd do it to your grandmother and your children and anybody else that stands between them and a few dollars more. Indeed, there are those who would take money for years and years as payment for health insurance, and then one day tell you why they don't have to give you what you've paid for, and maybe you should fuck off while you're at it.

In lieu of flowers, family of the late Opinion ask that you consider thinking for a time about the 45,000 Americans whose death is attributable to their not having health insurance. See you at the wake.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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p.s. Happy Anniversary of your birth, John Lennon! Words are still flowing!

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Friday, October 02, 2009

The Opinuary Column



The Opinion "There aren't enough hours in the day" has died. Researchers at the Institute For Checking Out Generic Yet Facile Assertions have determined that there are exactly enough hours in any given day (24), no more and no less. This also applies to days in a month, months in a year and years in an aeon. There still aren't enough nanoseconds in a New York Minute, but that is exactly how it should be, and woe unto any fool who seeks otherwise.

The Opinion is survived by the tick-tick-tock of the stately clock as it stands against the wall. In lieu of flowers the family of the late Opinion asks that you listen carefully to the beat-beat-beat of your tom-tom, so that the rhythm of life be your rhythm too, day and night, night and day.



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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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