Gordon Brown, The UK, and the little island that could...

Gordon Brown has now announced that he is not anti-american. This from an article at the BBC homepage. Good for him. Its nice to know that he is willing to be friends with a country that is much like his own in some ways. They are both interested in ruling the planet(in an economic sense not in a traditional colonial sense although Irag, Afghanistan, and Puerto Rico would likely have a problem with this theory). Both countries' governments don't seem to have that big of a problem with pollution or the rabid consumerism that plagues western culture(not that the mainland has done much better). They are also in bed together on the Iraq war(spooning is more correct) and it would look quite bad if these two life partners suddenly had a break up and one decided to favor the EU(which would give it a better economical chance considering it is the biggest market in the world and the US may very well be fading off into the sunset of history). Both countries have had hard times getting used to the fact that indeed the whole world is 1. not envious of their success 2. most of the world would prefer their own language as oppossed to the cultural hegemony that persists from these two and 3. would like an apology from them for their military and economical bullying for the last couple of centuries. If Mr. Brown likes to stay in bed with Bush and the Yanks that is fine, but the rest of should be warned that they aren't exactly going to pass their next physical either.

I have been laughed at
for the size of my fingers
that they were lady like
and lacked the strength of
the boy I call myself

And at times it feels
that they are gripping a
cold rock wall trying to hold
onto the dreams and holding
onto you

Despite all the smiles
Despite all the laughter
I question whether they can
hold it all together.

A poem

Every dream is a nightmare
yes there are mountains
and mirror clad lakes
dancing leaves on fall trees
and the whisper of the wind
the cruelest of symphonies
there are seas and oceans
the monsters the fish the
dolphins, every color is
painted almost fresh, and
the lights are always on
the wax drips from candles
the scents of the season
warm on my skin, but all this
every dream is a nightmare
because you are not there

The Last of the Panthers...

There were no burning torches, shrouded hoods, or other things common to a human meeting dipped in secrecy and scheming. It did take place in the woods on the edge of a swamp far from the streetlights of the nearest urban area. The head of the order sat beneath an ancient cypress tree whose branches strove to keep the darkness intact. The panthers were slowly gathering for the yearly meeting. When all the elders were gathered, a roar went up from the leader and there was silence.

"My brothers, fellow felines, listen to the words of a declining race. Our children are disappearing from these shores that this beast called man is slowly destroying with his concrete streets and endless houses that all look the same." Here he was interrupted by a roar of approval from the other elders. He waited patiently till the silence returned before continuing "With our land decreasing we face a population crises. We cannot find land to continue living our lifestyles as we have for thousands of years. Our sons and daughters are growing tired of this life. They are listless and bored. Their interest in furthering the race is all but extinct. That is the reason we are gathered here. Our lifestyle is the one that the allmighty has shown to be the right one. Therefore today I encourage you to go back out in your territory and take back what is meant to be ours. This land was made for us. Don't let these immigrants, these non-natives pave our forests just to build their Starbucks, their malls, and these damn convenience stores. Tear the flesh that intrudes on your land. Then I call on the females, the mothers and those who are yet to be mothers to increase their bearing of children. Our race must continue. Thank you goodnight." The roars of agreement echoed through the forest and somewhere nearby at a campsite, two stoned hippies were shaking in their sleeping bags.

Day Dream #25

He spent the day in bed arguing philosophy with himself. The dialogue wasn't necessarily clever, worthwhile to repeat here, nor was it in any way logical. He did conclude that he wasn't going to get out of bed. That includes never having to see what the weather is looking like outside. He could tell though just by the amount of light that was washing over his blinds that it wasn't sunny outside. He didn't hear the patter of rain and so he concluded that if it had rained at any point in the night, it would have mostly dried by this point. None of this meant that he was any more or less motivated to get out bed. The sheets are warm he thought. Why should I ever get out of this little cocoon that I've created. The sheets are wrapped around me, I have a book to read, and then there is always the chance to sleep some more. He flirted with eternity after the cocoon thoughts faded. He was trying to stay awake now but eternity was responsible for a yawn growing out of his mouth and finally blooming wide. Maybe he was just sleeping anyway. Maybe this was all a dream and with that cliche thought in mind he turned out the lights and rolled over. Now he would never get back to the dreamy clouds he'd been floating through all night.

66.6 FM

Good morning faithfull members of our burning community. This morning will be the same as all others, everything is as it should be, or maybe to put it better it is for you and us as it shouldn't be. Temperatures may reach a boiling point, the skin may melt from your faces and you may feel a thirst that seems unquenchable. This is just another day in what some of us like to call the anti-paradise. The thirst is unquenchable and it was written quite clearly in the contract that all of you signed at that crumbling gate some time ago before entering our lovely community of flames and ash.

Some of you have asked about our architect. To accomodate the recent masses of people we have hired several American architects to design our new buildings. They have modeled it on the suburban sprawl that is currently growing like a cancer back on earth. We have to confess that our Father has been the voice of inspiration in that country for so long. How else does one explain a reliance on fossil fuel driven vehicles and an incessant need for air conditioning wherever people gather. Every house looks the same we admit, but that is our strong point. Here we are all the same. We are suffering, we are burning, we grind our teeth in anguish. You may have noticed if you come from North America that all the buildings are made out of cheap materials. Yes, this is the case, just like all the McMansions back in your states we decided that we would purchase subpar materials from places like Home Depot, where we get a discount by the way. Luckily we don't have any hurricanes, earthquakes, or tornadoes to worry about. We just have this burning heat. Don't blame us you made the choice. Have a beautiful morning and watch out for your skin if you can. :)

Predisone Side Effects

I am rage. The hunched over, sweating Robert DeNiro throwing opponents around a ring. I am every splinter and chip of wood from the furniture hurled out the windows at random moments amid grunts and groans. I am the beating of fists on the bathroom floor tiles one after another. Hear my bones crack. I am a thousand kilograms of adrenalin pumping in my veins like bees buzzing together to sting a little girl who threw rocks at the hive. I am thunder, I am lightning, I am a million storms. Show me New Orleans and I’ll flood the streets. I am the black hole of the universe sucking in everything and building up this explosion. The great big bang taking place over and over again just inside the skin that they call flesh on a body of something they call a boy. Edison created light but I can only create in my own way by smashing his bulbs to bring back darkness.

And then there were two.

There were two. Two males. They'd waited until the last possible moment to abandon the planet. For thousands of years the species known as human had walked the earth. They'd left their mark on every piece of earth available, often to the disadvantage of the planet. Now within the hour they would depart for the last time. Millions were already dispersed through the galaxy, busy leaving their fingerprints on other planets not as old as theirs. The mother planet was a single mother bidding her last adult children farewell. She was greying and her core cooling.

The two men had spent the morning walking the abandoned streets for the last time. They'd studied the rain clouds trying to make their eyes take pictures. They'd felt the soil of the fields slip through their fingers like farmers. Now they sat in the rocket making the final countdown checks. The nearest inhabited planet was expecting them within a fortnight. Then something happened. The older one turned to the younger one with watering eyes. They didn't speak, not because they didn't want to, but because they spoke different languages. The younger one saw the death in his companions eyes. He saw the fire going out and the coals cooling. They shook hands and that night there was only one man left on a planet that once supported billions.

In the silence after the last rocket left the earth, the only thing that broke it was not the earth crying for its sons and daughters. It wasn't the songs of birds, they had died centuries before. It was the short drop of a body on a rope from a plastic tree in the town square. The body swung back and forth and the eyes rested on the ground. On the home that seemed so far away.

Malibu and Smokes

Its all about Malibu white rum. That and a pack of cheap cigarillos. No Marlboro reds for us no sir! We don’t smoke that. What you have next is a hike in the jungle. We wouldn’t be up here, our souls are normally like the tide; driven by the beating of the waves. Some mornings I would swear I could wake up and hear the breakers impacting on the beach. I would look up and realize that it was still dark out. To early to surf. Wait another hour. Today there are no waves and that is why we reached that peak. We thought ourselves explorers until we saw that John and Amy had carved their name into the tree and left an empty bottle of beer between some rocks. Someone else had carved a face on the palm fronds. We light up and mix the rum with some cheap juice from the little grocery store a few miles ago. We talk about this and that. Every dream is amplified by a trip. Someday I’ll see that peak again. I may have a bottle of something better than rum and I probably won’t have cigarillos but I’ll still be a dreamer on that rock face.

The Only Sane Man in Stockholm

He's there outside the department store next to Sergels square. If he isn't then you can find him at Stureplan beating back the crowds. To describe him is to describe minimalism and simplicity. He wears clothes that no one has even studied. Grey is the only color one thinks about when they pass him. It isn't the glints of white in his beard or the steadily receding scandinavian hair line. Its the erratic movements that they might call dancing somewhere far from these streets. The movements would turn anyone's back into jello and leave him hunchbacked for a month. Not our hero, he is there everyday playing to those who don't listen. If he spoke he might be a prophet. A Jeremiah or an Elijah. Maybe if you watch long enough the skies will part and doves will descend on him. His only tools are a handheld radio tuned somewhere between two stations and a harmonica that he uses to create his own reality. The fingernails, the skin, the eyes are so blank and dirty. Maybe its the music that only he hears in his own noise. Everyone else uses him to fulfill a purpose in their lives as they pass him by. Today I am sane for I am not that poor man playing a harmonica and a song that only he can make out. Its conceivable the government is paying him to play and let the masses believe for a minute that there is sanity.

A Tuesday in Late Summer

I saw him in the mirror. He was hazy at first and just visible around the edges. Superstition was in the pupils. Lines of veins leading to the eyes were growing into red spider webs. Who is that? Sometimes when I wake up it takes a minute to register who I find in front of me staring back. the wavy hair and patchy beard are things you forget every night in your sleep and only remember that they exist in that first glimpse. I gave him a name. Fear suits all practical purposes. Fear he shall be called. Bring out the holy water. Where is the priest? Anoint him with oil and we shall name him Fear. But enough of the capitals, no he is fear of triviality. Give him a smaller name; fear. He isn't logical, he isn't even real, but I can see him there staring back at me. Hello fear, hello he answers back. I guess I must have left the door unlocked last night. Here to stay a while? I ask. Maybe, maybe not. Hmm.