And then I Wound up in Padmasambhava’s Lap March 2, 2011
Dog Poet Transmitting…….
‘May your noses be filled with roses, when you’re riding on the Beltway around Shit City”.
Once again it is time to write about the Toad King; the Gila Monster of international diplomacy, who likes to do the satanic foxtrot of buggery and the lash, but once again I must defer the moment. The fact is that the Ides of March are approaching and what more fitting period is there than histories most defining moment of treachery and literal backstabbing. So Henry Kissinger must wait yet a few more days, to be celebrated at the fitting time. I promise you will see him at the Ides of March unless, hopefully, the Ides of March see him first but not in such a gentle manner as the anniversary is noted for.
I wonder at this blog and I wonder about all the blogs, where I feel compelled to draw attention to inhuman creatures, for which I can find no sufficient comparison, except in each other. It’s not what I would wish for myself; delineating the horrendous crimes of psychopaths, who walk this world to the measured applause of people too stupid to live and who prove that point with each succeeding incarnation. I can see the divine shaking his head, when they get awarded one of- for them- those rare human births, where very little human happens and the divine mutters to himself, “Well, he didn’t make much progress as a dung beetle did he? Dung Beetle Diddy…. Hmmmm, “Honey, get Sean Combs on the phone would you”?
I know most of us are waiting for the day that Kissinger tosses off this mortal coil and walks directly through the gates of Hell and does not pass Go. Well, he spent his life at Free Parking anyway. He’s the guy who came up with the idea of building a kitty there for whoever lands on it.
For some reason, unknown to myself, I continue to travel in these environs, when what I really want to do is talk about Peace, Love and Brotherhood. I keep hearing they’re about to go on tour but Ticketron doesn’t seem to know anything about it. So, I’ll make one of my occasional sincere apologies for playing Phil Hartman as an Alcatraz guide and just keep on keeping on, until I get parole. At least I don’t have to play Machine Gun Kelly’s bitch.
I think that’s what I wanted to talk about on today’s Profile in Evil. Why do I have to be the sketch artist in this one horse tourist town?
I could nominate Governor ‘Stroll’ Walker who definitely fits the bill. He’s an appointed hitman for the Koch Brothers, who like to pronounce their name as Coke, like that confuses anyone as to their genealogy. Well, a lot of those people who used to be dung beetles must have voted for him; not that public voting and election outcomes have anything to do with each other.
I could nominate Michelle Bachmann but you have to have at least a certain IQ in order to be considered evil and she, like Sarah Palin, are not going to get there in this life.I could nominate John Stewart and what’s his name because they fit the definition of a certain type of authentic evil, where you pretend to be one thing when you most definitely are another. It’s a Bill Maher kind of an item.
I could- and will- nominate a lot of people as times marches by and this blog fills up with posts concerned with those who either directly commit evil; finance evil, profit from evil, pretend not to be evil, while leading the stupid into bondage and destruction and taking bows for being a spokes parrot for something that runs every time it sees them coming The ones who worship and serve evil in the hope of reigning in Hell; there seems to be an impression of that happening, according to something John Milton once said and which those who hadn’t died of boredom enroute to it, actually wound up reading. I think it qualifies as folk wisdom. There are all manner of celebrants of evil these days because this is the tail end of the Kali Yuga, where the dregs in the cup have risen to the surface of whatever that liquid is.
I want to write something. I feel like I’m supposed to write something but I don’t want to write about any of these smug, bloodstained cowards. Did you just get a flash of Tony Blair when you read that? I got a flash of Tony. Both he and George W. instantly enter my mind whenever I hear the word coward.
The probable reason why I can’t write about anyone in particular today, besides not falling asleep last night and then moving like a blue streak all day are these wild bursts of energy shooting through my form, since the day after I got out of the chop shop. I’ve been in such a good mood lately that I find myself singing no matter where I am. I was doing it in the doctor’s waiting room today and people started leaving to go wait in the hall. Why that kind of thing is scary, I have no idea. I hear someone singing and I try to harmonize and that’s usually okay, unless they’re on some kind of a trip, or don’t sing very well and get angry with me shoehorning them into key while they’re trying to stay out of it.
The last few days, I’ve been walking around the house singing and reminding myself not to get too frisky, like that does any good. My mood has been incredible. It’s like something is about to happen (maybe the financing for that house) and whatever it is, it’s good (according to how I define that). It feels a lot like I felt when I was going around and announcing on stage that I was going to Europe and two month later I was there. It’s an ‘in motion’ thing. Sometimes life goes into motion and the rest of the time it only looks like it is but nothing is really happening
I could talk about Madeline Albright and how the backs of her thighs looks like a topographical map of her morality. Now I feel a little twisted just for saying that. Last night, I was lying in bed and floating on a pulsing wave of liquid nectar that was impersonating my mattress. Love was pouring out of my ears, my nose and every one of those little portholes in my skin. I kept swimming up into it and speaking in poetic soliloquies of a reaching kind of needing it, as bad as I might need oxygen underwater and wondering if I was finally getting close to what I’ve been after all my life. Maybe that’s why I bought that pressure washer today, so that I could hose down everything around me while I pretended I was putting the outside into some kind of Spring expectant order.
I know how dark and deadly so many of these people are but I just don’t want to talk about them right now. Hosing them down would be okay and watching them impersonate Chinese lanterns- in every sense of the word- would be okay because I don’t have any of that vengeance shit running through my bloodstream .Maybe nobody sending me any Vitamin K is part of some sort of chemical release thing that’s trying to get ignition in my system. I remind myself that everything is under control, even the things I don’t want to be. Still, arid moments come and go but sooner or later what looked like a boulder against a rock wall slides away and I’m talking to Devas, jinns and genii.
I can’t handle this energy so I’m not even trying. That works real well of course and anything else does not work but I suspect I look strange. I catch Susanne studying me out of the corner of my eye but she’s seen all of it that she can see by now and the things she can’t see… that’s just as well. The dogs see though. They make a lot of funny moves lately. Someone’s trying to keep my emails from getting to the people who link my posts. It’s pretty sophisticated but by this time anyone who’s supposed to be reading any of this, finds their way here on their own.
I’m higher than I’ve been in a long, long time but certain things are useful when it comes to interpreting what I can’t see, unless I’m in that particular kayak. I do realize I’m not supposed to know certain things sometimes, because it cuts back on the spontaneity and interferes with the entertainment factor of the divine, for whom I am some kind of a song and dance act without the red nose. The energy thing is impressive. I’m buzzing like a bee hive but it’s a good buzz. You know that feeling where you get the sensation that you have a new circulatory system just under the epidermis and which hits its high points in the cheekbones under the eyes, just behind the ears and at the nape of the neck? Sure you do (grin).
Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me for wandering all over the map and winding up in Padmasambhava’s lap and feeling nothing but gratitude that this is now over and I can go back to the internal massaging waterbed that doesn’t need quarters to keep playing, Long Train Running, even though all I’m hearing is the chorus; apparently sometimes you do ride for free and ass, grass or cash doesn’t do anything like this anyway. You can’t buy something like this. It comes out of nowhere and there is no receipt. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sound different. We’ll have to wait and see.
I’ll probably have an update announcement in the comments section in a little while. Right now I’ve got to go through the spin cycle.
‘The Clicking Mandibles’ is track no. 4 of 8 on Visible and The Critical List’s 1987 album
‘La Vierge Sperme Danceur’
About this song (pops up)