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Ask Not...You Will So Hate the Answer

CEE

    By the time this column sees print, we’ll be bearing down on ramming the 45th in a long line of snakes into an overly imbalanced position of power and authority high atop the planet. This person is designed in advance to disappoint us, much the same as any hero, lost love or the original pilot of Happy Days on Love, American Style, where Richie ends up playing chess with the school’s bad girl, rather than throwing the glasses into the fireplace. It won’t matter who wins the Battle Royale (IMO, that’s up to Anonymous, but then again, I don’t believe there have been free elections here, since 1876). The lack of respect and the piranha-like goto, is Amerika, for the rest of our lives.
    We’re going to fear plenty aside from Fear, itself, the word will not go forth from this time and place but be edited, spun, and eaten, probably by Arianna Huffington, just to keep it fair. Half of us will solemnly swear we hate the asshole, the other half will swear a blood oath against anyone who curls a lip. It’s very Orwellian, you realize. Christopher Hitchens said, as early as 2000, “What choice do you have, in what choice you have?” It often comes down to the sad South Park Scylla and Charybdis, of a turd sandwich or a giant douche. There isn’t going to be Truth, Justice, the American way, nor any teeming, brightgold Brotherhood of Man. Just you and all likeminded friends, having a bellyache for four years, or a headache from everyone who annoys you, as they won’t shut up about their bellyache. IOW, the beautiful view of all possibility is marred by The Haters, or said hatemongers have torched it all and now dance around a bonfire together. If, unPavlov, you won’t let go of that live wire of Good Do-Bee “Community “, and this notion that “ya gotta do what ya {ORAL DUNG}...” you deserve to get the shock Sean Connery got in the global domination vid game in Never Say Never Again...and, if you’re within Top 40 Hits of my age yet still cling to the wisdom of the papyri we studied in Dewey Decimal school—not because of deeper truths, but because you think it can be laid across our garbage dump nation as seer stone to solve ills—you win the jolt Stallone as Actual Judge Dredd gave Mean Machine Angel.
    The empty tragedy, is that nothing applies at all, today, but bread and circuses... which, should fill in every other blank in your rebus puzzle of the ‘why’ of the country you’re seeing. No Superman nor Phoenix is going to make it all better. A dull, boring snore of headship, the candidate you find most vapid as caretaker president, is your best and shiniest hope. We stand on ice caps melting, revealing freefall beneath. An Adam West BATMAN cliffhanger that ain’t cinematic. Buck up, strap in, no one controls The Big Picture. And you can’t save your children, they never were your property, let ‘em go. Best we, akin to the buttmunches on the old Cardsharks game show, try not to think a little bit, and once a “7”, freeze. You’re welcome to champion as taunt, or shake a fist at the new scapegoat, but don’t ever get the idea a patch has been found for America’s bugs. One can’t find the least system here, now, but for those bugs, well more in number than in the final scene in Creepshow. Until it’s utterly junked, which may mean no nation of any kind (so bone up on the Mandarin alphabet while there’s time), it’s hold your breath, boil water, zone out and avoid a park bench bed with all your might. No Washington mall crammed suits-full of “new”, is anything but old, so pray to Almighty Cthulhu for a dim bulb. Cross fingers for lifelessness. Take a boring president. Expect nothing. Hope for nothing, embrace tepid as a lover. If you’re truly wise, see it all as the game it is. Not of thrones...rather, Marty McFly endlessly pointing and yelling, “What the Hell is That?!”, computing statistics of how many millions continue to look off, kneejerking into distraction. You’re not cared about, noncitizen. It’s a bad relationship. And it exists for a select group inside the Beltway to oink down all the grape juice and Twinkies they want, comp’d—I would say, by You...but, no. When you pay taxes, the money’s not yours, anymore. Like the power company, or cable. They’re billing you for last month. The rape you obsess over, is the previous one. Spilt milk.
    It’s not an equation much burdened. This truly is about control issues. Not necessarily as the remedial math of 99 guzintah 1, would have you believe. Let’s break down that control, and see just how up for grabs our asses are:
    In a nation of heavily nuanced yet unlayered voters, 2 things present as to how a person tickles our fancy with presidential potential, the Frick and Frack of foreign and domestic. The former, due to our own literal interpretations of high concept words like “freedom”, “liberty”, “rights” and “dignity”, is no longer ours to manipulate. We certainly have no control in the global arena. No longer the bully, we’re just the fat kid. And the reality is, any group of individuals who think they’re a Third World nation, don’t trouble about columns of uniformed control freaks marching in for awhile; that’s been a reality in some of these regions, since Alexander. Time, will march further and longer, far, than Other culture of the moment. They know this, in the East. They know it in Africa. They know it in Europe. “Eventually, this will flip.” The flow of generations, a circle of life rolling along like the Times Square ball treading out the grain, precludes any tinkering which would result in all new default settings. Only Nazi Germany tried to get into the heart of the HD and mess with root. My poem, “Union of South Africa”, in its guts spells out the secret of true global reset:
    “Genocide, flatout
    Right-the-fuck-away
    If you have taken something away
    As intrinsic as Earth and sky,
    Then you are not more evolved
    If you don’t finish the job”
    Effectively, the concentration camps as removing any human creature not Aryan, would so, given WW2 falling the other way, by a few decades, ensure only Aryan remained. The reason behind their proposed world state being named, “Germania”, is clear enough, in this light. Not conquerors digging bootheels. Not billboard for the best and the brightest. Only.
    Wrapped Snuggie in Old Glory, we’re not going to do that. It will never happen. America as Actual Trek’s Horta, says, “No Kill I.” And together with Time and “You, too, Shall Pass”, here endeth any control. And the world, down to all former GasnGulpistans, sneers. We won’t be bringing anyone the holy secret of Fire. If we do, we will be torched with it and eaten. Give it up.
    Which leaves these shores, Seward’s Folly with its dying polar bears, and a smattering of islands who waited ages for us to leave, until they realized tourism had enslaved them for eternity. This place, its 50 states and several territories, is all I, an isolationist, ever gave a damn about. Problem being, we’re entrenched in world affairs, and there is such a thing as a global economy. And, we’ve been making terrible decisions along $-related lines, for a very, Very long time. I said also in a poem, our first banking czar, Nicholas Biddle, is laughing his ass off, in Hell. It’s naive on a drooling level, to allow monies to be held by Others, then believe theft will not occur. But, it doesn’t matter what I think, or what information to which you avail yourself. It doesn’t matter if we will have to, in main, “live poor” all our days, or if checks, as it were, stop coming. There simply and plainly is not enough to go around, even if kids being born slowed to a shuffle. Not and enjoy cool things, which is why unbathed young people growl minimalistic principles. No one gives two shits about such philosophies, when all is flowers and hot, fat sandwiches. Jeremiah as life coach, disappears with fiscal health. In the 80’s, no one heard the stinky prophets over the Thriller album. In the 90’s, no one heard them over lip smacking the new pizza with the cheese in the crust. Now, like a Rotary Club meeting where everyone tries to sell insurance to one another, the threadbare choir preaches poverty, LOUD—but in main, to itself...possibly a wise trick for selfhardening, as poverty, well below shop ‘til you drop, is the first day of the rest of your life. All of You—and your kids, probably worse, let ‘em go, they don’t belong to you—have a “King of Pain” day to day a-comin’, scraping along, no deus ex machinae, no pink cloud gonna-happen day. Every Man a Crachit. The future, though if in fortune the government remains the one inherited from the Constitutional Convention rather than Mao tse-Tung, is survival only. Bare subsistence. Point A to Point B. Ant Community, in full. Thank God I’m dying. Good fuckin’-luck, to the rest of you...
    The grouchy, grinching minimalists, untrue to their own preachings, hold for change and overhaul and Revolution without blood (which is a joke—try that Now, in 2016; it’s an actual, forward move, nonfriend. You’ll get gassed like a Bonus Marcher). Minimalists, even those genuinely poor, don’t want the very reality providing them with Nothing. They want...what? A reality where They too get the big screen TV and the scrub-your-very-back computer with its terabytes and Milky Waybytes and expanding universebytes where old Voyager transmits porn from Alpha Centauri?...or, a reality where You don’t get anything, either, whether you wish it or not? And, kid...you shouldn’t wish for it. Let me tell you how to think, there’s one, uniform Way, y’see. This is the new spin, so, en garde position for it, now: “You should not be told what to think, but HOW to think.” These are equivalent. There is in formula, no difference in intended result. The Above POV is mind control and should be shunned. If necessary, balls to the wall, with terminal intensity.
    Still, minimalism, as all philosophy, is but retentive niceties. A mere bag of shells, to quote a retiree in days of my teens. We’re all going to die, we all knew that nugget, it’ll just be badly, now, in terms of filth or violence. Bukowski’s Factotum as mortality. Sitting in unswept grit inside stained walls, without toilet paper and supping thin stew, or feral, in the “worker’s riot” scene from Intolerance, as we bust heads and have ours busted, probably over who gets the last Tickle Me Trump. There isn’t any more money, not the googol-gillions necessary for the system to run, and we refuse to live without it...All of Us. Even those with dirty feet—they, mostly because (I’m told) home grown pot, is shitty. The only close to-quick fix, advancing on Washington, DC and burning it down...only, the same pilot whom Bruce Willis outwitted in the 4th Die Hard, is going to have better luck with your small group of lil’ pissers. Don’t dismiss me. You’re Not in a Foreign Country. And if you succeed in razing the place back to the swamp it is, you level up. Here comes The Peoples’ Army. Marching in, four abreast. There exists no We the People, in a matrix-world. That, too, the notion of democracy, is something you’ve been fed. What The Devil’s Dictionary would classify as “theory”.
    No, ours is a democratic republic, which means the bitches and sons a’ bitches you elect to do battle, do your thinking for you. You agreed to that, by voting at all...at least, by not leaving. Few, ever make good their infantile, “If _______ gets elected, I’m leavin’ the country!” I never made good on my own threats, for there exists no theocracy for me, which is the proper faith. No fooling. I could have lived very happily amid the Plymouth Brethren. It’s my own “50 Shades...”, as Life is Not Fun, nor was meant to be.
    So, no control of the planet and how it spins. I’ve opposed every intervention overseas, from Vietnam, on, btw. We aren’t cruel enough to make a difference, so screw it. No control of our own land, as its fuel is a green dollar bill, said well is dry in any satisfying or rectifying sense, and this is my reason for focusing on only money, re: domestic affairs. Our land is money, and that is all it is. I speak not of the powdered vision, but of how it played. Any other spin on these United States as the next election looms, is whistling past a graveyard. Some grandma-thing you learned to repeat. Boy Scout horseshit. “Now I lay me down to sleep...”
    Reality, an abrasive, is daily life as lived. Try your ideals on Main Street, USA, when you need a ride and don’t have a dime. There are Good Samaritans, yes—they aren’t unicorns. Rather, they drive Tuckers. We’re amazed, when we see them, we yell and point. Like seeing a biplane, even 7 years into a Kevin Costner-Earth. I wrote a scene like that, once. The happiness of those welcoming the small craft. The thrill of again encountering What Had Been. That there existed once a “better”, and it could be touched, if for a moment. The delight. I read this aloud, one night, to a roomful. A dear friend, poopooed it as “not believable”.
    I bet he wouldn’t, now.

CEE

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