Saturday, June 20, 2009

caution for the walker of the victorious city

caution for the walker of the victorious city, there is a wall of noise between you and something. the city has made you now, you have become the city, you have accepted its victory. there are little skyscrapers on either side of the lines of your hands, a little roar of constant traffic in your ears. there are a river of giant trucks that scream like airplane engines flooding in and out of the streets of this steel house, there is a dread hum of a dead star electrifying the streetlights, a billion piston angels raining blue and red police sirens. these are the slums where girls with no friends vanish, these are the gated communities where new aristocrats are born.

but a caution to you prisoner in the triumphant city; your memory had been erased. there is a silence you have forgotten, beautiful and alive. you laugh at people who say it’s real and a silence more real than even power lines and post offices.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

i washed dishes in an italian restaurant downtown

i washed dishes in an italian restaurant downtown until 1am every night. the owners were three brothers all of them did coke and talked to the women at the bar or played computer golf and didnt look up when you asked questions. i made about $8 an hour, a real winner. i think me and the youngest brother were about the same age. my clothes developed holes in them because i could still wear them. the kitchen was otherwise populated with sri lankans and a strange afghani man who made cock jokes and employed little tortures on me because i was one of the only white guys that worked in the back. the afghani had fled some kind of war or some kind of army and terrible things had happened because his eyes twinkled in a bad way and his laugh was slightly angry. he was harmless and spooky, and he made me sad because he reminded me of how many people there were in the world that you would never understand or like but suffered and tried just as you did in a way you would never know.

the dishes would pile up so fast there was no hope of staying on top of them, they would just keep coming in by the hundreds, piling up around you and the giant pots and giant pans and the stink of garbage mixed with food - a smell like spiced vomit and human sweat until there was nowhere left to move just surrounded with dirty fancy dishes and a PTSD afghani laughing at me silently. and at the end of the night they would flood the floor with two inches of water and let it all go down the drain all this dirty water thrashing in the kitchen like a drowning boat in the sea and we were covered in refuse and water and even now it is nothing to me to reach my bare hand down in to a garbage can or a bucket of shit. and one night feeling broken like a soldier in napoleon's army at waterloo - napoleon gone, the generals gone, just dead friends and the enemy swaggering around ready to kill you, fleeing the british who were coming with old mean kings and princesses of europe to put the winners back in charge and the losers, the peasants and the unpaid footsoldiers all ran off somewhere in the bright dusk...

i ran into the coked up bartender about my age, 6'3 with a tiny silver earring and an immaculate goatee who pretended to sneeze on me and ripped a hole in the collar of my shirt well open so that a flap hung around my chest and laughed and i said weakly what the fuck did you do that for? and he just laughed and hugged me and sent me away into 2am downtown to be almost run over by a yellow sportscar and across the street having a smoke watching some rich kid who thought he was a gangster sexually harass some girl , and i said between chain smokes hey man youre scaring her. naw he said naw i aint and she went off with him in the end.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

the rebellion in heaven


this past week two rebellions in heaven took place, and the angels both times flew quickly to the scene, angels with huge, drooping wings and gas masks, armed with gas bombs and pistols.

down in akwesasne near the border the mohawks seized the outpost of the angels and said the angels may not bring guns on to our land. how little most know. the iroquois never gave up their land, never became part of america. through all the disease that the angels brought unknowingly or knowingly, through all the deaths of mystic animals, through all the armies of angels that crept closer and closer each time the iroquois stumbled, like hyenas around an injured deer, the iroquois, the haudenosaunee, clung to the longhouse, the council fire, the bowl with one spoon, the great wampum belts and the clans, and they remained.

and they rebel against the angels that made paradise here and said no paradise on our land, much to the surprise of heaven. and the son of man, the disease of power, was driven back at ganienkeh, at oka, now here as the angels tried to bring guns to make heaven better. and the iroquois will not negotiate with the guns of paradise, because they are not heaven but earth, they are humanity, they are the fugitive, democracy.

and up in the city montreal the people claimed a city block of paradise on rue St Patrick, the children of angels who hated guns, made a little democracy like a fire of twigs, and the angels came swiftly, and before even 24 hours had passed the gas had driven them out the back door and into the blue june dusk. there were women and children who did not understand heaven there, did not know how angels in gas masks are the heralds that declare the eternal kingdom with bangs and whimpers. the little fire of twigs of democracy, a piece of the city claimed by the city dwellers, when it is in fact owned by the god, they didnt know,

and we? we are lost in heaven, wandering around, unaware of the bones that compose the clouds on which we tread, condeming, mocking, lecturing, judging, but mostly shrugging.

the montreal action:

the iroquois action: