Friday, March 14, 2008

Springtime in Paradise

0736/1935 Cloudy 65/78 ESE10/15 70%H
Greetings from the Hill.

Finally back on the machine, a new console
and two new mice, double sided action
to understand the duplicity of government.

Hard to imagine a blueblood Walker boy,
scion of Wall Street bankers and supporters
of the Hitler regime and Horace Schacht
could look like a redneck niggerkiller.

"Hey, hey, oldman walking...
hard to imagine Hippies back in the White House,
....or will it be the Black House,"
laughs the madone walking to the balcony,
filling the bowls on the scaffolding,
for six cats and twenty doves,
feeding the carekillers meals
to sixteen chickens in the garden below.

The oldman was in regression again,
after a month of being homebound from paralysis
he began walking, first a block, then increasing
to twenty five and almost a heart attack.

"Then you fucking near cut your arm off, asshole,
redesigning the flat with a northwest galley,"
second floor chores done, the madone sat down
beside the oldcat eating caviar and sipping milk.
He often wondered about things like that
on a fifty dollar a week budget.
The oldman seemed to have a way with money...
or a way without 'it', that mysterious it again.

"A fool in power who believes his words..."
the doctor had returned from his studies,
soothing the balcony plants with love
talking in plant tongue.

"Only these Americans believe thier own propoganda,
trust advertising, and have faith in thier dollar,"
shaking his head and watching a springbreak bum
on a passing bicycle, the joy of youth,
without a cellphone.

"Against the ruination of mankind there is
but one defense," pausing to perform
to the passing Conchtrain, the sun shining,
god's spotlight on the good Doctor Coy,
"The creative act."

The oldman smiled in amusement at the ripoff,
forty years ago in the hills beyond MillValley,
the cliffs above the Golden Gate,
in the valleys of the Redwoods
before hippies and peaceniks,
lived the Beatnicks....
The oldman and Roy Coy
also went to Berkeley to chase pussy.

"Dream on, oldman....
its closer to fifty years," offers the madone,
sending the oldfart on a walkabout
for a cold pint before noon.

Time was closing it's channel on the oldman,
the joy of watching and walking
a battle with degenerative disease
and an unrefined diet.
Independence and freedom, a choice of time,
the very essence of spirit,
shackled by carekillers and takeover artists,
vultures preying upon the weak,
picking raw the love of life,
taking the Love Lane mailbox,
stomping the lovevine,
poisoning little chickees.

"So what is the solution, Doctor...
surrender to the banksters and corporapists.."
offers the madone as the skies turn blue
and a salt breeze clears the air,
placing plates on the balcony table,
fresh roses in the vases,
homemade bread with fresh hair.

Lunch at noon...
blue skies and beautiful.

The oldman was starting to crank it up
with rhyme and free time.

A joint and a cold pint.

"All is not right," claim the commenters
not the commentors who proclaim
the spirit of advertising with
spin in the wind from the gas
passed from the ass in the White House
who has mortgaged 'it' to the most.

"Think about that, Asshole....
walking debt with hidden assets
illegally unreported, not fake opaque
transparently recorded and reported."

The voice from the hallway.

All part of a very mysterious will,
an option on an estate, half interest
in a broken dream....

The sad case that never closes.

Until the chickees leave home.

Don't eat hairbread.

Today is almost balanced in orbit
and time 736/737

There forces of intelligence
somewhere else.

A cock on the Rock.

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