Goodbye Yellow Brick Guilt

It seems that with the recession (which still happens to effect the entire world), American holiday advertisement pushes cheep wares as advantageous just a few years removed from our own feigned concern with sweat shops and boycotting buying products that support such 3rd World pimping by large American corporations. Yet, you are made to believe, with all your self-centered and elf-concerned 'God-Blessed' American heart that this is what's right now. Because you're suffering, others should further suffer to afford the security and sanctity of your precious little holiday consumer approach to 'showing' people around you that you care. Good night and fuck off America!

Cinematic Enemies

So, last night I, unfortunately, wasted two hours of my life on Michael Mann's so-called biopic of John Dillinger and his famous run of bank robberies in the 1930's. What's most disconcerting is that the film has two of the better actors of this generation in Depp and Bale and this movie still stinks like a roadside rest stop toilet. It's emotionally void, not just flat, but void and I couldn't give less of a shit about the characters, despite one of them being the real-life charismatic diamond Dillinger. Dillinger may have been a secret double agent of the Knights Templar or an alien and none of this fascinating 'other' side of him was even winked at. Let's just say that Depp is about as interesting as Dillinger as Stephen Dorff is as Homer Van Meter. That's saying something. And Bale could barely hold onto that whack ass Southern accent any better than a slimy catfish.
It's a good thing I also watched Robin Williams in World's Greatest Dad. Not since World According to Garp has Williams perfected the art of sympathetic asshole and sycophant so well. Kudos to Bobcat Goldthwait for writing and directing such a richly funny and dark tale.

Album of the Week

Songs From the Skylight by Paul White
More to follow shortly....

Do not despair, my fair readers. All 7.2759 of you. I have not forsaken my blog, I have only taken some time to make an intricate mess in other mediums or other places. I will return.

bellows

my lungs are the bellows that fan the flames of Hell, my heart the eternal flames soothing the hand-wringing anxiousness of its demons. yet, the eternal angel of hope continues to rise from the ashes of all this fire. she ignites my heart in a way all of Hell's flames cannot. I exhale with the fear of smoldering her delicate wings and tender voice. her delicate, yet confident touch echo me back to a resplendent existence above the flames. I awake from the fanciful journey of dreams to find that she is nothing but a specter of my mind. she is a figment. she is a fantasy. reality is still filled with endless horizons of flame and disgust, a panoramic view of Hell from the center, crying out from the absolution of convictions that sit atop a throne far away from these flames, this smoke, this desolation. but to touch that light and airy seat is but a conflagrated vision, a dream set upon the tongue tips of flame reaching up towards heavens unknown. and she insistently flutters there, out of reach, as long as I continue to wade through the fire without realizing my potential to skate above its reach. so I remain.
my lungs are the bellows that fan the flames of Hell, my heart the eternal flames soothing the sad, prayer-filled admonishments of its demons and tortured souls. flailing towards an idyllized point in the sky of salvation. a place that pines for love, but is ensconced in the very belly of hate and emotional dissection. plying the very sympathies of those without care to climb out of the pits of despair and loneliness, only to find that the journey upwards is complicated by sn eternity of steps; an endless series of motions towards an unattainable goal;.

Just Another Way To Say...

...Shit is funky! For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I've been listening to Cypress Hill's first LP a lot lately. It is straight up funky ass shit. Prince Paul taught DJ Muggs well and it shows on this record. There's no need for me to expound upon some extrapolated philosophical ideas about this album, other than to say what I already have: this is one funky ass album. It's full of great samples and memorable potheaded lyrics, mixed with a South Central LA gangster ethos. I guess my real point here is that this is an album with real staying power, given that I'm still rockin' it 16 years after I first heard it. Anyways, I think that if you're sitting at home struggling with what to listen to and you love HipHop, then maybe just throw this gem on one more time and kick back with a fat doobie and enjoy!

a new poem

frayed thread
{10.07.09}

I strain and dream
of talking to people I know
in environments, or situations,
unnatural, untenable fits
to who they are.
shifting and pondering fantasy
through different threaded layers
of reality
I deposit secrets in innumerable
hidden Pandora's Boxes
through universes increasingly
confused in the potential
for existence
I laminate the remnants
of my ideas of love
and slip them under the doors of
neighbors I've never had
hoping that some day
I may awake to find
them returned to me
as an alarming signal
that the dream, the idyll
can actually be tempered
by the tactility of realization