Monday, March 22, 2010

Do they hear?

Do they hear me? Do they know I exist? Do they care? The Masters of the Universe, our oligarchs for whom I write, whom I celebrate and praise, the brave leaders leading us into a brave new world. Do my words reach them as they float upward from the bottom of the dung pile that is America?

I am the point man for the future they are visiting on America, the country that is one of the few remaining bubbles of middleclass prosperity they find so objectionable. I am their future wallowing in my Third World shack, dulling my pain with the sacred smoke, reveling in my misery and my hunger, showing America that misery is not the end of the world, that there is a warmth to it once the smoke softens its sharp edges and one no longer cares, no longer strives, and one enters a state of apathetic non-grasping that is the foundation of all spirituality. I am a new age mendicant calling America to a life of spiritual simplicity. Why worry about your health and well being when repose awaits you in the comforting embrace of ennui?

As the sun goes down each day I watch from my hovel as the windows of their houses on the hill glow gray as their screens come to life, as image and sound conceals the grinding rasps of a world beginning to crumble around them while they sit in a self-induced hypnotic trance before the trivia that passes for entertainment and amusement.

As darkness enfolds me I settle down in the foul-smelling rags that are my bedding and dream the big dreams of collapse and decline that give meaning to my life. To know that before long all of those houses sitting on the hill above my hovel will be empty shells in weed-choked yards, their contents that once gave meaning to their lives being rotted away by the rain and cold that breaks through their glassless windows and that the land upon which my hovel sits will, one day, become a city of hovels, one of the many favelas that will spread from coast to coast.

I know this because this is what the sacred smoke tells me. My misery is their misery. They just don’t realize it as yet. They travel their road oblivious and unaware that the life blood being sucked out of them is being drained upward to feed the security/defense machine that will come into play the moment they realize they’re being screwed.

Do my masters hear me? Is there somewhere a Kafkaesque warehouse, its shelves bulging with bundles of paper spilling off endless rows of shelves, musty with the smell of stale files long obscured by the dust of time? Is this where my words end? Buried, filed away, forgotten?

But I forget. There is no more paper. No permanent record. There are only electronic pulses floating in the air, ephemeral and without permanence, tiny dew drops of data that melt beneath the rising sun of our new age. It is all no more.


  1. Ted Kazinski lived in a castle. I aspire to inhabit such an abode. The smoke is rising.


  2. Ones

    That's all it will be Dave.

    The hard part is preserving an analog life in a modern digitally compressed world.

    Something's got to give.

  3. A digital existence is just what the white oligarks at the top of the hill in the gated comunnities want for the peasants. Reducing diverse culture to mono-culture. Using the glass teat for jingoistic propaganda and seductive consumerism for control. Your either a one (accepted) or a zero (not). You have two choices become like them or enslavement, exploitation or oblivion.

  4. one/two, yes/no, either/or. The binary mentality of the servile suits our masters well.