Pot Calling Kettle Black

HARTFORD, Conn. - Connecticut has given social service agencies permission to supply low-income residents with discounted heating oil from Venezuela, whose energy aid program for the needy has rankled the Bush administration....

In Washington, House Energy and Commerce Committee Chairman Joe Barton, R-Texas, and Rep. Ed Whitfield, the Republican chairman of the subcommittee for oversight and investigations, have voiced concern that the oil deals are "part of an unfriendly government's increasingly belligerent and hostile foreign policy" toward the United States.

By STEPHEN SINGER, Associated Press Writer

Stories are told mythology in light
there are those unknown who hold up the fight
drinking bastards who hold court in frght
word junkie loosers who are alone most of the night
be chomsky is said by ones in the flight
but abandon is felt and who is what is right

Subtiltled French Hyprocrisy Blues

Pull my daisy (circa 1959)
what would one put if one was trying to find a sign
one would site Howl and Dharma bums but be above their time.
One would try to seek the bishop and ask if angels commited those crimes
One would have to narrate middle path philosophies with a head in the New York Times
One would have to ride the rail benxidrine rattled with nothing but a dime
Daughter pushes organ while mother keeps black white tunes in time
What becomes of watchers they sit roach studded and wait for rhyme

Excerpt 1

It was the time of times in the last great season before the end. It was the era of fast raging insomnia and acts of open aggression against everything know and unseen. They were the events of CNN played out in every doctor’s office and barber shop in every corner of the world to spit-shop junk traders and stock brokers and bartenders. It was the period of impending doom with bombs and brigades and orange glowing hunters waiting in every corner of the world for blood drenched hands that could be offered up to thir shallow hallucination of the god-head. It was the age of corporate pollution inside the age of reform and antireform and drowning and suicide and out of work fathers immersing themselves in wall street journal reports cleaning their knives of the blood of their children. It was sick with selfish brooding attitudes of Alaska pipeline drilling and “a snow owl for everyone” campaigns gripping the weekend throat of common sense and choking it half paralyzed with forced hysteria. It was the age of shit and trash and dross rubbish dancing in the guise of art and living and beauty and happiness. It was the last great age of greed. It was pinned up, bow-tied, painted, framed, sold, resold, given away, auctioned, stoned, thrown, burned, and then revived as the lost whatever of post industrial complex. It was the burn on your finger that kept getting worse but had no origin. It was what happened in the dark recesses of the hard pounding passed out times that can’t be reclaimed. It was the same three chords strummed into boredom. The death of rebellion and the wicked birth of jigsaw arranged baby drool in a cool pink covered plastic price tagged sack. It was the very last blow integrity could stand

It was not that these uneasy times varied drastically from the ones that came before, they were simply forced to dangle a little further over the edge. They were sent in the labyrinth unarmed before the beast with the rotting thread of a golden era long gone by to guide in circle around the dark. They spawned the worst and the best incarnation of madness and savagery. Lock-key kids with radiation TV eyes and cell phone tumors. Two ton babies and the feather weight starving middle class anorexic magazine addicts. The villainous, the vicious, and the super-sized.

Champ Country Blues

like the sightings of monsters in lakes of the north
vermont in blue tights and never come forth
rank file steam from the seats of the bourse
change the main dollar and then change your course
believe the watchmaker is the only true source
and lay down the plows and pick up the swords
vanguard of nations to swell up with sores

Business Man Blues

I've warned of the beast to thug men and thieves
I've tired of business in suit jacket sleeves
I've run home agony pick up the slack
ghost of the one who was darkmanjack

I've been caught up lost in the great divide
canyons and rivers and backcountry slides
Women who now call over and yell out hack
and mourn for their lover lost darkmanjack

I've pinned the great dragon to graffiti walls
I've spoken to bums and heeded their calls
they left the mind shacken in sunk deadly crack
but forgot upon death of the darkmanjack

I dream of lost wars never to fight
old grey pictures that will never see light
now the not named will forever be black
the what would have been image of darkmanjack

Storm Drain Blues

It was all as poor as a badly saved pic
take vlad up and sling back the turks on the stick
casanova with scraper for scabs on his dick
all the blind ladies their lips they still lick
and posinous insects to corners run quick
suit brandish red tie like blood foam is sick
no one says nothing 'bout savage lad's tick
or the nose blows will come and lay it on thick
with crunch country cunt hair knuckle ball flick
and the candle cum witch with fear of the wick