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varLength = 78
var entryContent = new Array(varLength)
entryContent[0] = " submission, the american mission, sought beneath itself. a new form of submission sought, one that fed all the people, that let them speak, and then taught them how to speak without words. How to speak through things. through Light. through Cotton. through Malls, which flow through Capital, the river of the American Dream. Through submission, the Harmonium became Indian, began to harmonize instead of preach. Through submission came the Blues. And through submission came broken skin, submission paid for by broken brown skin, and somewhere became fascism, that shrank to a whisper and deafened, and so we defend it, with our lives, our words, and no longer needs our border fences, never did, not ever since it became Imperial. Imperialism bore impartiality, objectivity, judgement, rationality. Arty-faced intellectuals were born out of leisure, ignorant of the preterite, of those who could not afford selves. Our selves submit, under scrutiny. out of ourselves watching our owned selves was born the Empire of Hip, somewhere in America, perhaps in the West, perhaps a product of Manifest destiny. They who never knew a Self, who always only knew to Submit and then to become submitted."
entryContent[1] = "
America consumes its failures behind institutional walls.
People all over this land are locked in the same system of pathology, pharmaceuticals, and incarceration. Each is seen as an alternative, they dance, interlock, fund each other, and fall in love with the system that birthed them.
"
entryContent[2] = " “Wouldn’t have said shit with a mouthful of it (37).” Because what comes out my mouth shouldn’t go back in. I say what I say. I shout howl down the throats of cops and live in the image of it for years afterwards. I pretend my words are bombs, dream myself capable of poetic terrorism in all its glorious forms. But I don’t say shit. I play with words and dream of propaganda production, as if I had no face, but I love my own face, and that is why I can’t say shit. And even if I did, I still couldn’t say shit because it’s hard to get people to listen to you. There’s too much to listen to, and it’s easier to listen when it has a hot beat. So I’ve slowly learned to content myself with the images of myself I build, and hope no one finds out about my secret delusions of grandeur."
entryContent[3] = "
Car-animals and dog-machines. Car-animals rule our cities, dictate absolute spaces and grids where once there was and will be dwellings. The cars always stop for pedestrians. That’s what I become, when I approach the car-machines: a pedestrian.
The car-animals look sot even though the are hard. They glisten and repel the rain.
The roads exist for them to move-though. The roads are very specific formulas of stillness which enable a Flow of traffic. The roads are very specific for Cars.
Dog-machines make people into Pedestrians. Thanks, dog-machines.
"
entryContent[4] = "
A grommet gone grome!
A Lingum gone Limp!
"
entryContent[5] = " I chewed a neem stick and spat out the splinters of the oldest living civilization. “Of the non-existent there is no coming to be; of the existent there is no ceasing to be,” Krishna said. I couldn’t digest, dinner-time was battle time, I didn’t want Auntie to think I didn’t like the food. More Roti. The dinner plate was sparse, but infinite. The camerawork on Hindi soaps is absolutely genius—it allows actors to assume the role of a cardboard cut out. And so Pavarati performed tapas to gain Shiva’s hand, against the will of her father. The allys are hungry, they will suck your pocket dry. Om Namah Shivaya. The time flew, and then I was alone, facing a desert. I was strong through heat, always on guard, I learned my lessons roundabout. “But the palace of Bundi, even in broad daylight, is such a palace as men build for themselves in uneasy dreams—the work of goblins rather than men.” I would have gladly make a home in the shadow of such a palace, until the monkeys traumatized me. Cow, you my only friend, you want a mango pit? Nahie, baatcha, nahie, damn it, I said nahie! Sir, sir, you want Charras? Jai Jai Ram, Seeta Ram. Why are you not traveling with your girlfriend? I want to shout: because I am alone, are I and I not enough? Bring me dal-chowel-saabzi-roti. Perhaps it is just the worms that are hungry, and not I at all. The river runs through my blood."
entryContent[6] = "
The fields lie fallow,
The hollows hollow.
The city deems with (people)
Trying to figure out how people will EAT
"
entryContent[7] = " He was claimed by the propaganda, encased in ideology. My hand ached for an icepick to break through the casing, and my vocal chords stretched, straining to spread wide enough to allow for the passage of the unwieldy truth. That the burden of taxes falls exclusively on the workers. That our economy was built on slave labor, and not much has changed since then. Our factories are flooded with sweat and blood. And when a man gets out of the queue, he’s sent to prison, where the put drains in the floor in every cell so they can wash down the blood and feces. And the commands of the bosses, giant words that rule our lives regulating us in everything from work to sex and death and back. And to believe that this isn’t related to itself, systematically?"
entryContent[8] = " If only my words were big enough to be myself. Then I could be freed from the meaningless that rattles inside my head, then I would know, finally and certainly, that jedhood is worthwhile. The need to convert my bloodstream into an inkstream dominates my dreaming mind. But a life given to writing is not an easy surrender to mere representation. It’s giving birth to a self-sustaining ecosystem. I’m not naturally given over to hard work.
"
entryContent[9] = " You are the ghetto because you need the ghetto in order to be somewhere else, to be secure in your suburban community. You are ghetto because you have supported the prohibition of drugs, creating a black market. You are the ghetto because you pulled your kid out of public schools to send him to a nice, private school with good lawns. You are the ghetto because you can’t understand the lyrics in Hip Hop music. You live in the ghetto because there is a gate at the drive into your community. You live in the ghetto because you live in a nice clean house that looks exactly like all the other houses in your sub-development. You are the ghetto because you voted for a politician because he is tough on crime. You told your child to “just say no” so that he’d know how to resist his own culture. You are the ghetto because you Support our Troops. And Freedom Isn’t Free. And so those goddamn gangbangers slingin’ crack in the ghetto, they violated their freedom, betrayed our trust, so they Isn’t Free. They isn’t free, they in the ghetto, they in prison, they in a cage. Is you free?"
entryContent[10] = " (note: I’m under no oath here. I plead the fifth. ) Movies lie in tightly coiled data points deep within an unimaginable hard drive, just beyond the glowing white space of Microsoft Word that I am staring into. Their existence is illegal. The first frame in each of them is a kindly warning from the FBI not to unauthorized-copy them. If only the government could hire a private contractor to build a massive militarized fence around my computer, maybe we could stop the horrendous influx of illegal movies into my house. I consume movies. The laser licks the shiny underbellies of DVDs, stealing their essences. The player software caresses the selfsame digitations, hurl them upon the eagerly waiting screen. And my eyes thirsty-slurp the neon information. Yet my collection of DVDs is perpetually stale. The good ones, the masterpieces that are dismissed by everyone else, I’ve seen more times than I can count. Because I’m imperialist about it—I want everyone to love Bob Dillon’s movie, Masked and Anonymous as much as I do, so I force them to watch it while I sit through it yet again. Dead Man by Jim Jarmesch. Delicatessan by Marc Caro. I’ve got the best taste in movies of anyone I know. But usually, I consume movies in solitude. In my darkened bedroom on week-nights. In these moments, I exist and you don’t. I influence the screen, directors ask me for advice. I feel the cameraman’s crane sweeping over my reality, I can hear him hovering above me, watching me watch my screen. "
entryContent[11] = " I am my empty eyes, drinking projected light, mirroring myself. when I mirror myself, all I see are my sideburns. I don’t imagine them as that prominent on my face. but there they are. dead end black high ways running down my cheeks. "
entryContent[12] = " In the end, I am only scorched flesh, mixing with thousands of businesslike defecations floating down the river Ganges. Reconverted, used again in writhing flesh. I brought nothing here with me, and I will leave empty handed, without even my own red meat."
entryContent[13] = " I was born into a land where all ideas must be sold before they take root. When men glide past on escalators and walkways. I’ve sat around a table, discussing what price should be put on yoga. Twelve dollars and ninety-five cents. Cheaper than a single class would be. Much more expensive than they sell it in India."
entryContent[14] = "
I assume that people will starve to death. Some people will lose everything, and then much more. All for the false god that none of us understand, the economy, a system built on itself, capital only a ghost, unseeable, godlike, which has demanded overproduction, and now seeks to suck it all away.
Some will starve to death, but more will get fat. In America, if you are poor, you get fat, you are punished by Food, Inc., for your economic failures with Partially Hydrogenated Oil and High Fructose Corn Syrup.
Your body accumulates the overproduction, the surplus, stores it in fat cells and clogged arteries. This is not your fault, it is Reality.
"
entryContent[15] = " Shopping for images in other’s enumerations, becoming empty before the law, locked in my own system which I cannot rage against."
entryContent[16] = " My own sweet flesh gone soft under the weight of American cuisine—indelible preservatives pickling my formaldehyde insides. I drink your fat and it becomes my own."
entryContent[17] = " Being a writer replaces being a human. I find myself narrating instead of living. Which makes life seem much more boring, when compared with the world of literature. Yet, for all that I inhabit writership, words still come out of me sticky and slowly. The neural pathways they flow down are too long and crooked. Bent out of shape by overeducation and chemistry. It’s not a matter of words. It’s only a matter of ink. I lost my pen once, and I forgot everything I’ve learned in years of expensive schooling. Without ink, what is left to me? I struggle against my pen, struggle to form complete sentences instead of empty poetic fragments that sing of the final revolution of love, that sing only to my ears. Poetry oppresses me, I long to communicate in real words. But everything is dreamy, nebulous, can’t be pinned down with ballpoints. Is this how I hear myself? My own voice? "
entryContent[18] = "
I pledge not to be afraid to write. To produce volumes of crap that some goodness may emerge. To endlessly promote myself in the name of what I believe in: That I am nothing, that I am a servant in the name of all great humans who daily put pen to page and still great truths, while I am blocked and self involved. Those are the Producers for whom I write.
--
In service of the Hunger that feeds my world, the Hunger that drives schizoid overproduction, in service to the Hunger I kneel, in service to the Hunger I lie. That Hunger has eaten men alive with self loathing or self lust.
"
entryContent[19] = " Airports make me wish I was an alchoholic. To drink anytime of the day. To regard a sevendollar airport beer as a necessity. Airport paranoia: how carefully do they check checked bags? Is my addiction less noble than alchoholism? With Paranoia, yes. And so I wait."
entryContent[20] = " What kind of servitude do you have to be under to believe in God? A god outside of you? If god is not in your eyes, He is nowhere, so don’t believe in god, believe that you are god. The pope has no allegiance to your passion."
entryContent[21] = " If I were a gorilla, I’d be at the bottom of the hierarchy, the opposite of the Alpha Male. This is because I spend too much time thinking about where I would be in a hierarchy of gorillas."
entryContent[22] = " I spent all night chasing sounds in and out of reality. Heartbeats, earth tremors, dances became vibrating air against supersensitive skin became slowdances of pulse leaping in and out of your capillaries *categories*. Despisetories, depostitories of despise. Desuppositories, where you shove your existential angst up your asshole. Despisetoriums, sanatoriums for the despised. Depositiories for the night noise of nextdoor construction of some bullshit called poststructualism eating it’s own tail, picking it’s skeletotal spine out of it’s nervesockets. I’m devolving into my own devourment, and I’m choking on my own Barthes. The devourment is the true government of love that will some day devour the façade of government enshrined in painfully opaque white. Faces the color of modern death masks, the Phantom of the Opera. "
entryContent[23] = "
In Sprawl after sprawl,
In self destruction, ubiquitious alcoholism
We find America
That speaks to its neighbor
Only when Addiction speaks:
You got a cigarette I could bum?
How about some oil?
"
entryContent[24] = " I looked into the mirror. “Who is it?” I called. But the iron was burning the shirt on the ironing board and headphones. The mirror was flat, so my nausea slowly subsided. I was no longer behind the curved mirror. Which may or may not have existed. Not that we care in my line of work. Not that my line of work exists, or anything. I’d have to get back to you on that. Here, take my business card. It proves I once had a name. But time is relative, after all. I’m the middle manager. Vanilla. There’s a huge network of us all up and down the coast. We control everything. I am the feared. I am the oppressor. I am the middle-middle class. Which doesn’t own anything, but has everything. I make nothing. I construct nothing. I give birth to nothing. But I deserve everything. Fear me. For I am Moloch. I shot your daughter, sir. There, now see, this story has a plot! I made one out of nothingness. I must be a middle manager. We make ourselves out of nothingness, we middle managers. We have no real life, no real job. No one needs us. But don’t get mad at me. I have a family to feed. Pity me. "
entryContent[25] = " In the faltering microphones, we cry our poems. In the empty streets we must not block the cars. Our cars lumbering meta-humans indestructible to our soft flesh stuff."
entryContent[26] = " I met some kids in the elevator at work today. I work in a big, glossy office building—lots of brass, lots of brightly lit marble in the lobby. Cubicles upstairs. Two girls, one short kid. They froze at the sight of me—I asked “going up?” They stammered. “We sort of were. We were just looking around. Can you tell us if any of the floors are particularly—architecturally interesting?” I thought of my corner cubicle. Then I thought of my boss’s corner office, which looked out across the skyline. I could only get in there during my weekly check in—never if I needed more funding. They didn’t want to enter that maze. "
entryContent[27] = " Having to hold consciousness down, grounded—intraskullular—in order to survive a routanized life in the structure of costcapitalist society makes people artificially grey. Ramble. Ramble. I’ve been feeling the top of my greymatter stretch to the cosmos, & feeling my consciousness vibrate up and down it, sinewave style. I’ve been feeling my mind run away from language, scared, not scared but ignoring, inattentive to words. When you trip, my mind is coping with the weight of existence, and I am no longer interested in words. I am interested in the waves of emotion, awe breaking over me. at the corner of truth and voice lies the death of separation, end of apathy and belief in discrete souls. we silence ourselves. allow ourselves freedom only in bed. "
entryContent[28] = " at the meeting of two humans, silent, holding eachother, our only refuge from this savage life. I have become your keeper, you have become a god. lives can be lived and died here, at the intersection of between aesthetics and overpowering emotion. this is reality between the sheets, this is where we unmask ourselves, this is where we show ourselves to ourselves, let us not waste this moment. and in the morning we will leave this bed cotton mouthed humans once again."
entryContent[29] = " Beyond this razorwire lies a forest, a mountain range the vast expanse of unmitigated virginal beauty which would spell certain death for the brave desperate man with a rope improved of sheets navigating razorwire shredding his body for freedom "
entryContent[30] = " my placenta sings late at night, cries for a holy inhabitant, absent in its misues. finally, once a month, in the early hours of the morning, sings its grand finale, its opus, aquifies itself, and leaves me lonely forever. the seven holy placentas of truth flying out of my ungracious vagina, pleeing a lonely life, my lonely life, useless and forlorn. it begins a seven day death pilgrimage to the toilet, seeking salvation in my underwear. "
entryContent[31] = " Americans herd themselves through cement streets with their eyes on the grime of the city beneath their feet. They have learned that they have to hold their minds clamped tightly to their skulls in order to survive a routanized life within the carceral structure of postcapitalist life. Their dreams are imprisoned within their own heads, silenced and repressed so they can stay numb enough to move through the same shit every day. But I’ve been feeling my thoughts vibrating up and down the elastic cosmos. My mind runs from language like a hunted fugitive. I surrender myself to the animal in the back of my head. Humanity is a construct manufactured to justify a life devoid of spirit, to rationalize the greyness. Animals are simply the subjects of the natural beauty of the world they inhabit. Humans are the subjects of a controlled economy. "
entryContent[32] = " The sidelines embrace these moments. The periphery feels right, good. Solid ground. The party will continue without me, I have no obligation to it. To these people wearing glowing shells and smile masks. And I’ll catch an eyecorner her, there—across the room. A scared girl hiding behind makeup. An insecure tall guy looking for his people to shield himself from the room. One silent man leaning on the wall can well destroy people, their confidence. "
entryContent[33] = " If Elvis Presley was really elvish Presley, if elfish Presley was king of the elvish people, if he was played by Agent Smith from the matrix, he would be all stories, all victories, king of all untrue histories but if Elvis was just the king of Rock and Roll, James brown would be god, because rock and roll was born of soul, of spirit, of the endless oppression America has perpetrated. The escaped soul of America ready to sing, ready to embrace spiraling guitar solos and rumbling bass, the mouths of every American opening to sing, standing on tippy toes to hit high notes, bowing before sideburns gyrating, worshipping gods of funk and soul, becoming electing george Clinton for president, bootsy Collins for head funky bass, that would really be the only way this country could pull itself to its feet and be proud again."
entryContent[34] = " My neighborhood was isolated from itself by the existence of cars. I didn’t’ know any of my neighbors, even though I lived in the same house for eighteen years. i saw my neighbors drive into their houses, and stay there. They each had their own communities, their own people, whatever they had going on, at the end of a short drive out of the mountains. My neighborhood is one of the most beautiful places in the country. It is nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains overlooking Boulder. I can climb to the roof and see the city spread out at my feet. But more exciting is the view in the back of the house, where the true mountains rip themselves out of the great plains and soar above the sky. These are mountains with personality, capped with sunreddened cliffs ideal for bouldering, furred with buffalo grass and yucca. These mountains are my home, but they kick my ass every time I walk in them because none of the trails near my house have the balls to go straight up into the hills where I want to go—they are content simply running along the front range parallel to the mountains. So I am continuously forced to bushwhack my way up the steep slopes. I call it improvisational mountaineering—you have to be able to read the mountain to make your way up the it without losing your balance and tumbling down. I know its bad for the mountain and it certainly is bad for my exposed shins, but it feels so good to cut up the hillside. It feels like I’m making sweaty love to the earth. And at the top, the reward of godlike boulders, riddled with hand and footholds perfect for the aspiring climber or the aspiring suicide. And so I get to the top, and only then do I realize I have to get back down. It is much easier to climb up a rock without a rope than to climb down. This is where the pains starts, where the mountain takes vengeance. It’s much worse if the light is beginning to fade; to be stuck in the mountains in the dark is terrifying and stupid. Usually I manage the clamber down the rockface with only a few scratches. Sometimes, I have to take a calculated jump and hope I don’t land in a yucca plant. Once I sprained my wrist. But then, it’s an uncontrollable downward lope back to my neighborhood, isolated from itself."
entryContent[35] = " No shame… only history unwound by words stretched into meaninglessness by millions of strained vocal chords Only history wound and unwound by thousands of revolutions that ended where they began. Only history where the clash of arms against arms fades into silence drowned by time where blood spilled dries again and mothers giver girth again and ballots are flung into obscurity again the unending spiral of spilt ink and blood carefully filed away in library catalogues and abandoned because there’s a war on.
The bad visions blackening the eyes of recorded power blinded dictators masturbating in bullets fill their heads with visions of themselves on the cross, their words, gods words which no one will listen to whenever the future arrives. The restless sea teething on hanging chads.
The cactus thorn deep down our throat exposed to our dying air our silent words drowned in adjustment centers"
entryContent[36] = " I will work at making what I believe in At making earthly trees take root in your crotch. Where songs play and gods shout and the chaos is shaded by shade trees and I’ll bask in the bliss, down by the waterside, I’ll lay my head, my head, lay my head You crotch, leafy and green protected by greedy photosynthesizers from the white light of false love. I hear factories clanging truths I hear eyes explode and see your mouth on fire and truth under your dirty toenails."
entryContent[37] = " Monkeybatman flying on abstract forms, dreaming of eternal wings. He falls when he looks down, flied when he opens his eyes. He falls into red, falls into red continually flying in the face of defacement, flying on acid wings in the face of red art. He lives to breed, flies to breed, dreams of breeding and wakes up with sticky wings. he breeds flocks of monkey children who will mature into batmen, he feeds them lemon and dreams of the day when they will have flashbacks and remember the antique days of their paisley father, the original monkeybatman. Paisly flashbacks, mosaic wings and eternal falls, he looks down, and falls into red, dreams into red, and flies into a mosaic of red. "
entryContent[38] = " Your time gave you everything instant access the entire output of humanness in your grubby hands. And now that everything is everywhere else at once we drown in the sea of worthlessness and sleaze that is the human mind canals of tamed light polluted by the giant mass of the depravity of desires twisted by walls of empty sight-- Darwin’s animal hedonism perverted by dirty streets flooded with words, ravaged by nihilism and poured onto sewers of data."
entryContent[39] = " Dear Mr. President, What proof can you give me that you exist? because I’ve never seen you fall in love. And every time you fall in life your old boys catch you. Just to get at the black blood of the earth. I don’t care who you are. Because I’d rather know the person reading this poem than you. Because it doesn’t matter who you are. Because donkeys are elephant food and I’m a vegetarian, anyway. how do you kiss with that sneer? You live the history of your skin, but America wants you to fall in love. Sincerely, periodexclamationpoint.!"
entryContent[40] = " Everything around us is the product of dead people kept alive only by the telling and re-telling of a dead man’s secrets and those secrets are kept alive in the hands of someone feeding a family making light bulbs struggling for the right to exist and losing the great, noble fight that she doesn’t know she is fighting because she doesn’t want to fight only he does he who is winning who controls the language that is the bounds of oppression"
entryContent[41] = "
Thirst made this land. A river is no river here, it is a wash, soft, dry, canyons eaten out of the land, path. The washes crease the land inside itself, create internality in the Range.
The Big Sky gets to the folks out here, rides under your skin, the infinite possibility of the desert, the absolute trap of American life, saddled in debt and air conditioning, the land will lie parched and fallow, as global wormaing relentlessly turns it inot Absolute Hot Death.
"
entryContent[42] = " I once plugged myself in. and then I was in, baby. a footsoldier in the Empire of Hip. Yip. I’ve got a reservoir of the Hip on my hip. and we goin to war, man. On the dirty hippies. the tripsters. And they don’t even know. that I can’t feel my face. rock on my face. there’s a rock on my face. cigarettes are an addiction, man. it’s not a choice."
entryContent[43] = " I will work to make what I believe in holding my sign prophesizing revolution Standing at the corner of truth and voice Where lies the death of separation, end of apathy and belief in discrete souls. we silence ourselves daily. we silence ourselves with smalltalk. With memos. With pretensions of poetry."
entryContent[44] = " In defense of avarice we hurl heads and hands into the jackhammer booth where we heave holes in butterfly ballots. When somewhere a bush burns speaks, stutters, prays for his country; When somewhere a man steps out onto the road ignoring the pleas in his mind from his poor family, us our Buddha is behind us, now thank god, we cry And In God We Trust"
entryContent[45] = " Maybe if I knew what it felt like to be Jesus, I could fall asleep. Not Jesus the god, he doesn’t exist, and neither does his father. I’m talking about a guy. A real human being, who was able to defecate without his shit being turned into red wine. It’s a good skill to have in life, I should know. I’m an expert in defecating. I do it at least once a day, more if the food in the cafeteria’s bad, and have done so all my life. Nineteen years of practice, and not once have I let up my guard and let my shit turn into an alcoholic beverage, communion wine, pina colada, or Irish Car bomb. Nor a communion wafer, nor a loaf of bread, or twelve apostles. I wish I knew my Christian imagery better so this would make an inch of sense."
entryContent[46] = " Kaliyug. When vice will rule and virtue will finally be within reach. The age of corruption, when the few who are not corrupted, the few that are simply human can be liberated. In the golden age, Tretayug, all rishis had spiritual powers that are simply unattainable to us. They had to move mountains to be saved, and all we have to do is mutter the name of god. any name of god. any part of the entire vocabulary full of names for god humanity has developed. or we can simply utter our own name, because we are god as long as we are following dharma, their natural path. we can utter our own name, those of us who bother to teach and lead. "
entryContent[47] = "
My eyes deepen my silence, and I let it grow around me, an untouched truth. It must me on the surface, but I can’t find it there. I’ve become uninterested in language, because I know that it isn’t there.
"
entryContent[48] = " To grab, to posess, and to destroy—my key to immortality. Death comes with immedicacy. Death comes with your uncontrolled present, which hurdles headlong unstopabbly toward the the future, toward death. You are all slaves to the idea of time that leads you to death. Yet, you know that time is an idea. It is manufactured by society and injected into your consciousness at the same time that the myth of cohesive conciousness is injected into your sense of self. Your sense of self is the first construct that society gives you—the first and most profound lie that dictates your being. Onto this self is etched the concept of linear time—the great cultural hivemind teaches you that your insignificant life is a journey from birth to death—and every moment you let slide by you brings you closer to death. To escape these lies is to escape time—to inhabit a humble immortality, this is a moment without beginning or end—a moment divorced from the artificial march of presents dissolving into pasts looking forward to futures. But this moment is isolated from past and future—and to gain this immortality and insist upon time—to be in their company is to surrender to eventual death. And so I inhabit my own eternal moment alone forever. My story has no beginning, no end. I have forgone society and possessions in favor of eternity. I inhabit only one place and one time forever. "
entryContent[49] = " The idea of a punitive justices system is counterproductive for its subjects and harmful to the society as a whole. Today, there is a sense that those who commit a crime deserve to be punished for it. However, this idea does not take into account the circumstances under which the crime was committed. For example, a huge portion of the convictions handed down in America are for economic crimes—crimes motivated by the need for enough money to survive on. These include many drug convictions and burglaries. For these people, simply being made to feel sorry for their actions is not going to help. They need the skills and resources to provide for themselves. They need to use their time in prison to develop something that will help them survive. Simply being put away in a cell and being locked in a room or a yard will their fellows will not help that individual unless they bother to help themselves. Even if they do, there is insufficient educational programming in many prisons. The idea of a punitive prison system is harmful to the society as a whole as well as the individual being punished. This idea teaches members of society that the correct way of dealing with a conflict or an infraction is by striking back, instead of finding a common understanding and working to create and environment and a society that is more accommodating. It is always the easy way out to have a punitive justice system. But in the long run, it is unsustainable for society. Since the American prison book in the 1970’s, the US has begun to imprison more people per capita and almost in real numbers than any other industrialized country. This despite the fact that most crime rates are declining or staying level. "
entryContent[50] = " Smoke swirling in shaft of windowlight light Suffocating an orange tree in its one chance all week to photosynthesize Air exists only now in the space between tendrils of silent smoke
I stood over my orange tree watching the only sunlight all week hit its neon leaves whispering like slow sex “photosynthesize, baby, photosynthesize now while you can.” I imagined chemicals churning semipermable membranes. “You my only friend, plantey.”
The greyness smeared across the sky will be my death, too. "
entryContent[51] = " hiding on molecules emptying the mind silencing the fear. people want to fight or fuck demanding something to happen riding beasts of the id bathing in our own animal blood thirsting for an event something besides sitting and wasting ink pages full of others’ bastardized words The past is dead, Chaucer has no sway over the present people’s minds thirst for neon. turn around, let em in every one of our minds suffers the eternal bliss of plastic culture stroking our selfish unconsciousness masturbating screens blood flowing through the isles in a peaceful society, we manufacture wars in our own minds, we will never be content we refuse. all people, all actions, the will to power. I am afraid. I can see the fear in your eyes, and I see the relief brought by rage, I see the release that your fists bring to your cowed soul, alone, feeling absolute power over another human-animal. I’ve seen the same thing in endless classrooms, lonely teachers recapitulating the hazing of the system over and over again, reproducing their own neuroses, demanding their subjects overcome themselves, to sit silently in rows, under the omnipotent banner of ‘respect.’ "
entryContent[52] = " It is important to realize that computers are governed by languages. So far, those languages have been used primarily for function. They say that programming languages follows formal logic exactly. Therefore, the laws of logic are to these languages what necessity is to our spoken languages—the bulk of our communication is because we simply need to communicate: I want to eat, even if it’s your thigh that gets eaten. What, then, is the equivalent to a poem written in C++? That is what I fully intend to create. Maybe it’ll turn out to be a painting, not a poem. "
entryContent[53] = " It is a passionate, well-fueled Beast that is proceeding to LA. It is a humble child, a student, going to California, prepared to learn from each interaction. It is a sober dry lust that drives him forward, thrusts toward the sea, toward the rain, waiting in agony to consume Flesh."
entryContent[54] = " at the corner of truth and voice lies the death of separation, end of apathy and belief in discrete souls. we silence ourselves daily. we silence ourselves with smalltalk."
entryContent[55] = " World wide materials Were made by real people our lives, our existence all shaped under a human hand who made brown? not in the books, not in the books the man in the books is long dead never made anything lasting I don’t know him no, a whole legion, a whole horde of people built this majestic structure I am sitting three stories off the ground! "
entryContent[56] = " to all those phones that have rung to all the lowest depths of the third rail subway ditch cataclysm To all the shadows who worry about cellphones behind bush thrones spinning their way between numbered lies stocks, bonds, collective hallucinations "
entryContent[57] = " If I were a gorilla, I’d be at the bottom of the hierarchy, the opposite of the Alpha Male. This is because I spend too much time thinking about where I would be in a hierarchy of gorillas. "
entryContent[58] = " My own sweet flesh gone soft under the weight of American cuisine—indelible preservatives pickling my formaldehyde insides. I drink your fat and it becomes my own."
entryContent[59] = " You are the ghetto because you need the ghetto in order to be somewhere else, to be secure in your suburban community. You are ghetto because you have supported the prohibition of drugs, creating a black market. You are the ghetto because you pulled your kid out of public schools to send him to a nice, private school with good lawns. You are the ghetto because you can’t understand the lyrics in Hip Hop music. You live in the ghetto because there is a gate at the drive into your community. You live in the ghetto because you live in a nice clean house that looks exactly like all the other houses in your sub-development. You are the ghetto because you voted for a politician because he is tough on crime. You told your child to “just say no” so that he’d know how to resist his own culture. You are the ghetto because you Support our Troops. And Freedom Isn’t Free. And so those goddamn gangbangers slingin’ crack in the ghetto, they violated their freedom, betrayed our trust, so they Isn’t Free. They isn’t free, they in the ghetto, they in prison, they in a cage. Is you free?"
entryContent[60] = " submission, the american mission, sought beneath itself. a new form of submission sought, one that fed all the people, that let them speak, and then taught them how to speak without words. How to speak through things. through Light. through Cotton. through Malls, which flow through Capital, the river of the American Dream. Through submission, the Harmonium became Indian, began to harmonize instead of preach. Through submission came the Blues. And through submission came broken skin, submission paid for by broken brown skin, and somewhere became fascism, that shrank to a whisper and deafened, and so we defend it, with our lives, our words, and no longer needs our border fences, never did, not ever since it became Imperial. Imperialism bore impartiality, objectivity, judgment, rationality. Arty-faced intellectuals were born out of leisure, ignorant of the preterite, of those who could not afford selves. Our selves submit, under scrutiny. out of ourselves watching our owned selves was born the Empire of Hip, somewhere in America, perhaps in the West, perhaps a product of Manifest destiny. They who never knew a Self, who always only knew to Submit and then to become submitted."
entryContent[61] = " Endurance Reggae"
entryContent[62] = " The Boundaries are Growing. The cars spawn fences along the periphery of the park. Americans begin to appear. Big basin isn’t all that Big, especially for a man who hauls a 64lbs pack up chalk mountain without water. I found a boundary that day. Although I did not approach it, I saw the fenceposts in the distance, beyond which my body simply would not operate. An absolute extremity of thirst and muscle failure. Where the shadows hugged the road tight, the sun peaked and hot on a road that was supposed to have ended already, my body would not give up. I rested, one blessed rest in particular, where I allowe myself a few precious gulps, I saw the limit and I turned back, saved myself for hope that there would not be another climb around the corner."
entryContent[63] = " That night, the Earth took away the Moon. The earth stood direcly in the way of its own blessed moonlight, and I was alone, raving to strangers, unable to make any connection at all, only Alone. I forced myself to listen to sad-bastard music sung in French by a Hipster, who was, unbeknownst to herself, Herself. I reached out to you by a TXT, felt the silence of your absence. I was determined to be a Human in Tucson, AZ, but that night I failed, because the full moon was eaten by the darkness of the Earth."
entryContent[64] = "
“Our organism is an oligarchy”
ruled by myriad addictions. the body that capital has built is addicted to addiction, the flows ever outward. The body that is ruled by addiction is ruled by all regimes at once, all governing bodies and organizations rule simultaneously. And so the body is schized into thousands of parallel identities ruled by parallel regimes. Sometimes the iron-fisted rule of a declaring paranoiac, the sovereign body, the king body, the body on which laws are written on flesh. Sometimes a silent, decrepit council of elders that always follows laissez-faire. Each regime fueled by another substance that must flow through a market, black or white.
But the most vital to the machine are the antiproductive addictions that grow over its synthetic skin like symbiotes. Everywhere there are great men held to mediocrity by addiction. Some of them lurk in corners, full of shame. Others only live at night, when they can be found on top of the world in bars and barfights. They are the bearers of the vacuum at the core of the Machine. They are the livers of Lack. They are not faceless: I have been there, on all levels, and that’s where you and I met each other, and we’ll battle ourselves all our lives.
Antiproductive addictions can be ugly, and so the popular fear of them enabled vast prohibitions that triggered a massive increase in the organs of control. Police agencies raised battalions of muscleheaded warriors to enforce these prohibitions. They, in turn, triggered a barrage of movies and police shows. Plants and drugs that have been used in peace for centuries were made into the icons of war. Marijuana has plunged men and women into stagnant dead-ends and addictions, and some for a few people, it triggers real psychosis parents justly joined the war to remove it from the world of their children. But drugs always win the war on drugs, and marijuana cannot help itself but to be benevolent.
"
entryContent[65] = "
Words break apart
slowly
into fractions of meaninglessness
FAILED INK
when words fail, what will be left to us?
when English dominates no more, how will we write?
Can I write with no ink?
"
entryContent[66] = "
THE plastic cosmos will
outlast its makers
Who dwell in its fluorescent interior
but not its divinity/
At least,
something
oughtto
outlast.
LANDfills of
silentmachinery
patient LANDmines waiting
for a humans’
unlightstep
OUTlast?
I will not, my body says.
I will, I say.
I will be there to
seethe rot.
I will be the rot.
"
entryContent[67] = "
KOLKATA is a tongue that licks filth and turns it into clay,molds it into cups of tea and painted gods, colddrinks, thumbs up. semiconciousness and ecstasy. The silence of small language, thesilence of educational neglect, humans untaught how to think. (Language only for externalcommunication.) The home ofmasters and maestros, where strings sing in winter and words fail constantly,
where words fail incessantly. Words ring hollow in uncomprehending ears, language stubbornly refuses to be other than gibberish, fails before the immutable altars of constantly misunderstood deities that ought to do nothing but signify and instead govern conciousnesses,make men subservants.
Aseat of the pursuit of music, an understanding of eternal rhythm that doesnothing but change.
meansdisease, that could have been avoided.
andhow does one handle
filth?
"
entryContent[68] = "
temporal chaos and competing futures, all uncontrollable,all work I ought to have done continuously procrastinated, myself no patience with creation, only the inevitable destruction of empty time, full of questionsof hopeless answers, simply waiting and surfing the necessities of time,presenting a productive personality to the world on the faith that productionwill manifest or has been manifesting without my knowledge. No stability in person or personality, nothing but my own insanity to ground my consciousness on, I worry aboutpermanently losing lucidity and rationality and descending into pure mindless love and death. I continue totravel neurotically, as if anything changes anywhere I go on the Surface. It only ensures solitude, the Wander, the frenetic wander, the whirlwind of space that doubles and confounds maya and blinds me to the deep convictions I once held.
"
entryContent[69] = "
Where my self did take myself
a thought lie in rot
rebirth to take or not
what ought to have been lost
was lost.
"
entryContent[70] = "
I can’t see. Light enters my eyes when there is no light, darkness unyeilds to distinctions and frames over which I can interpose any simple reality, impervious to my castes and religions and regions and races, and I can no longer distill who ought to be killing who, much less any whys. Trains burn before their destinations,l eaving tracks to turn to livelihoods and bodies left empty in stations waiting for departures they might or might not be supposed to take, the timetables bereft of any meaning, the clock whirring about the empty side of maha kal thirsty and satiated durga, laxmi spilling money that ought to have never existed. Spending money that never was, eating food that never was grown, massaging spices into meats unslaughtered, words written with no inspiration. Artists alone with no desire to represent, earwax begun to flow leavingears defenseless, addicts lining up for a taste.
(ghobi begun to lay asia to waste, empty lands that once bred life breed heat alone, foreignness comes home, domestic strangeness of selves unsaddled with identities, places misplaced and misfiled, this became conditional upon His glare and again fell unnaturally at His feet. Crying lonelinesses set aflame andreduced to ash. sweet glorified water drowning itself. Governments self-born skeptics. Ophaloskeptic party sweeps the elections!
"
entryContent[71] = "
Bindu. The dot that hung over the moon, above Aum, that bindu the highest perch that asignifier can attain, the closest a signifier can be to significance. Hanging over the eternal vowel, therushing of air between my lips, the chard-bindu that hangs over all my ink,that pushes sound out of the mouth which consumes, that is the fruit of all prana, all that is taken in. I namaskar the bindu, the Chandra, and the O that it hangs over. I namaskar the blank page which itstains, I namaskar the ink that stains it, I namaskar the mouth that utters it,I namaskar the air that is shaped and the body that shapes that sound, the gift of Chandra-bindu, the half-moon, the eternal purity of the mouth unstained bythe pollution of our cities. That moon blank page that will never be stained by human touch. That has no feet to throw myself at. The only action I can take against the moon is to see it, salute it, I can never take I before Chandra,which waxes and wanes as I do, that shines dramatically everywhere I will ever go. The moon that teaches my body to be in bondage to nature alone, that it is nature alone, in bondage to itself so that perhaps I will escape while my body takes my place in bondage to you,Chandra.
"
entryContent[72] = "
KOLKATA
All that has been inhaled
was but recently exhaled
elsewhere. The streets
absorb bodies, some refugees
in their native land. Kolkata
breathes for Bengal, for India,
gasps in awe at beauty,
art that has been born before,
distains modernity in favor ofpoverty.
doggedly expands.
Kolkata that once was is again,larger than before, swollen, bloated with starvation, inhaling exhaust, clayand plastic flowing in her veins. Everyone will be fed. if not in this life, then in the next. This city will continue to exist, at all costs, continue down the path of excess it has laid for itself, continue to give meaning to India and itsmass with art, with performance of and for souls with a sense of the immensityof history and the immensity of the present. What will never change is change itself, and a people highon exhaust will never be simply stoned, the flow of phlegm and the constant cough features of the landscape as bouildings that know permanence. Built to be a capital of an old empire,will never be much use to the new ones. And so, will know the power of culture, the endless performance of dreams.
It is not all dust and starvation. There is an interior,private spaces meticulously maintained. On the Inside, servitude seams natural, furniture-like. Maacher Jhole (fish curry).
"
entryContent[73] = "
Food is inexorably linked tokarma, not to be escaped by breathing bodies. To feed the self is to maintain one’s karma as he feeds his body. To feed others is to feed karma itself, universal justice on which I depend. All bodies must eat. Therefore there is no ambiguity about who to feed-all must be fed ,equally. If we are not equal in merit or birth, let us be equal at least in our possession of bodies, in our food. Let all be fed, whether they have been hungry for an hour or a day or years or a lifetime. Food is the only thing in my life unambiguous,the only thing I am sure of. Cooking is the only sacred duty I am sure of.
"
entryContent[74] = "
when I walk, only the past walkswith me. journeys added tojourneys, history accumulating over geography, personal geography expanding.
There are seven main places Icall my own. boulder, providence,the bay, Tucson, kolkata, varanasi, and new york. Home is wherever more than one night falls, I am a guest elsewhere. I am a guest everywhere.
I am a guest everywhere. A guest can do nothing but behumble. Receive what is offered. Suck the knowledge and prana a place can give, knowing that all knowledge is everywhere, and prana is equally. Each place a one among the oceanic multitude of drifting peaks, a humming turbine of the greatdesiring machine that has spread filth everywhere on this earth.
"
entryContent[75] = "
I arrive & disappear. I have failed to adequately justify my arrivals, but disappearance is always logical. Release. Yet I can never disappear. I always follow myself on to the next arrival, and thereby, I am never alone, always being alone.
"
entryContent[76] = "
Bangalore, Pre-Bus, Anand Roy Road Bar
Suffering from constant deletionand antiproduction.
Suffering from the timing of the full moon.
Reveling in it.
The loneliness of the road.
The blessed reduction of the months to nine.
Not the only one drinking alone in this Bangalore bar, celebrating the full moon.
My extended immaturity masked by a beard that I will shear the moment I reach my ancestral home.
I can only write what is unpublishable.
I life in fear of finishing athought: will it die?
What seedy scumhole have I foundin the heart of New India? The street teems with men, the woman wisely disappeared; we are all randy, hungrytonight, howling at the yellow moon, belching from a beer named ‘Knockout.’
Waiting to get out of this slimy town. Early and stranded. Having deleted the whole day’s noble work.
Shiva did kill Ganesha, after all. Ganesh only lives at Shiva’s pleasure. And so I defeat myself endlessly while the world waits for my inevitable victory.
I must wrestle this experience from the haze,
must prevent my surrender to thehaze.
I must conquor my strange addictions.
I must compromise with my lust.
(Maybe dandruff is divinity flaking off my head)
-
This country is full of zombies; irrational but predictable, they lurch through the streets, apparently seeking death in pollution and lawless motorized crowds, spitting bloody paan, lusting after beauty that they can only enslave, abuse, and destroy—they made beauty rare on their own streets with fear. Content to serve, content to die, who will always inevitably ask me “what country?” as if that knowledge will bring them money. Thousands of streets seethe with them. Their mustaches unify them. They are born into inevitability, their bodies and their birth over-determine them.
"
entryContent[77] = "
I worship the naïveté of thesixties. It birthed me, gave meground on which to think and write on, and , eventually, give me the ground on which to make a stand. But you look back and wonder, how could they have thought it was so simple? That thenature of the system was so inherently good underneath its cruelty, all it needed was some fun, love, goodness, nakedness, to awaken it, to shake off thedarkness. What did they build that lasted long enough for me to inhabit it? It’s time for us to make our own thing.