Last night I pulled in a hazy black and white signal that was not even listed. It was an old Jim Morrison concert, or maybe a pirated video. These things are never made clear.
The Bird scans 22 satellites from West to East, six or eight seconds apart—maybe 200 channels full of old movies and Jesus freaks and raw network news feeds from places like WXYZ in Detroit, along with NASA transmissions from Houston and 40-year-old stag films out of Mexico City.
There is too much lame garbage—far more than a sane man can stand. With the right kind of equipment—or even the wrong kind, and a fine hand on the knobs—you can pick up the collected speeches of Henry Kissinger, a censored version of “Deep Throat”, and 101 Famous Games of the Harlem Globetrotters. There is no end to it: all day and all night, in some kind of relentless auto-reverse that never sleeps.
But you don’t get a lot of Jim Morrison. That is what we call a Special—straight black-and-white footage of Crazy Jim on stage in the old days, with a voice like Fred Neal’s and eyes smarter than James Dean’s and a band that could walk with the King, or anybody else. There were some nights when the Doors were the best band in the world.
Morrison understood this, and it haunted him all his life. On some nights he was noisy and lewd, and on others he just practiced—but every once in a while he would get it into his head to go out and dance with the big boys, and on a night like that he was more than special. Jim Morrison could play music with anybody.
One of these days we will get around to naming names for the real rock’n’roll Hall of Fame—in that nervous right now realm beyond Elvis and Chuck Berry and Little Richard—and the talk will turn to names like Bob and Mick, and to tunes like Morrison Hotel.
Play it sometime. Crank it all the way up on one of those huge obsolete wire-burning MacIntosh amps and 80 custom-built speakers. Then stand back somewhere on the mainbeams of a big log house and feel the music come up through your femurs…ho, ho…and after that you can always say, for sure, that you once knew what it was like to hear men play rock’n’roll music.
Taken from Hunter S. Thompson’s Generation of Swine.
Had the honor and pleasure of reading last night with Print Preview, a collection of Antigonish wordsmiths antigonightfest #antigonight #100tpc
This poem, titled “Change yr”, written by me is what I read.
Change the oil
Change your shirt
Change the litter box
Change the clocks
Change your prescription
Change your mind
Change your password
Change the baby
You’ve got to change your evil ways, baby
before I stop loving….But, but……maybe
It’s a different kind of change, altogether
Change is constant. Check out the weather
A hundred thousand poets for change: I get it now
Indeed! It’s all so simple yet, yet somehow…
You’d think that rather than writing for change,
Poets demand raises. Is it so strange?
Statistics indicate an era of wage stagnation
Must this imply recession of the imagination?
Our minds overflow, not so our wallet.
Someone has to so I’ll do it. I’ll call it
Demand more for your stanza and verses
Than contempt, eyerolls, and mumbled curses.
Poets for change! We’ve all had enough!
Nickels and dimes won’t let me buy stuff.
And the penny? The penny! Don’t get me started!
Vamoose! Begone copper one! Don’t be broken-hearted.
The penny had a good run. It was brown. It was fun.
But it’s done. It flew too close to the sun.
And crashed to earth. Examine the sidewalk. You’ll find one.
Dusty and dirty, no doubt — no longer glary
Yet I come not to praise the penny, but to bury.
Cries of “You killed penny! You bastards!” shall not be uttered.
Returning to poems (how my bread is buttered).
Consider a hundred thousand poets for change
Clammering away dressed very strange.
Many wonderful people — sure some of them jerks.
So you can see how poets for change really irks.
We need shelter and food. Some of us pills
Folding money, paper money… pay us in bills.
Naysayers among you, I know what you’re saying.
This isn’t work. It’s a laugh. We poets are playing.
Sure, perhaps a sliding scale could be determined.
No need to be intransigent a la Strom Thurmond.
Epics, sonnets, epigrams… less for free verse
As long as there’s dough to put in our purse.
Of course there’s more serious critique.
The role of poems in oppressing the meek.
“No ethnic cleansing without poetry!” Slavoj Žižek has said.
It’s true: poems rejoice the vanquished dead
And inspire slaughter of innocents.
Truly hard to make any sense.
Yet, poems offer hope & inspire wonder.
Horror and beauty coexist in lightning and thunder.
Wrestle with the contradiction.
Better this than writing fiction.
The best verse has merit.
I urge you to share it.
Write to unite. Don’t tear asunder.
Pat Robertson says ‘girl-on-girl movies’ make young people think they’re gay (Found at Right Wing Watch; For a related video, click here http://christiannightmares.tumblr.com/post/59506210422/pat-robertson-says-homosexuals-deliberately-spread)