"badlands" (re-titled)
Posted: December 28th, 2009, 4:41 pm
(I wrote more-- much of it originally from 2006)...
He’s not one to complain. Well, sometimes. Okay fine, he’s a complainer. A non-joiner. He runs his mouth about America’s ills, and why? Sure, we let the Rust Belt collapse, hemorrhaged jobs, industries and massive federal red ink for decades now, but the economy holds its own, right? And the global banking ruse too. He calls it a house of cards but that makes him a downer. He laments a culture of ascendant corporate greed, the “unsustainable” consumption-powered engine of it all, lack of balance in the system. Downer, man. He laments our dishonest privatized wars. But you can’t touch them. Off limits.
Why isn’t he more grateful? Proud? He stews about the “information age,” numberless blocks of bloodless digits, mind-blowing volumes, satellites, cable, whole buildings jammed with servers. And the lost promise of it all. “We have Google now people; let’s use it,” he mumbles. He googled a 2002 Associated Press article at a library—seems Enron gave millions to Bin Laden and the Taliban to lock down land for a pipeline in Afghanistan, until things soured. And Cheney told his big energy cohorts about invasion plans well before Sept. 11, 2001. Enron? The conglomerate that wiped out people’s life savings? Bin Laden? The Taliban? Our new arch enemies? Is he supposed to ignore this information? Not likely. And it’s public; it’s not like the Bush “Gestapo” abducted our high speed internet. Well, not yet. Great, a complainer, and paranoid too. It’s not like he hates the place, though.
Turns out it’s all for the best. Means and ends. What does he know about freedom? They’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, old wounds, devil deals, power alleys. Finally set it all right. One might take that approach, so why complain? More capitalism! And it’s not like you’d invite the Taliban to dinner—detestable, one-time bastard allies who turned up on the Big Screen of Doom. Complainer man hates the big screen too, into his Orwell shtick. Lose the politics, nattering nabob. He hates the big lies, the bigger the better. He’ll never learn. He should stick to the badlands, rusted girders and teetering mouse-click economies.
Write about jimson weed graffiti on burned out suburbs, crumbling slabs. Who built the pyramids? We built the damn things, built them in factories moving around like drunken walls at the Zircon Lounge. They went south of the Rio from motor city. The Strip is everywhere. We won the war, built some highways, gas pumps, roadhouses, neon swoop on the desert, jet age swing, some billboards on the outskirts of Texas. We built the damn things, castle and crenellation, Genesis, Revelation. We hauled rocks up the hill, out of the ground, built slave ships, cathedrals and pound for pound the legends and bombs, we got used to the sound. Everything fought itself; rain fought its only sun. The roads went south, deep south, soldiers clutching a song, ghost river beds. Someone had to haul those rocks and it was damn hot.
Ah give it a rest, preacher man.
He’s not one to complain. Well, sometimes. Okay fine, he’s a complainer. A non-joiner. He runs his mouth about America’s ills, and why? Sure, we let the Rust Belt collapse, hemorrhaged jobs, industries and massive federal red ink for decades now, but the economy holds its own, right? And the global banking ruse too. He calls it a house of cards but that makes him a downer. He laments a culture of ascendant corporate greed, the “unsustainable” consumption-powered engine of it all, lack of balance in the system. Downer, man. He laments our dishonest privatized wars. But you can’t touch them. Off limits.
Why isn’t he more grateful? Proud? He stews about the “information age,” numberless blocks of bloodless digits, mind-blowing volumes, satellites, cable, whole buildings jammed with servers. And the lost promise of it all. “We have Google now people; let’s use it,” he mumbles. He googled a 2002 Associated Press article at a library—seems Enron gave millions to Bin Laden and the Taliban to lock down land for a pipeline in Afghanistan, until things soured. And Cheney told his big energy cohorts about invasion plans well before Sept. 11, 2001. Enron? The conglomerate that wiped out people’s life savings? Bin Laden? The Taliban? Our new arch enemies? Is he supposed to ignore this information? Not likely. And it’s public; it’s not like the Bush “Gestapo” abducted our high speed internet. Well, not yet. Great, a complainer, and paranoid too. It’s not like he hates the place, though.
Turns out it’s all for the best. Means and ends. What does he know about freedom? They’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, old wounds, devil deals, power alleys. Finally set it all right. One might take that approach, so why complain? More capitalism! And it’s not like you’d invite the Taliban to dinner—detestable, one-time bastard allies who turned up on the Big Screen of Doom. Complainer man hates the big screen too, into his Orwell shtick. Lose the politics, nattering nabob. He hates the big lies, the bigger the better. He’ll never learn. He should stick to the badlands, rusted girders and teetering mouse-click economies.
Write about jimson weed graffiti on burned out suburbs, crumbling slabs. Who built the pyramids? We built the damn things, built them in factories moving around like drunken walls at the Zircon Lounge. They went south of the Rio from motor city. The Strip is everywhere. We won the war, built some highways, gas pumps, roadhouses, neon swoop on the desert, jet age swing, some billboards on the outskirts of Texas. We built the damn things, castle and crenellation, Genesis, Revelation. We hauled rocks up the hill, out of the ground, built slave ships, cathedrals and pound for pound the legends and bombs, we got used to the sound. Everything fought itself; rain fought its only sun. The roads went south, deep south, soldiers clutching a song, ghost river beds. Someone had to haul those rocks and it was damn hot.
Ah give it a rest, preacher man.
