Disconcerto #144K

 

Kingdom heaven

upon us

Another Esto Bonney

chorus erupts

Total empathy

wide river worldwide

Totalitarian shame

Thanking little baby plastic

Bill Gates

Luciferian-lit 

voltage terrain

running smoothly

at decent rates

Saying smiley faced

Gesundheit to all great

oligarchic Golfwaffe!

Can't tear towers down 

Only ones 

we've got

Sum human

conundrum

Thanking alien overlords

Bunny in song

not a hawk

Stone-shaped black heart

Magical elixir

William Blake darkly artful

Fed once Jesus

by the mouthful

All the graffiti

is painted over now

God ain't 

Art Garfunkel

Child once asked

Grandma & Grandpa

if communion wine

Kool-Aid tasted good

They laughed

relieved 

not blood

Preacher speaks:

O of all the great

 things to say

before a flood

Floating tomb

believe deceive

Deeper muse

Deeper

O gawd we're all so

skull & crossbones

confused

Whose bones be they?

Yours?

Bouncey housey

in a big haboob

Poor managers

let it all sail away

Yo you're the media

& you're late

Serving up sound bytes

& salty satire comedy

cracker uppers

So if protest drums

out there who knows?

Just too damn busy

for information flows

These leaders flaming

high inflammation

cocaine up their nose

Dirt perfect particles

spraying in the face

Front moves in

Fifty miles per hour

Time enough for a note

Not a question so much

A make-you-wonder

What-the-fuck!

Bible bummer

is only

one

hundred

forty

four

thousand

Chosen One

babies on board

Alien overlord starship

lacking boats

for everyone?

Bet Bezos has ticket

& so does Soros

Only one pet allowed

Meanwhile, baked on Earth

protests need some percentage

success

More percentage

more than current run ... Run!

Prayed about 

this Trumpist tattoo

in church prayer garden

built beside car wash

Jet engine loud

& couldn't keep

third eye open

But eye one good 

eye two okay

Thanking alien overlords

once again

Well as Zuckerberg

in a manger

making me better, man,

maybe

Takes rael cowboy

to light one up

in such demonic

dust devil winds

~ Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Bookstore

Solar Storm

Electromagnetic molecules

of public violence

fell upon the parking lot

in front of the Bank of America.

Drunk on vodka, off the rails,

fighting like a wild cat.

Used to this kind of thing.

A Navajo woman 

getting angry in the CME,

banging her bottle

on the car window

bouncing off plastic, see,

and then begins

the melee

Like some earthquake

shaking the continental shelf

into liquid

(So much for running away

to Obstruction Island)

the crazy lady swings

at anything she can miss

... I take the rolling container

waving it into the air forward

spraying the perpetrator

with the juice of our Lord

She stares at me suddenly

cold shocked 

stunned ashamed

then pounces  

O all the melting souls dizzied

in the animal magnetic. Birds spinning

in swarms around the Caribbean cruise ships.

Magma churning underground. Set on spin

by the breath of the sun. 

CME me, please! Mutate my mind!

 Bend the vibrations higher & higher!

Oh psychedelic breeze!

Please can you just hone me

& tune me & groom me

into a better human being!

~ Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Bookstore

A Visitation with Doctor Bones (For John Berryman)

Eyes peeking out pain from sockets

as the catheter goes right off rocket

past the unimaginable shock of birth.

Spread thin like salad dressing

by the American Medical Association.

Served up for billing purposes.

Let me be your gravy train.

Let me be your next victim

of the artfully intelligent artificial

laser-guided Davinci surgery machine.

There's not even a purr,

Doctor, do you concur?

Having already navigated

your impersonal professional gatekeepers,

read your data-driven beepers, soaked, no,

deep-fried into molecular

Sauce of Information

Inflammation A-la-Mode,

do you concur, Doctor Bones?

When I was young if they cut you up,

gutted you like sea bass, oh, they had class,

they stuck you in a hospital for your broken ass,

with nurses & smiling feces faces

shaped like bed pans, an energy

almost as bad as the airport,

but they didn't throw you out

on the street just for sport,

doctor, do you concur?

Meet the new cruelty.

Culture that consumes.

Keeps you live long enough

to let you die & die & die,

splayed across the operating table:

Doctor, what are the words?

Am I oxycontin able, pain pills

for the electronic staples?

A feast for your gauzy tray ...

Doctor Bones, am I going to be okay?

On Tolleson, Arizona When You're Dead

Chart a course to Starbucks.

Keep an eye out for bathroom crashers.

Hub of liberal-o-cracy, just a haze away

from Monument Mountain,

where the first surveyor's meridian line

was struck in the "arid zone" region,

at the confluence of the Agua Fria & Gila ...

I realize, this is more than just vaguely journalistic,

as a fact, but when you're deceased,

just can't follow the facts. And it's more

than just the loss of fertile soil or irrigated fields,

the flash-in-a-pan for gold roll, now so old,

... here comes the espresso rush, the touch

of Tolleson turned into parking lots

for trucks & gas stations & big boxes

so full of slaves all they can do is crave

the only corporate transactions

this cemented fabrication can provide,

words flowing in every direction,

free as birds, oh, the words, the words ...

See the drift of construction workers

in orange jackets, grimly greeting the morning

central caffeine station, looking for the cosmic bus

right on out of here, past the barrier reefs

of castle-crates big enough for industrious kings

who hot-branded the compromised wetlands

on my two-wheeled alchemical trek

& nobody here is getting wet ...

Who cares what the invisible see?

The Canis Latrans in me still runs free.

- Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Books

On the Eve of Transit

The sky is brown dust 

at dusk on New Year's Eve

hovering over 

grimly tented nomads

& the night quiets

into an avalanche roar

& slowly I went low

behind the orange & white cones,

hiding where I've never hidden before

as the last night lights up

into a firecracker blow.

Meet the New Cruelty.

Meet the new universal scream.

All connected by silver strings,

pulsating seas of love & war.

Grasp the leap of faith it takes

to believe anything is quantum real.

Look & see: That chaotic madman

 of heavy-handed governance:

He nailed a closure notice 

to the door of the library.

Thomas Jefferson's rational animal

 bows before the burning

& doinks the kick toward 

the field goal posts of autocracy

in a dissipation of the glories

during that holiday ditch betwixt

Christmas & New Year's Eve

when the Earth lets out a breath

for those moments spared

from all the trampling around,

the compromised ground littered

with tricksters & tomb raiders 

& the know-how of Aknaton lying dead,

coal-black cables of Bad Bwana disrespect,

crazy white people shit

like salt-water aquariums

in the mile-high desert,

fresh-catch seafood at the ski resort.

Nothing but blunt pain here for growth.

Feel the new cruelties

pressuring the pineal pearls

in our oyster-fried hind brains.

Whisper beneath the muttering

of the so & so suckers

 in the neo-liberal mausoleum.

Meet the monk in his cloister

rolling hysterical on the river dancing.

See him speaking to vaporous ghosts

held together in some sudden

revelatory silent tsunami,

trying to make the words shimmer,

make them shine & shine & shine.

Him big Edward R. Murrow,

speaking truth to the ivory towers

with reports of rainbow smoke

mucking up the Mars-red Moon,

glaciers cracking & fizzling into herds

of Fibonacci sequence seahorses

& firenadoes raging across the cities.

Please spare us his year-end review.

Enough to say sanity was rare,

irrational animals tossing about

the singed globe with "passionate intensity ..."

Oh dear, Mister Yeats, I'm getting lost

in your reveries, gassed by your prophecies ...

And here's another: Look. Let me

introduce you to the new looming cruelties,

tight as the security at Times-Square,

pompous & pumped & primed

for the new Nero & his Trumpigarchy ...

Can't wait to get a selfie

with the next Ground Zero's dead heroes ...

But Captain! There aren't enough

metallic cages for them all!

No worries raging in, no worries raging out,

just shake your piggy banks all about.

Hear the tinkle & the shout.

Just wipe away the human stain

with your family's black rifle,

your Sheriff Joe Playbook,

your racially profiling amigos.

Gotta get me a Bible because

at the American greed-head

fireworks display before the transit,

the entire neighborhood

percolates like popcorn at midnight.

On the first day of the year,

the barbecued shreds of the celebration

tumble like weeds in the terrified wind.

The Bones of a Cheerleader

Not answering phone calls from Texas.

Too many lost relatives there buried

below the Alamo. Bedded down

with the bones of Davey Crockett.

Detectives say the skeleton woman

kissed & caressed & blew new breath

into him to go there and die

& she had the bones

of a cheerleader

Ain't eating ice cream no mo

no mo no mo .,. Not answering

phone calls from Kellogg or Coke.

Not from the president.

Not from Jesus or Buddha,

with their bones hid safe,

all phones being burners,

or even the bones of chairman Mao

Oh no ho no oh no

He had the soul of a cheerleader.

A suitcase in the ditch.

Jammies with pink polka dots

burst out from the sides.

A chess game missing three pieces.

One empty Hello Kitty wallet

left to fade in the desert sun.

One unhappy story unknowable.

There were no bones of a cheerleader,

The very next day I don't know

if I am ever going to be okay.

She had the bones of a cheerleader,

an angel with no light for a day

of smokes torn to shreds for tobacco

in my zombie space alien pirate party tray. 

Nothing more resourceful than a smoker.

Nothing to say to the devil running the day.

I have the bones of a cheerleader.

That's what the doctors say.

- Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Book Store

American Mythville Unbound

Mythville is the Gaia

of our mutual dreams

A great city lost

A history forgotten

Except in the imagination

It lingers with the muses

A magical floating tablet

perhaps read, if only briefly

within the circle

of the enlightened

But then

New Jerusalem

can turn

Mammon mouth

random field

Great Plains tornadoes

laden with lies

GPS of the mind

constant liminal polarities

Visigoth spirits,

pagan portals

of pineal glands

for our pains

hurts and cries ...

The mind's eye.

The mind's eye!

- Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Bookstore

 

Doink

 

Polls close in ten nine eight seconds ...

The human experience

in the blink of unknowing eyes.

Invisible digits of the indivisible.

The truth is out there. Don't believe.

Idaho goes potato. Georgavania

goes uppity Humpty Dumpty's wall.

Florida goes Banana Republican. 

Sudden good places to get shot in Las Vegas

for wearing the wrong color denim jean dreams.

Too call. Too close. Talking heads verbose.

Quaker oats shoved down liberal throats.

The mutant vote. Take note. Take note.

Hear the sacred chords grind to a halt.

To keep up is to try to paint the wind.

Six five for three two to who won ...

Meanwhile, the referees confer

over a simple truth long dead.

Dreary never-ending eons ago.

Sharks will always hunt these waters.

Ballot box numbers both dead & alive.

For a universe no longer in existence.

For society sleeping before it wakes.

Mysterious bruises & blood splatters & sweat.

Rolling clouds of astronomical inconclusive.

We will clearly serve no queen here.

But instead a king in reptilian regalia.

Broken bric-a-brac of Democracy.

Might as well be Greek. Who is white,

who is wrong. Just Italianate me.

~ Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Books

Doing it for the Dead

The sky a mile wide.

Election Day, sigh.

Revolutionary world.

Off-balance, tilted.

Mammoth Lake mouthwash

bulging the big spin again.

No change ever the same.

Snakes on the highway.

Rumblin'. Slitherin'.

Noise up the road.

Whistling fast & ready.

Loud enough to make

the deaf read the news.

Ghosts of the Civil War.

Blue & Grey visitations

in the shimmering motion

of Max Earnst dreams.

Ghosts of World War Two.

Walking, lost & vacuum Void.

The tundra is boiling,

sidewalks sweating ooze.

The Who-Knows-Sphere.

Just maybe. Maybe.

What will the deaf see?

Holding tin cups

out for their trickle?

Kitchen table tissues

for mom & dad tears.

What's the fear this year?

Anything is nothing down.

Innocence, in big damn debt

to the banks of the Holy Ghost.

Private panels & levers & checkers.

Who wrong & who white, right?

Kissing couches burning, too.

Potato skins of many races

attached to war-blooded skulls.

Drip, drip. Drubbing-a-dud, duh.

No bandages of grafted skin

ever quite the fractal same.

Dumbing down the vote.

Platonic pole star, democracy.

Forming into formlessness.

Effortless action no easy rider.

No free box in the mountains.

No easy surfers in snarled waves.

Not with Max Earnst at Hiroshima

painting bones into patches of flesh.

Dreams of green SUVs 

filled with Vietnam dead.

O hillbilly pollster super car

churning up the dust of dunces.

Lacking ever-loving verbs,

lacking the woody words.

I'll vote with a prayer,

do a ghost dance

& leave a lonely sign:

Please do not disturb.

~ Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Books

Voltage Terrain

Twenty turtles sunning near a Tolsun pond,

some grave mistake by the concrete God,

poking their noses under the dry air

of the sickly-too-blue-water desert oasis

with a moat and a bridge,

reasons enough to daydream

in the electric wasteland,

the green-belted island,

as subliminal salamander men

dig deep beneath the Earth

& offer hovercraft to humans

who poke at them with blunt spears,

 then came the Huhugam river people,

building canals within canals,

holding water in red-clay pots,

embattled by summer monsoons, 

growing corn & squash & mesquite beans & cotton

 along the Laveen & Pecan Promenade,

the Gila gorgeous, shallow & broad,

with a tendency to rage when it rains,

a land now gone alienated, isolating minds

& the wind fails to turn pages for Tiowa,

Any witnesses worn by erosion, gone,

& the mandatory meetings

where we first meet Jesus

and all go out for a drink;

Oh yes, you're always rich

if the rest keep on winning,

sponsored & supported

by streaming stone scorpions,

Kachina-shouldered towers

lifting Palo Verde nuclear lightning

as the hawks fly in wonderment,

while all Tolsun roads south,

cut off by not-so-funky-Broadway,

a long stretch of farms & rancheros

& irrigated green fields stinking of manure,

as confused crows carry the drafts east,

hovering over a toxic dump long as a hippie jam

looking for the long lost gone-quite-secret lands

disappeared into box castles

 big and white as clouds, no people outside,

an amber-green prickly pear trampled by time,

all overlooked from Monument Mountain,

where the first meridian line was drawn

by pioneer surveyors at the confluence

of the Gila & Agua Fria Rivers,

farm implements clinging to the sand,

crunched into tiny plastic buttons,

crushed and fed right to people

with a gusto for high-fructose corn syrup,

slouching toward the suburbs, ever marching,

but the twenty turtles won't let you near them,

they instinctively feel your quantum GPS

approaching, perhaps a change in the light,

and then return to the faux-stone outcropping,

nearer to the road in the warmth of sun,

returning to their mummy depths, moonish white,

expecting to survive the next one-hundred-year flood

- Douglas McDaniel

Tolleson, Arizona

Mythville Bookstore