01-05-2012, 09:30 PM
Albert
Revolution. The stuff of Bill Ayers' romp from Lincoln Park to crystalnacht Chicago-style, broken glass, bombs to bombast of his 2006 toast of Hugo Chavez, "Viva la revolucion. Hasta la victoria siempre."
Yet his Prairie Fire misfire stands, and his creation stands between us and the truth on George Joannides.
Said creation in 2006 with a bullhorn calling for a "power-sharing" at the vanguard of another mob, another day, punch the clock, slip away.
Take John Lennon.
What passes for "revolution" is a desultory stirring of a murky pond of drifters.
In the halls of academe there's no Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot fighting in the captain's tower.
Some confused Marxists, Maoists, Malthusians singing from a Mickey Mouse sign-off of 1955.
And yet.
When we read James Douglass did we not. Experience that which we can't quite name, but know how good it tasted.
My meaning is clear: the battlefield and the barricade are in the perception.
From Dada to Zappa, the search for a Northwest Passage has proceeded.
Perhaps it begins with questioning the top puppet's preening over knocking down the piñata prop of the two-minute hate.
You and I are more concerned with a verifiable killing for unspeakable ends--which never end.
Revolution. The stuff of Bill Ayers' romp from Lincoln Park to crystalnacht Chicago-style, broken glass, bombs to bombast of his 2006 toast of Hugo Chavez, "Viva la revolucion. Hasta la victoria siempre."
Yet his Prairie Fire misfire stands, and his creation stands between us and the truth on George Joannides.
Said creation in 2006 with a bullhorn calling for a "power-sharing" at the vanguard of another mob, another day, punch the clock, slip away.
Take John Lennon.
What passes for "revolution" is a desultory stirring of a murky pond of drifters.
In the halls of academe there's no Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot fighting in the captain's tower.
Some confused Marxists, Maoists, Malthusians singing from a Mickey Mouse sign-off of 1955.
And yet.
When we read James Douglass did we not. Experience that which we can't quite name, but know how good it tasted.
My meaning is clear: the battlefield and the barricade are in the perception.
From Dada to Zappa, the search for a Northwest Passage has proceeded.
Perhaps it begins with questioning the top puppet's preening over knocking down the piñata prop of the two-minute hate.
You and I are more concerned with a verifiable killing for unspeakable ends--which never end.