Open Letter to BLM

I'm writing to ask that the Bureau of Land Management prohibit hard rock mining in the Bristol Bay region.
No rational land use plan can include destructive mining. The mining process is only the beginning of a long path of pollution those minerals will take through the lives on the people who use them. The excuse seems to be the ends (technological development) justifies the means (mining and refining of minerals.) We posses highly advanced technology and have more knowledge of our natural habitat than ever before but there is strong evidence we are more divorced than ever from our own habitat. Children have less awareness and concrete knowledge of their habitat. We lack experience and love for the land and that is blatantly dangerous. The majority of adults live in urban areas and they take some solace that wild places still exist. Remove those wild places and we will become drones manufacturing our own demise, praying for the next invention to keep our pale corpses alive to watch the next sporting event in high definition.

One animal to be harmed by copper mine.

Bristol Bay:

Copper Mine:

America's energy addiction is not a consensus decision but rather an elitist edict that has been passively adopted. I'm strongly in favor of development of technology as long as it does not radically alter the habitat of other creatures. If you can harvest copper and gold from the earth without destroying it then you'll be the first in history to do so. If you can't make that promise then start taking responsibility for the land and stop obeying silver-tongued lobbyists. Pretend you have to live next to the gold mine. Then decide what to do with the land.

Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting

Herman Hesse writes about two worlds in his book Demian. One world is the world of convention, controlled by media and hormones, the other world is the one that is generated by resisting hormones and the media. Here's my buddy trying to resist one or the other at the saloon named after the street where old friends meet the pavement and mopeds roll through stop lights with cops on their tail.
It's a daily battle to fight these worlds, the raging war between convention and instinct. I lose it on most days and stumble past the central little league field with open wounds. We are all manufacturers. We manufacturer things, ideas or junk piled under the carpets of our minds. This junk is piling up and the excuse is that one day the technology will make the junk obsolete, one day the junk will devour the junk. And our manufacturing dreams will become a Jetson's reality. I manufacture words that are recycled trash from the stuffed animals we trail behind us from childhood. I'm like my Buddy, holding my hand up in defense against the attack of the scotch from 12 years ago.

Will our collective ecological genocide lead to some rosy fucking rainbow world where the genocide will be justified? I do not think so. Definitely not. That's fucking ridiculous and if you believe such a thing then I'd like to cross reference your lack of soul to your stock holdings in Apple. THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. But I'm an easy target, living in my van miserably lurching from one dead end to another. I'm the bogeyman your first grade teacher warned you about so you can justify your plastic Wii cheerleading accessories. The sky isn't falling. Of course it isn't. Steve Jobs would never lie to YOU. That would be...unforgivable...awful...insane. How could that ever happen? No, a rich dude you never met will sell you shit in a basket and you'll eat it up but a kid who played whiffle ball with you from the Elwyn Ave Lincoln Gang big wheel days is a dirtbag. Ok. Choose your friends by their crisp obscurity and your enemies by their hippie vans.

I'm not crucified by your values, I'm living outside the realm of Steve Jobs and it turns out that collateral damage has my van in between the crosshairs. They can't coexist. The wolf and the iphone. They can't live together because the copper mines and plastic factories all add up to a school system full of future electronic engineers and assemblers. Why even have school? Why learn about god? Fuck it. God is in the robots we design to take out our garbage. This nation of devout fishermen and farmers are now south korean piece workers and latin meat packers sucking kidney stones from the balls of bull moose. This is the age of darkness that is full of light from some manufactured source shining on our cleverness in huge warehouses where we slice knee caps off cows for our herd of sheep dogs or robotic men and women in sweaty warehouses cleverly pinning copper to power conductors to god knows what, probably the bomber that will destroy my house. So clever! so smart that we elect monsters to run our country and then stare at tubes of light and drink and complain in vapid obesity. Convention is a grand success. Pay no attention to the man in the van, the glitch in the system, the obscure anomaly, the turd in the pool water. Your world is safe and I'll defend mine with manufactured words shot into the darkness of a parade of the clumsy innocent, the feckless fools, the stumbling maniacs whose laughter is a hollow cry that leads them to the asylum for the wicked.

Nestle...killer...murderer...devourer of cultures

here's a sample from an article that no one reads that details the encroachment of Nestle into Brazil...


"Sure, Nestlé will profit if it hooks Amazonian children on Baby Ruths, and new jobs will be created—just as new jobs are created when more people become addicted to cocaine or heroin—but all this will come at the cost of ill health and significant increases in the ecological costs of producing food, all in a place that could produce most of its food locally."



What is going to become of us?

Power Chord Jungle Emperor

Old before his time. Gray hair. Seated on his thrown, scarred shins from bike brake pedals slamming and carving new wounds in the flesh. Knees knocked from falling from great heights, plummeting as though shot from the sky by hunters of the doomed with his tattered magic rug unfurled beneath him. Sneakers with lacquer and paint and sawdust and every kind of fluid used to cover wood and metal. The goat shepherd walks with a limp and has a belly full of scorpion bowls and shellfish but he's a triumph of engineering, a jeep restored from a war that is never content without bombs blowing up nearby, forever rolling on three flat tires looking for a fight in the worst way, looking up "Trouble" in the phone book and crank calling him at two in the morning. He shows up like a thunderstorm when you forgot to close your windows and attracts lightning, like Miles Davis juggling blue notes in the hazy St. Louis Night.
He's a canary trapped in a coal mine and we're burning feathers for to find his weakness, jabbing at his broken knees. We'll miss him when we're gone.

Jackson

I played so much Lionel Richie on the piano today that I blended all his songs together into a song about Jackson the pygmy goat who hails from Nottingham and has a prince for an owner. I was belting it out even without the aid of vodka trying to mix a bit of Tom Waits with Elton John on the rocks...
"Don't tear down my fence
Jackson, you shit BBs on the lawn
dry hay is your desert
you drink water from a silver goblet
aflame with the Lee Speedway demons
run along you pygmy goat
and don't come home without a pony
I'll put wings on you and together
we'll fly back to Mexico or to Labrador
where it's cold at night
and the humidity freezes on the tent flaps
you'll keep me warm, you
pygmy dwarf with the bearded butt."

I can't remember how the music went but it was inspired.