What we see, we have already "read" as our visual cortex filters our perceptions down through the doors of our experiences. What we read is immediately transposed perceptually to some kind of image that is compatible with our imagination. Here you will find much to read, and lots to see.
The skinny, chain smoking man they called 'The Grim Reaper' looked to be a tabloid reading finger pointing guy - at first glance.
His job at the old folks home was to grab a cardboard box, cram the dead person's possessions into it and tape it tight. He got great delight in putting the lid on it, there, job well done. Then he'd pick out a red marker and write the dead person's name on it. Occasionally, he'd write next to the name the one thing we all fear, in our two a.m. moments - No known relatives. The boxes went to charity stores and someone could buy an old life for a handful of dollars.
The skinny, chain smoking man handled these possessions with care if you looked closely at what he was doing. He folded handkerchiefs and tapped the tobacco from pipes before placing items in the box. He piled photographs together and tried to neaten out the curling corners.
He smiled briefly if he found a love letter or two in the box, he loved the way the past rose up like a spell from these letters and would spend a moment trying to reconcile the old person who had vacated the nursing home bed and this world permanently with the phrases in the letters -
To my darling....I wait for your reply....you are never far from my mind.....
Time lines didn't seem to matter to the skinny, chain smoking guy.
He taped the boxes shut and for the ones who were called 'oh my darling' even once in their lifetimes, he felt a beautiful envy for them.
1.
I do so enjoy reading this blog site,
while sitting here so lonely on my ranch.
No one visits me now.
No one tells me what to do.
So I just count my money and drink Lone Star
and daydream that I am still
the most powerful man on the planet.
.......George W. Bush, Jr.
2.
I painted you last week, there in Texas,
bent over nude, riding a wild boar,
with a dildoo shoved up your rectum,
with your mom riding an armadillo,
and your dad riding your wife,
and your brother on a unicycle
juggling candidate buttons,
with very tall elephants in the back ground,
one of them carrying Osama Bin Laden,
propped up dead, lashed with a lariat,
with berka-wearing topless women
running backwards,
and several clock faces weeping,
with oil wells spouting blood,
with a blizzard of green backs whipping up
from the great fence in the south,
with a giant cactus that has three
human arms and five human legs,
with a rattlesnake wearing a Stetson
dangling from your right hand,
and a severed gas pump handle
dangling from your left hand,
you wearing a fez with golden tassels,
and three one-legged Iraqi War veterans chasing
after your caravan of shame, with an alligator
holding your flight suit in its mouth,
and a knot of fire ants waving
small American flags.
I call it "Fun With the Bush's".
