Top 1% Bracing for Martial Law

The breathless Insurrection Groupies are quickly laying out their wares in the wake of the Boston bombings;  The Government Blew Up The Marathon And Blasted Screws Into A Crowd Of Americans And Others In Boston That Day. Naturally! The government wants us to embrace Martial Law in our terror, is killing its own in order to condition us for the coming gulag epoch. Conspiracy is in the air. Yuck! Open a window! Fact is, we are wealthy bored fatheads, daydreaming of conspiracy and revolution in our Nordstrom-issue Che t-shirts, spoiling for the coming war against the jackbooted government army. First they’ll take our guns, next they’ll want the Prius! Where does the madness end?  There are now so many conspiracies they are tripping over each other by the water cooler at Devilish Cabal Headquarters. It’s a sort of National Munchhausen Syndrome. It’s no secret that governments keep secrets. So do teachers, parents, 8-year-olds, firemen, astronauts, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. There is no magic in secrecy. There are secrets, of course. Some of them probably paradigm-changing, many banal and clerkish.  Yes, there are closed-door meetings wherein unnamed men and women conspire to empower and enrich themselves at Our expense.  But a government Conspiracy to bring in martial law and strip us of our rights is not exactly what the Billionaire Black Helicopter Commission wants. The U.S. has about 4% of the world’s population and about 30% of the dough. Our POOR are in the world’s top 14% of earners. THE U.S. IS THE 1% IN MOST OF THE WORLD. We are right to moan about income inequality etc. That’s real. But make no mistake; we are fat rich jerks, and the rich are getting richer by the hour.  Not all of these ‘entrepreneurs’ are of the Adam Smith variety. Wealth = Power = Wealth = Power = Wealth. Repeat without rinsing.  Do you REALLY think the capitalist cartel, the Lever Pullers whom conspiracy pornographers place at the center of their fever dream, are going to turn the U.S., their freaking Cash Cow, into an Orwellian Martial purgatory? Things are sunny for the leveraged set! The Black Helicopter Billionaires don’t want jackboots kicking in taxpayers’ doors in the middle of the night. That’d be like arresting and waterboarding your own piggy bank. We can salivate over our gov’t takeover fantasies all day. It’s happening elsewhere, folks. We’re spoiled little First World bitches hungry for awesome adventure. If you’re starved for an insurrection against a cabal of government murderers, there are plenty of freedom-craving benighted places in the world whose broken populations would be happy to host you and arm you and send you to the front. The bad news is you will have to leave your centrally-heated three-bedroom dish-antenna cluster to do it. And you may be shot at.

They Frighten Me

Why this general clogging of the spiritual arteries? Their accessories and easements frighten me, their foreshortened arms and tiny shellacked frankenwives, whose shrunken heads and paws peek pitiably over the window frames of the overlarge vehicles they are obliged to pilot; they speak to me. They frighten me.

Power Miscegenation

One grasps in a weighted moment the rudiments of power generation. The bloom flees the techno-rose in a noisy, dislocating rush. All the sleek bullshit we surround ourselves with, the expertly tooled machines with the clean lines and miraculous solid-state guts; computers, HD idiot screens, wondrous multi-personality cell phones, toasters that quietly whisper news of the bread being cooked just so; you glimpse in a bemused and horrified flash the fucked truth. These glossy self-impressed gizmos are beholden to coal and shale, fossil-driven accoutrements that might just as well have their own exhaust pipes. You switch on your curvaceous computer and somewhere a starling is mummified in soot and falls, fluttering helplessly, to the sidewalk. The ass-end of your Mac is a smokestack.


It came upon me like a behemoth draped in child’s pajamas. High School. How did this sneak up on me? I feel intuitively that I just finished h.s. myself about, maybe, 15 long years ago? Of course it was approximately an eon hence since I donned zipper-bedevilled bell-bottoms, since I wore puka shells without irony and wore my then substantial hair in lengths that neither flattered me nor drew the opposite sex to me. I moved about in a regrettable cloud of Leo Sayer. That morning (Monday August 24, 2009), my son, or little boy, began high school. I had a mild nightmare about the blossoming new epoch Saturday night and awoke Sunday morning in tears. George Harrison solemnly intoned that All Things Must Pass, and then he politely passed. But why this? Why does this have to pass? I’ve just grown accustomed to the hand-holding and hugging and shy confidences, and now we enter the darkling era of fishnet gloves and projectile ennui? Already? The outlandish finitude of All This, combined with the irreducible fact of everything happening exactly and only once, have conspired to make me one of the walking wounded; a bruised husk. Give me back my Flower!