ShameriKKKan Retardation, Or The Real Fell Away And Became Pretend

05 August 2002

In the darkness of the bar, it is difficult to make out the enemies from the whores. The psychic vampyres are in presence of the Federal Bureau of Intimidation. Everyone and his or her helpless brother is watching you. Look at them. Feel the eyes of betrayal stabbing into you. Taste the moment when your identity becomes a terrorist. You are a protester. You are the evader. You are an extremist, and you have no home. We hate you for knowing you. We turn our backs and deny that you exist.

You smell like a terrorist. You have always been a bit questionable in terms of your integrity. After all, you fly your flag upside down. It may be cloth and you burn only plastic ones but now, we believe that you are a terrorist. We are watching you. We hate you. You will pay for our pain. We hate everything that does not make sense. You do not make sense. Hence, we hate you. Get over it. Stop making excuses. Give us something to hate. Damn you. Terror is the truth now. War is the trust that we have between ourselves now. The real terror is putting up with all this hatred, night after night, as it stalks us.

We are here to reclaim our dignity. There are 3000 homeless fish held captive in Denver, bouncing their sonar off the Rockies to hear their own hollow pleas for familiarity and faith in humanity. They are the captured whales of Denver! Forcing them to bounce their sonar off the Rockies is pure unadulterated abuse. The pain remains as if it was just a few moments ago. How forgiving do you feel that the gods are going to be, when they learn of this betrayal? How long do you think it will be before we are paying for the costs that we are making upon ourselves? How long will the flesh reside over the flames? Do you ever wonder what your name might mean on the other side of the world? What if your life is made up of hollow wanderings until the Father brings us home to know who we were, are and will be, for eternity?

After a blood-soaked night of Death, he rises from the depths of the futon at four-thirty in the Monday morning. A large truck with a boom arrives in the parking lot next to his building, joining the Mexican roofing crew, and the six pallets of materials. Suddenly, an entire construction zone manifests itself outside his window. The noise is tremendous. He jokes that it is the F.B.I. installing their surveillance equipment, all of them undercover as Mexican and poor.

“Monday Night at the Executions” is a new hit series, as we watch the entire planet become criminalized. They begin to see inside of your mind, observing the plots of murder and robbery. This Monet moment is the apocalypse of dull sexual puns and positions. Sex, violence, and Death.

Boulder is within the Liberal Free Zone
resembling Amherst, or Ann Arbor, even Berserkly
98% Anglo upper-middle class
born to party bumperstickers
10 different pairs of shoes

Birkenstocks, hiking, biking

trailmix, gym shoes, FUCK ME pumps.

Take Back The Night parades
and a little bit of promise
Naropa Institute
(formerly the Jack Kerouac Institute for Disembodied Poets)
just down the block from the Crossroads Mall
Pearl Street and the buskers
Ah, to know Boulder!
To know.
Boulder is the home of the University,
a hiding place for flying typers.