Smokin’ Blunts.

From the ‘Dada Manifesto:’

“All the words are other people’s inventions. I want my own stuff, my own rhythm, and vowels and consonants too, matching the rhythm and all my own…If this pulsation is seven yards long, I want words for it that are seven yards long…”

“…Each thing has its word, but the word has become a thing by itself. Why shouldn’t I find it? Why can’t a tree be called Pluplusch, and Pluplubasch when it has been raining? The word, the word, the word outside your domain, your stuffiness, this laughable impotence, your stupendous smugness, outside all the parrotry of your self-evident limitedness. The word, gentlemen, is a public concern of the first importance.”

“…Dada is the heart of words.”

They take their handy utensils, their blunt instruments – their whitewashed brain, their vapid imagination – and scrape it across the white ice of reality. They believe that they can see, these partisans, partisans of debased political and educational institutions, products of a vulgar tricknology that they’ved inhaled like glue. But to claim membership in THIS, to participate and encourage the participation of your people in this inelegant charade…Who gives a FUCK whether Obama is black enough or whether he can win. What would he win if he won?! A throne controlled by bankers and corporations, an evil plutocracy that knows no borders, boundaries or limits. That has and will continue to roll over you while you continue to place stock in and vote for a Placebo Pageant.

You see the windshield as the car, as the works, the gears, the engine. Beneath the tinted glass, a universe exists that these men and women of religious faith refuse to see. The only there ‘there’ is the observable surface: ‘the knee bone’s connected to the…leg bone.’

Why don’t you want your own stuff, waltz by your own rhythm, create, honor and value your own consonants and vowels?! Who taught you that your sight ended at your eyelashes, that your ability to hear ended at the ball of ear wax on your Armani collar?!

No, you want ‘things,’ you want the stuttering rhythm that they stole from you and re-packaged; only when they sell it back to you with a white price tag is it ‘real,’ or ‘important,’ or ‘vital.’ Your beat ain’t shit until its bled from you, only then will you defend or praise it. You know the lie, but you live it anyway. I can only come to one conclusion…

We are DEAD.

Long live Charlie Parker, Jazz, Ella’s Baker and Fitzgerald, Sojourner, Harriet, Marcus, Martin, Malcolm, Billie, Miles! Long live the creativity ceremoniously touted, the soul, celebrated, and the rhythm imitated. The lemon carcass has been tapped. Even the spirituality that kept us alive, helped us brave the lash can’t save us, perverted as it is by the addiction to merging with ‘White’ Jesus, a cartoon, an apparition, a ghost, a black nightmare. We’d do better praying to Malcolm, following his last steps to Calvary.

At least he walked these streets.

Long live Dada.

Long Live the Un-Dead.

Long Live the Militantly Real Free Folk.

7 Responses to “Smokin’ Blunts.”

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  3. Whooo-eee! When all your stars are out, Maxjulian, you make me cry. Thank you. This is beautiful! And it reminded me of this.

  4. Tell it like it is !!!

    Have a great new year free!!!!!!!!!!!!

  5. Julian, sometimes, I could truly love you!!!

  6. Change: thanks, Sister.

    Byrd: Thanks. Do you have a blog yet?

  7. Sharon: Happy New Year, Miss Fred Meyers!!!

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