Generally, I don’t give a shit about the rich and famous. Celebritism falls flat with me. I get annoyed when people want to fill the gap of nothing substantial to say with talk of tidbits from whatever “These lives are more significant than yours” TV show plugging a primetime slot.

It’s not that I’m a heartless bastard who can’t recognize the fundamental humanity we all share. But I do have some hefty disdain for the cultural (or is that ANTI-cultural?) hierarchical ladder in which the serfs are maintained by being entertained.

Every Man and Every Woman is a Star. And I’ve seen too many unsung Stars snuffed out, shipped to the morgue and processed like McDonalds hamburgers. Each such forgotten soul contained the Universe, experienced from a unique vantage point. A thousand stories are stuffed away in nursing homes. Shriveled asses hurriedly wiped and colostomy bags squeezed into pink plastic basins. The spark behind a gelatinous eye quivers and grows faint.

Who’s the old fucker with a condom catheter slung onto the side of his wheelchair?

Someone who may just have had

Loves and Hates
And Passions just like mine…
He was born and then he lived and then he died
It seems so unfair
I want to cry…

Which brings us, of course, to Morrissey.


I never met Moz and, even if I was his next door neighbor, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’d draw the blinds lest the vulgar American come knocking on the door at teatime.

Still, I remember buying Viva Hate the month it was released. I was 17. At 44, that masterpiece still speaks to me.

As does every album released since then.

Lots of water under the bridge.

From difficult child
To spectral hand…
Blah, blah, blah…

This evening I held my True Love in my arms and my heart swelled upon swelling. Well, somebody must want to see the Boy Happy. If it’s not you, there’s the Goddess of Infinite Space who says

My Joy is to see your Joy

Souls recycling in the Death & Resurrection Show, as another English Genius reminds us.

And we ALL get recycled.

So, I learn this afternoon that Moz joins the ranks of all those I’ve observed from the top of a Time magazine at the University Hospital Radiation and Oncology Department.

The difference between Morrissey and those pale faces is nil save, perhaps, a thinning quiff. The difference between Morrissey and the “Dead Star at the Record Company Party,” however, is measured by a chasm into which a drove of demon packed pigs, cast out by the Christ, go tumbling.

When I was 17, I found in MOZ a voice for my post-pubescent pain. Well, let’s put the P-Word in parenthesis. Get away from the moping mindset of an ignorant teen and have a real dose of the bad stuff.

What the hell did I know about PAIN?


That’s how people grow up.

You can’t crash land into your 40’s after decades of love and loss, whining about how you’re

The most inept that ever stepped.

I don’t hear Moz slinging that line much these days, either.

Like Lydon, the piss and vinegar running through our veins has aged into a wine whereby we toast the pulse of Life Itself with a glass clashing clink.

What the hell is Cemetery Gates really about?

Good God, we were all so young. Pretentious “Poets” penning passions without wisdom.

Take a tour of the headstones. The money made in the marble market. Did anyone really think the Last Trumpet required an obelisk cock-stand for roll-call?

SMITH. 1957-2014.

How unceremonious the congestive heart failure, the

Cancer of the Prostate

Thomas Merton slips after the last bath. Robin Williams? A belt around the neck earns him Warhol’s 15 minutes of fame on Facebook. We’re just curious if it was auto-erotic asphyxiation.

An hourly wage placed paddles on my father’s chest as a bundle-block burned by a blood clot flat-lined to the shocks.

But you never knew my father.

And you never knew Thomas Merton.

Still, you’re going to DIE.

Dead and Double Dead.

They nail you to a cross and nail you into a coffin.

So what, then?

If you must write prose and poems, the words you use should be your own

So many rely on others to speak FOR them, rely on others to define them. In my opinion, spitting and sputtering is better than a cut and paste of some inspirational quote someone else wrote (penned Kyle as he cited song after song in this blog).

Yes, Good Words are worth passing along. But everyone should know they also have their own. Emerging from the heart, such words outweigh the “importance” of inanity from the famous, over-inflated by the programmed perspective that such status alone indicates a greater voyage for any given

traveler to the grave

Reverend Michael Bertiaux observed, in his Voudon-Gnostic Workbook, that we are the Universe “in its Learning Aspect.” One Consciousness that is so much more than the politics of a human primate playground. There are trees doing a much better job than humans.

Ergo, that body in a bag which drained IVs in a now vacant hospital bed may very well have learned more on behalf of the Absolute, given more to the growth of our Cosmic Continuum, than all scholars of the world combined.


Walt Whitman knew it, which is why he eschewed philosophical discourse in favor of chit-chat on climate conditions while warming a rocking chair on a wooden porch.

As for Morrissey, I really don’t care who wants to make a snide-swipe at the “attention whore” whose concert cancellations get labeled for a pout.

Sister, he’s a poet.

For me, those poems, now truly Louder Than Bombs, have, like all Great Works, continued to be friends along the Way. The lines are the same but they say something new with each listen, becoming more poignant and precise as

at last I am born
living the one true life

Moz may say “whatever” to how

time is gonna wipe us out

but he’s one of the only superstars retiring to an LA Home this evening who is anything but a

lock-jawed pop star, thicker than pig-shit, nothing to convey

So I’ll be offering my prayers for the health and well-being of a man who’s

Not A Man

and whose cancer is worth concern and care (howsoever we may offer it).

We all have our own wonderful company of companions weaving in and out of our lives. A kitten, mother, long dead novelist and potted plant on the kitchen sill all speak, bless and flow as we, lives on a loom, are woven into God’s Grand Tapestry of Awakening in Strange Ways.

To be able to give gratitude is a gift and I send my own to that

English Blood, Irish Heart

still pulsing and promising a novel

worth it in this murkiness


P-U-S-H-O-Double F


Namaste, then, to those Maladjusted Minds & Hearts better bearing Life, Light and Love than any Machine calibrated with precision to walk an unwavering line in the Black Iron Prison.



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