Letting Go of the Money Tree I

War of Dreams

It’s not that you’re wrong.  In your aubergine nights.  Reading the Gita or Dworkin or whatever.  Whatever it is you do to separate light from darkness, to march forward with the onion of truth.  It’s not that you’re wrong.  That’s how you do it.  Live. Talk. Work. Love. (I think that’s your word for it).  I suppose those fighting for peace must be peaceful.  And those for justice must be just.  The methods must matter.  Whether you use a cucumber or an artichoke, a pomegranate or a pear.  And the kind of pear, eh?!  Opuntias ain’t pyrus pyrifolia (and don’t forget—or begin to remember—that opuntia’s an anagram of utopian:  that means something!!)  The velocity at which it’s been shot.  Whether it’s been freeze-dried, ossified, fossilized, rottenized, vilified, mystified, juicified, photographed, certified by a CMA, taxidermied, pedicured, been to La Mancha, all that jizz.  How high it’s gone to heaven, whether the academy’s done its thing to it, if it’s done the Mecca trek.  The words must matter.  Whether you say passport or pisspot, jesus or cheeses, progress or pagan, fuckme or love.  We’re all right, really.  That’s the beauty of it.  We’re all just vegetables with the misfortune of inescapably getting visions (from somewhere! Where? Isn’t that the question? The question?) that we’re not.  You’re an onion, i’m a fruitcake, he’s a radish, we’re a kiwi, they’re a stinkbomb, she’s a yellowstripedcauliflower, you’re a fruitcake you’re a fruitcake you’re a fruitcake too.  But i’m a god.  Really.  Those visions like those neatly stacked multicoloured icecream cornets in a super supermarket.  So happy.  So convincing.  Must be true.  But then when you think about it (which unfortunately has to come from time to time, petite ejaculations from the same place [?] as the visions or the veggies) so much truth gets a little weighty after a little history, like our garbage or a marriage or the carnage or some cabbage.  Yet.  There it is.  That’s how you do it.  Part of the mix, i suppose.  Fridgecrapstew i call it.  Others civilization.  Whatever, it’s a word.  Yam.  We yammed all night cause we were high like grapes.  Hey—wanna come home with me and make yam.  Better than yooboob i suppose.  But.  Back to the Gita or Dworkin or Oprah or yourpickorprick.  Toss it to me, baby.  Shoot it like a flower.  Redpath maybe.  In your pistons.  Yeah!  Tank me silly like a Yankee.  Sketch the future like a doodle.  Make war not war like a Christian.  Shoot love not love like an Oxfam.  Have your ideology and eat it too.  Oh yeah baby.  Oh yeah.  It’s not that you’re wrong.