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This week's Zelda's Inferno exercise: write a character sketch. I've always wondered about the backstory of the guys I see selling roses around Fell's Point, so I made one up:

once he was a freedom fighter
twenty years ago he and his
Mujahideen warrior-brothers
were the fear in the night for
the soldiers of the Red Army
the fear that drove the
invaders out of their country

in one bad firefight, his unit cornered
he snuck up behind the Russian platoon and
leaping from the shadows
stabbed three men in their throats, one at a time
their blood covering him
straining his arms and chest a deep red

he thinks on this only occasionally, now
sometimes the red of the roses he sells reminds him of how the warm blood of the men he killed
cooled and dried on his skin

the red of the roses he sells to young men in
the bars of Fells Point
the roses he sells to the men to give to the women they're seducing

in the rain, in the heat, in the cold, he walks the streets

"Roses", "Roses for the pretty lady"

he makes just enough to live on
just enough to pay his share on the apartment he shares with three cousins but
he does not mind

it is luxury
just to be alive

he remembers the rocky hills
nights in the freezing rain with withering machinegun fire cutting into the bodies of friends
and he will never complain about anything

once in a while, a drunken young man insults him
or some bigot sticks a foot out to trip him, or pushes him, as he walks by

these men do not know how close
they have come to fast death

they do not know how
roses are the color of blood

Our good friend Mike Gurklis sends in this link to an interview with Vincent Bugliosi. In a new book the former LA County Assistant District Attorney lays out the case for prosecuting George W. Bush for murder:

You’ve got to realize, there’s no statute of limitations for the crime of murder. So this could very well happen. At this stage of my life, I cannot engage in fanciful reveries. This is a very real thing that we’re talking about here. I’ve established jurisdiction on a federal and state level for the prosecution of Bush for two crimes: conspiracy to commit murder and murder. On a federal level, we’re really only talking about the Attorney General in Washington, D.C., operating through his Department of Justice. But on a state level, I’ve established jurisdiction for the attorney general in each of the fifty states, plus the hundreds of district attorneys in counties within those states, to prosecute George Bush for the murder of any soldier or soldiers from their state or county who died fighting his war in Iraq.

Zelda's Inferno writing exercise: "connect those lines". I received the lines "Don't look," that truck is about to hit you" (sic) and "And that was how the Milky Way crumbled"

"Don't look!" she yelled "that truck is about to it you"
Dionysus in the driver's seat
One hand on the wheel
A bottle of retsina in the other
"Goin' a thousand miles an hour /
With the radio on"
Pulling an out-of-control load of industrial-strength creation
Bearing right down on me

I jumped to the right
He swerved to the left
Jackknifed, the rolled over, skidded fifty yards
Fell off the side of Mt. Olympus
(It's a good thing for him he is a dying-and-reborn sort of god)

Laded in the middle of the galaxy below
And that was how the Milky Way crumbled.

I do this run once a week but today I feel like I am running away from something. But as I run I don't feel I'm getting away from anything.

Yesterday my acupuncturist told me that my allergies are due to a confusion in my body between the internal and the external.

I guess you can't run away from what's internal, that's the difference. But if they are confused, then am I carrying what's outside, inside?

A monk had come to visit a master and spent some time studying Zen. When he was preparing to leave, the master asked, "See that boulder? Is it inside our outside your mind?" The monk has learned the Buddha's doctrine that everything is a creation of the mind, so he said, "Inside my mind." "Well then," said the master, "I don't envy you on your journey, carrying that big rock in your head!"

I keep running, trusting to the alchemy of motion.

Today's exercise: write a George Carlin memorial poem, using the famous seven words: shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits

Ikkyu, my favorite zen lunatic
wrote poetry about his cock
and about kissing his lover's cunt
he would wear his priests robes when he went to the brothels to fuck the whores
shocked many, enlightened some -
for his sins they made him abbot of one of
Kyoto's great temples

was he a wise man? or a profane motherfucker?

another zen master once said that buddha is
a stick covered in shit
this doesn't make much sense
out of context:

monk and master walking by the outhouse
maybe overwhelmed by the smell of piss
monk asked what is buddha
master points at first thing he sees, a stick for stirring ashes into the shit to make fertilizer,
says a shit-covered stick

sacred? profane?

when you were a baby
you and your dad both liked your mother's tits
but for different reasons
and if your sainted mother wasn't a cocksucker
then I feel sorry for your dad

sacred? profane?

if you think there's a difference
you miss the mark
hell has two versions
one full of filth
one antiseptic and dead and lifeless

life is dirty and squishy
sex and childbirth will both
make the sheets a mess

I am an expert in belief
I can believe six impossible things before breakfast
I believe in
the essential goodness of man
the Easter Bunny, the Mothman,
six different theories about UFOs
the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum theory
the forgiveness of sins
the existence of honest politicians
that light is both a wave and a particle
astrology, palmistry, the Tarot, the I Ching, angels, auras, cosmic vibrations, mystical visions
the headlines of the New York Times
and the moral purity of rock and roll music

So when she said she loved me
Yes
I believed

George Carlin's death has been in the news all week. Rightly so - as Jon Stewart said, I'm tired of people we need leaving us.

I remember when I was 16 or 17 and had my wisdom teeth out, my mom brought me home a couple of Carlin videotapes (remember those?) to help take my mind off the pain. (My mom, I should note, rules - a very nice lady who would never use the sort of language Carlin was famous for, but is still hip enough to get his stuff.) I had seen his stuff on Saturday Night Live reruns, but this was the first time I'd seen him all uncensored. Maybe it was the pain drugs, but gods, it was funny.

A few weks ago - a few days before FSG - I was sitting zazen one night before going to bed. Pretty tired, I was almost nodding off, then catching myself to stay awake. And in one moment, just as I started to fall asleep and caught myself, I heard the weirdest phrase inside my head:

"I'm not here to defend the bookmobile."

I have no idea what that means. I hadn't seen or thought about a bookmobile in ages. And why would one need defending? Against whom or what?

Zelda's Inferno exercise for June 22: freewrite on the phrase "She told me God spoke to her and I believed her"

She told me God spoke to her and I believed her. But then I try to believe six impossible things before breakfast, so I've had lots of practice. I believe in the essential goodness of man, the Easter Bunny, the Mothman, six different theories about UFOs, the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum theory, the forgiveness of sins, the existence of honest politicians, that light is both a wave and a particle and something emitted from the eye, astrology, palmistry, the Tarot, the I Ching, angels, auras, cosmic vibrations, mystical visions, Bigfoot, the headlines of the New York Times, and the moral superiority of rock and roll to country music. So God speaks to you? Sure.

She told me God spoke to her and I believed her. God spoke to me, in the wind, in every sunbeam, in the mingled scent of sea air and piss, in the dance of trees before the thunderstorm, in the dusting of freckles on the shoulder of the pretty redhead ahead of me in line for coffee...and why would She speak only to me?

She told me God spoke to her and I beleived her. 'Cause I'm a sucker like that. She told me God told her I needed to give her $5,000 in small unmarked bills, and I believed her. She told me God spoke to her of a great tribulation, of the fire to come, and how only a few would be spared, and I believed her. She told me God spoke to her of death and destruction and the salvation of True Beleivers who Gave All for The Cause, and I believed her. Sucker.

I saw the luckiest deer in the state of Maryland today, on the way home from FSG. Saw him run from the median strip across four lanes of traffic into the woods and was unscathed. (And I suppose he must have run across he other four lanes to get into the median in the first place.)

Tonight's Zelda's Inferno exercise: a free write on "why don't you have a Christmas tree?" (random phrase from today's New York Times)

I don't have a christmas tree because it's june. But I don't have a christmas tree in December, either - cutting down a tree just doesn't seem celebratory to me.

And of course I don't have a Christmas tree because I don't do Christmas, don't do the whole Christianity thing.

Why don't you have a Christmas tree? Why don't you have a cup of tea? Why don't you have an orgasm? Why don't you have a better idea? Why don't you have a heart attack? Why don't you have a six foot tall blow-up Godzilla doll? Why don't you have a nice day? Why don't you have chills up and down your spine? Why don't you have a photograph of your own gall bladder? Why don't you have your homework? Why don't you have a birthmark shaped like the letter Z in 16 point bold Helvetica? why don't you have a cup of tea? Help yourself.