Once in a Blue Agave Moon: The Introduction

(Please think of this as a prelude to present the mindset of the central character, Elliott Monroe, although depending upon how one interprets these concepts, that which separates sedition from the ability to recognize the inevitable or what could easily follow are as thin as your likelihood of exercising those rights (as determined by a jury of your peers), without the threat of arrest, prosecution and imprisonment for attempting to do so.)

Even just as research. Although our government is not allowed to track url’s of its citizens in domestic internet traffic, because a tweet to your neighbor across the street from you may go by way of a server outside our territorial limits, PRISM will allow them the legal right to monitor it.

Whenever we fail to be able to separate the artist from his(her) art, the artist will inevitably suffer, as well as the art.

Introduction
Taxation is much more than just a revenue-generating income source for government. It can be used to stimulate the economy, or stifle run-away inflation for instance, but perhaps most importantly, it establishes a precedence which predisposes the general public to accepting an unnatural and intrusive level of control of many activities of daily life, especially of those who are predisposed to exercise their rights of self-determination…

…that do not need or want a parental, intrusive and condescending government determined to undermine even the very concept of possessing a Right to Privacy (remember Supreme Court  Nominee Robert  Bork?)
The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms is a near-perfect example. In one strategically well-placed blow, three of the most elemental and seductive preoccupations of many Americans is placed under the control and scrutiny of one single government agency.
(I just went to the ATF website and discovered that they had expanded their turf, and were now the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives….)
Everybody wants to get on the Anti-Terrorism bandwagon. It is a great platform for  obtaining power and money.

And it was only natural for ATF to assume control of this venue, and very smart in terms of being eligible for more revenues, powers, jurisdiction, and funding, and in fact they are most likely to be the best source of knowledge and experience in all of those fields.

You can’t blame anyone for trying; after all, the only thing that is required for evil to prevail is for (anyone) of good conscience to stand aside and do nothing.

And as in any government agency, its all about turf, funding, and as broad and expansive a range of legislated powers as you can get away with convincing the public you need to protect them…even from themselves.
Why? Taxation is the obvious answer, but in reality, it strikes at the core of a concept that needs to be challenged, namely that what people do in the privacy of their own homes without causing harm to others is NOT somehow the government’s business.
If the lead taken by the state of California, as well as several other states continues, then Marijuana will face a fate similar to courtship in terms of the government’s control of it.

After an appropriately long (or short) period of time, once the expressions of intension are pronounced, it is only a matter of time before somebody gets fucked, which means the DEA will undoubtedly take control of yet another tax windfall and even more unreasonable control of the population. And once they do legalize it, you can be sure that they will insist on controlling it.
Law-abiding citizens are allowed to produce a limited amount of wine or beer each year in the privacy of their own homes, as long as they do not sell it to anyone else, but legally, not even one drop of distilled ethanol can be produced, even to make tinctures for health, beauty or culinary purposes for one’s own private use.

Not for sale, or barter.

Now, if one wants to produce ethanol for the purpose of fuel for their own transportation, one can get a license to do so. Several states also provide for licensing of “small-batch” operations for personal consumption, but they invite self-incrimination and subsequent federal prosecution if they do.
The problem here is the same as that faced by any of us who were so naïve as to believe that if we wanted to go through the necessary bureaucratic paperwork and intrusions, that we could be legally licensed to either sell or purchase firearms, up to and including full-automatic weapons.
Those who did apply quickly learned that the government by way of the ATF(&E?), has the right to without warning or warrant invade the homes and places of business of the license-holder for the purpose of inspection and search of said facilities to check the security and storage of said items and ammunition.
In the case of discovery of any other types of contraband, the principle of the Fruit of the Poison Tree does not apply, thereby granting governmental agencies Carte Blanche circumvention of the Bill of Rights concerning “unreasonable search and seizure” and “habeas corpus”.
Applications for legal licensing of ethanol production invite similar harassment from the Feds, involving incredible scrutiny and audit. For those interested in “craft distillery,” this starts to take all the fun out of it.
If you are not selling it either wholesale or retail, why the taxation, even if only of our spirits and patience?
There are currently over two hundred branches of the government afforded the powers of arrest as well as the ability to carry and use lethal force.

Too many are just tax collectors with guns.
The various state and federal Departments of Wildlife, Fish and Wildlife, Forestry Services, Fish and Game,  have similar powers, under very specific instances, as does the Department of Children and Family Services, except for the fact that the DCF simply uses law enforcement officers to accomplish their circumvention of the Bill of Rights, who are directed to act under their orders.
We are as free a society as the government allows us to be.
With the general relaxation of prosecution for possession of small amounts of marijuana for personal consumption in many states and certain municipalities, one is more likely to be subject to cruel and unusual punishment for any quantity of unlicensed, untaxed alcohol, and if said individual is unfortunate enough to be linked to its production, you might as well be a smack dealer.

Up to $250,000, and/or up to five years imprisonment.
This is more than a trifle ironic, since alcohol is a legal drug, while marijuana is usually not…at least not yet, and not in Florida…yet. At whatever point when and how it is legalized, it will undoubtedly become a federal as well as state tax issue, subject to the control and scrutiny of the government.

It now takes an act of Congress to allow its citizens to exercise their rights.

I will say it again…We are as free a people as the Government allows us to be.

And once we are “given” a right, it will be regulated and taxed by the government. If you want to put our rights up to question, just refer to them as a privilege.

Sometimes I think that the government is trying to take over the country.

Perhaps you can see where this is headed….

Namasté
नमस्ते
Chazz Vincent

05/23/2016

 

 

 

Thought for Sunday, May 22nd, 2016: Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut…

Sometimes you are.

Namasté
नमस्ते
Chazz Vincent

Favorites #10

When I Read Your Words I Feel So Naked

(He is history, she is the source of all creation)

Breathlessly,
In my mind
I imagine you are there beside me
naked too,
and on my right
sitting behind me
whispering each word
into my ear as I read you
silently.
I hear each sibilance
as it passes your teeth
each plosive syllable
as it pops from between
your moistened lips,
every affricative
formed between tooth and lip,
the F’s escaping
like some intoxicating vapor,
the V’s and Z’s buzzing
and waving their stingers.
I feel you breathing in my ear.
I feel your hair
against my neck and shoulders
as your nipples brush
against my arms and back.
You turn a phrase as if each word
is your own tongue
licking and flicking
inside my ear.
A tongue so long it slithers and slides
all the way
inside my brain,
and coils up like a snake,
(if only snakes could wink
and smile)…
A soft metaphor
lays a gentle hand
upon my thigh
as similes
slowly drag
their nails upwards
while you tickle
my fancy
with innuendos
that hint at promises
unspoken
almost too good
to be true
anywhere but here.
This thing we do with words…
And yet I do not even know
the color of your hair,
be it blonde
or brown,
chestnut,
red,
or even black
as raven’s wing.
I try to picture you in my mind.
Full of figure,
slender,
tall
or short,
dark
or pale
or
something in between…
It matters not,
I realize,
just now
because it
is not
the way you look
that seduces me
so boldly
and provocatively
with subtlety
and grace
as you coyly undress my mind
with words
that conjure
feelings,
passion,
and desire
as yet untasted,
so rigid
and yet so flexible
and willing to be led,
or rather
pulled
the way the moon
will raise the tides
time after time.
Forever.
Now.
You draw me
to a bed
of words
both soft and firm
and lay me down
to wallow in your
imagery,
impaled upon
my imagination…
This thing we do with words…
I wonder how your voice will sound
if ever you should speak to me.
Will it be soft?
or
with an edge
as keen
as the arrows
of a huntress
who shoots straight through the heart,
but only takes what she consumes?
Perhaps a husky whiskey voice
deep,
yet darkly feminine,
or maybe
high and clear
like a fairy’s song
as wood nymph
or siren
might use to call
and conjure
spells
like those that you have cast
on me.
These things we do with words,
my friend
and lover
of confidences
together,
implied
as well as
inferred.
A union of souls and spirits
incapable of jealousies
or possessiveness,
giving freely and taking gratefully
in this world we’ve made
of our own
where writer and reader
alike
slake our cravings, lusts
and passions…
to be heard and understood.
To lead each other
to a place beyond mere words alone,
where there is only knowing.
This thing we do with words….
Like a reciprocated Kiss,
…the only kind of Snowball
that has a chance in Hell,
we pass our words
and images
and idea(l)s
back and forth
between us now,
The Union of the Woman and the Man.
The Union of the Writer and the Reader.
The Union of Truth and Wisdom.
The Union of the Word and the Idea.
The Union of the Idea and the Understanding.
The Union of the Understanding and the Enlightenment.
The Union of Giving and Receiving
freely without conditions or reservation.
What is Love?
You already know…
This is Love.
Pass it on
wherever you go.
The more you give
The more you will have.
Wear it like Sunshine
on your face
so I will know you
instantly
if we should ever meet,
even
if it takes a thousand lifetimes.

Favorites #9

俳句…(Valentine Haiku for Suki)

Others come and go
but here and now we remain
I love you always.
Swimming against tides,
Tsukimono-suji please
“Nāsu Witchi” heal.
A mere foolish man,
I stand before you loving
all you are and do.
Winter storms be gone
Better comes as bitter goes
Spring brings warm soft breeze.
Many seasons pass
bamboo and pine grow in Spring
Love grows every day.

Favorites #8

We are All here for a Reason

Of course.
In the universal sense
this is always true,
but herein I refer to my
Cabin in the Woods,
a trailer park of Lost Souls
far enough off the beaten path
to render solitude,
anonymity,
or perhaps even forgiveness
to all who enter here.
***
Commercial fishermen
who drink a little too much
for their former spouse’s liking,
with restraining orders
and children they can no longer visit.
Here,
everyone is somebody else’s
ex-something-or-other.
Recycled hopes and dreams
and
households financed
by disability checks
and structured settlements,
where rainbow children
of every shade and hue
play in the yard
with pit-bull dogs
that are part of the family
beside a car on blocks
that Mama’s boyfriend
is gonna fix someday
after he gets up
from his nap.
***
Disabled Viet Nam veterans
with hidden wounds that
will never heal,
tattoos and scars
or maybe a limp,
nightmares
that never end,
and that
thousand-yard stare
that betrays the pain
they never willingly show.
***
Widows and spinsters
who live for their flower gardens
and cats
to replace the children
who never call or visit,
the husband who died
or ran away,
or the gentleman caller
that never showed up.
***
Divorcee’s
whose husbands
fucked
their best friend,
their sister,
or even
their daughter
or who couldn’t
stand to be left alone
when their husbands
went to work too long
while the cable was off.
***
Rock stars who fell to earth.
Fallen Angels
with burnt wings.
Porn actresses
from the
Nineties
who knew Ron Jeremy
on more than just a first-name basis,
and have the videos to prove it.
…and so much love to give…
(if only
you can just
pierce her armor),
their hearts
melt like butter in the sun
if you simply befriend them
without agenda
or guile,
because they’ve heard it all before,
and they’ve done it all before
in the name of fame and fortune,
but just for once,
if they could do it all over again
for Love,
they’d
do it all over you.
***
Enough Ink on skin
between them all
to write
War and Peace
in longhand.
There’s a story
for every tattoo
and all the time in the world
to tell each one of them,
with nothing better to do.
***
Their combined tears
could drown the
Lake of Fire,
and yet they still prefer to laugh,
and gladly share
their Nothingness,
their time,
their weed
or booze
or dope
or bodies
like philanthropic millionaires.
***
Misery doesn’t just
love company,
it thrives on it
and makes them stronger
than
most of the privileged
crybabies
I knew
in better times
and more prosperous days.
***
This place
where I have landed
is more like
a campground
for refugees
driven from their
homelands
by
“the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune…”
who refuse to die
and can’t really seem to win,
but continue to try.
(That’s what the Lotto is for.)
***
These walls are so thin
on these foil-covered
cardboard boxes
we call home;
there can be no secrets
between us,
but no shortage
of excuses,
denials
or lies
told mostly for their own benefit
as we wander
on the tar-clad paths
between
these aluminum tents
like spaced-out
space-age Indians
with permanent
reservations
about their temporary domiciles.
***
Home is where
the Art is.
Life is what
you make
of what you get.
And Love
is everywhere,
running like a river
of blood
in the streets
flowing
from all the broken hearts
that have ever lived
or ever will.

Favorites #7

Who Am I? (revisited)

I am I.
I am You.
I am One.
I am All.
I am Nothing.
All is Impermanence.
All is Folly.
Even the coming and goings
are an illusion
created within the mind.
No inside.
No outside.
No mind.
Before ideas,
before thoughts,
before words
there is only this.
Just this.
Only this.
Just like this.
Who am I?
What is my one true face
before my parents were born?
What is the Truth?
Twice daily
water flows
in and out of the lagoon
where fish swim.
Is this the only truth?
You already know.
Before thoughts,
before words,
put everything down.
The comings and goings,
Inside and outside,
All is illusion,
All is Impermanance.
Dancing in a dream of the past.
Dancing in a dream of the future.
I ride the three-hundred-mile-per-hour train
in the ever-present
never-present
present moment.
I look outside and all is a blur
but inside the car only I move.
I am I.
I am You.
I am One.
I am All.
I am Nothing.
I am the truth of one mind.
Of clear mind
Of no mind.
So simple and perfect
staring back at you
as you gaze into the mirror,
yet if you
speak one word
to describe it
you shatter the stillness
that drowns out all the words and wisdom
of all the great teachers.
Already you know.
The truth is on the tongues of every blade of grass
singing harmonies
to the wind in the pines
and waterfalls,
the sounds of lovers
or the din of traffic
and industrial motor noise alike.
More eloquent than words,
more profound than all wisdom.
Seeking the truth or enlightenment
through thoughts or words
is like trying to hit the moon with a stick,
like a dog that chases its own tail,
that wouldn’t know what to do with it.
even if it should catch it.
If you open your mouth to speak
you are only another talking monkey.
Who am I?
I am I.
I am You.
I am One.
I am All.
I am Nothing.
What is the true way?
North
South
East
or West,
all paths come back upon themselves
if only you travel far enough.
If all things return to the One
where does the One return?
Zero.
The sound of the wind in the pines
and the crashing of the waves
upon the shore
are singing
a song of Selfless Love
as shadows grow longer
while the sun moves westward.
See your one true face in mine.
Who am I?
I am I.
I am You.
I am All.
I am One.
I am Nothing.
The sound of frogs
singing at night
comes in through my window.
So simple.
So true.
How did I not hear it
for so long?
Listen.
Smile.
Give.
Love.
All the wisdom
of all possible worlds
is within you now
if you will but listen.
Everything you need
you already have.
Everything you need to be
you already are.
I am I.
I am You.
I am One.
I am All.
I am Nothing.
Be here now.
Be nowhere.
Be now here.
Birds swim through oceans of fire,
while stone angels fly
and
fish dance
to songs
sung by
the rocks
as mansions of sand
crumble in the sky.
Just this.
Only this.
Just like this.
Who are We?
I am I
You are You.
I am You.
You are Me.
We are One.
We are All.
We Are Nothing.
Namasté
नमस्ते

Favorites #6

Casa Nostra

I died in your arms that night,
and buried myself deeply
between your thighs
as we fucked
like it was our last night on earth
even though I’ve lived like
I thought
I would never die.
Our life together
has been a moveable feast
I call
Casa Nostra.

In a lifetime of searching
I’ve found
Meaning in Love
and Purpose
in knowing
and sharing
whatever
I can experience,
learn,
and feel,
wherever
it all shall lead me.
And when it is finished,
scatter my ashes
over
The Villa Chez Dreamland
but keep Love alive en Casa Nostra.
(Our House).
As we hang together
suspended in time and space
(to-get-her)
in that one thin moment
as we dance upon the razor’s edge
our mortality suddenly seems so much less tragic
as
our infinite intimate synchronicity
washes over us
reminding us once again
of all that which is eternal in each of us
as well as both of us.
In My Perfect World…
Casa Nostra.

En Casa Nostra
we give without regard to what we get
but we take
to serve as vessels
for the giving
from those we love
as well as those
who cannot give back
so as to give to
the Universe,
that place where
even miracles are mundane.

En Casa Nostra
we are protected
by our fearlessness
because
We may feel pain.
We may share pain,
but we do not fear
being hurt
because we trust
and we believe
that this too will
give us the strength
we need
to follow our hearts
to the Palace of Wisodm
and be prepared
to receive
Enlightenment,
Epiphany,
and boundless Joy.

En Casa Nostra
we are protected.
Our enemies may hurt us
but they probably
can’t kill us,
but if they kill us
they probably
won’t eat us
but if they eat us
they make us one with
those who would
because
they cannot destroy us.

En Casa Nostra
we take no prisoners,
preferring instead
to accept the surrender
of willing hostages
as extended family.
Casa Nostra;
a mansion with no walls
large enough to hold
a universe
in a house as intimate
as two bodies
attempting to occupy
one space
or
to become as
one beating heart.
One Mind.
No Mind.
Mu Shin.
A place where
you can see yourself
reflected in the eyes
of your eternal beloved
as we Bow to the Divine
in each other
and as adults,
nurture the eternal child
in each of us
as our children teach us
the importance
of all the things we forgot
as we grew up
en Casa Nostra.
It all starts and ends with our
Gang of Three.

Favorites #5

Our Seventy-Two Hour Honeymoon

Elope with me for a weekend
together at my villa
in Dreamland,
built on the grounds
of an abandoned test range
for nuclear sex toys,
dangerous dildos,
poison plastic peckers from China,
toxic-waste jellies
and flammable lube.
(…don’t worry, it’s safe now…
the Night Porter told me so….)
Besides,
who wants to live forever?
We can consort in feigned anonymity
like secret agents
in a room so dank with the scent
of our co-minglings
that if it could rain indoors
we’d be drenched
in a spooge monsoon.
Be my bride on Friday,
my lover on Saturday,
my Slave-girl Sunday morning
my Mistress in the afternoon.
I’ll sit on a footstool
at the end of a giant bed
as you sit there naked
on a great silver tray,
like a glorious helping of wedding cake
in a banquet hall
while I stick my tongue
between the layers
to lick out the icing
‘til my face is covered
in frosting
and you are but a puddle
of satisfaction
reflecting the Moon.
Run away with me for the weekend.
We can visit historic Key West
as seen from the inside
of a forty-dollar room.
We’ll drink rum and tequila
straight from the bottle
like smugglers
and pose for each other,
taking
pornographic pictures,
brandishing guns and knives,
wearing bandoleers
(maybe even take a hostage or two…)
We can howl like coyotes
in love with the Moon,
then blame it all on the peyote,
or maybe the ‘shrooms….
Where we will be going,
there is no room service,
leaving us
to service each other
at will.
Anything is possible at Hotel Dreamland.
I have a suite of rooms
reserved there always
and the doorman
already knows your face,
but not your name.
We can paint on the walls
like primitives
sharing stories and visions
and Satsang
and the smoke shall carry our words
straight to Heaven,
so that there shall be no lies between us.
Cum with me to Dreamland
for our honeymoon weekend.
Marry me for one weekend,
Three days of one body
one mind,
no guilt, no shame, no sin,
and no fear.
No expectations,
no disappointments.
We’ll divorce on Monday
(‘til next time.)
The Villa at Dreamland
is always right here.
It shall be my honor
to serve at your pleasure.
I’ll leave the light on
to await your return.

Favorites #4

Dharma for a Friend:
、お待ちください忍耐、お願い
You seek the Ultimate Truth.
Instead you discover the
Ultimate Void.
Matte Kudasai.
、お待ちください
This is truth
but it is not the Ultimate Truth.
Form is Form,
Emptiness is Emptiness.
Form is Emptiness,
Emptiness is Form.
No Form,
No Emptiness.
Only
The Void.
What comes next?
Madness and Magic.
Trade back your Reason for Instinct.
Matte Kudasai.
、お待ちください
A dog howls at the moon.
The sound drowns out
All the voices of all the Buddhas.
Patience please.
忍耐、お願い
Your words speak volumes
of questions seeking answer.
The earth beneath your feet
bleeds with each step you take.
You feel the pain as I feel yours.
Everything is just like this.
See yourself
as the main character
in the novel of your life
as you have written it,
as you are
in all your unselfconsciousness.
See yourself outside your ego.
Stand naked before yourself
Protecting nothing.
Defending nothing.
Justifying nothing.
Ashamed of nothing.
Embarrassed by nothing.
Embrace your self-imagined imperfections,
just as you are.
Forgive yourself of everything.
You must stand outside yourself to do this.
As you do,
ask yourself
“Who am I now?”
“Who is asking this question?”
No words can describe your understanding.
Matte Kudasai.
、お待ちください
Patience Please.
忍耐、お願い
As you stand in Dreamland
you see the detonation.
You feel the blast
as everything you knew
is blown away
by the Crown of Destruction.
In the stillness
of the void
before the backrush
of Nothing Special,
suddenly you see
everything
is exactly
as it is.
I am doing the
Ghost Dance
for you
in Dreamland.
Life Returns
all by itself.
Baraka Bashad.

Favorites #3

For Occasional Use Only as Directed…

An angel crash-landed
at Villa Dreamland’s
temporary encampment,
The Home for Wayward Souls.
Loosely clad in
terry shorts
and a satin
team jacket
with only a few of the bottom buttons
fastened,
allowing
the free-range puppies
to
wrestle and cavort
beneath its logo.
***
As I wrestled with the gatekeeper
to my realm of Velocity and Power,
she appeared
out of nowhere.
She noted we shared the same brand
and marks;
the co-conspiring
symbols
of
Speed and Mystery.
I was surprised
when I realized
it wasn’t a Raiders jacket
after all;
(as it turned out
she was a stretcher-bunny
long ago and had developed a taste
for icons and talismans that
captured my attentions….)
“What a coincidence…”
I foolishly assumed.
Part naughty tomboy,
part wood-nymph,
her long chestnut hair
was everywhere,
like a lions mane.
Her feline eyes
sparkled slightly with mischief
while she made suggestions
as to how to regain control
of my access
to time and space.
We conferred
on a few points,
concurred,
and then she
set upon the project
as if it was her own
(with my blessing
and assistance).
Clad only in a bathrobe,
my attempts to access
points below the dashboard
did not go unnoticed,
as she smiled slightly, then
sighed approvingly.
Ignition and liftoff
confirmed our success
as she began to close the case,
and I felt myself falling
yet again,
with no sign of impact
anytime soon.
***
This trailer park angel
is a newfound
neighbor,
but she quickly advised
she could not be taken for granted
and had a life of her own,
her precautionary statements
contrasting her jovial demeanor
She warned
“Take only as directed.”
“Use with caution.”
“For Occasional Use Only.”
“May be habit-forming.”
“May lead to respiratory arrest.”
(She already took my breath away once…)
***
“See ya in the post office, kiddo…”
she whispered in my ear.
(“What?”) I wondered?
“…the rogue’s gallery…
on the wall,
with the other gangsters….”
She winked playfully
and then I knew….
“You owe me one…”
she said.
“If you got the time later,
maybe you can
help me with a tune-up
I’d like to get done
before my kid gets home from school.”
“…Maybe tonight
you can even
introduce me to your wife…
tell her my name is Mata Hari
and we’ll call her Tokyo Rose…”
***
This woman of mystery,
this trailer-park tomboy angel
with slightly singed wings,
a lover of pearl necklaces,
with a need for speed
reminds me…
“In the Springtime
the rains come
and the grass
grows all by itself…”
Life returns.
Baraka Bashad.