s. a. griffin


Choose To Be Stupid

In the fat wild moment beats the unquenchable Yes, the untamable elusive big bang miracle of life with every breath we take. What a nice idea to believe in the windfall flowering beauty of the present, I wish I could. That will always remain my great failure as it remains the Achilles' core of what we are as a collective - you can't believe what you don't experience with the senses. A bit like buying a used car without a test drive. The happy birthday of faith - make a wish, blow out the candles, but don't burn yourself. The human race shares in the great shame and consequent guilt of not having the ability to know a damned thing, spending countless resources of time and money trying to buy their way into some sort of security under the guise of religion and rampant consumerism. The daring ineptitude of that dear denial that leaves us stymied within our ogling ignorance. Acceptance unacceptable. If you don't know what it is, if it don't look, sound, smell or act like you; then by the fucking gods you must then either kill it, fuck it, or both. The corrupting paternity of the shadow factory love machine inside the neon whorehouse of hope. The sucking sound of the overlord corporate will that drives the woof and whir of technology and spins the idea wheel of the great divine source that supposedly never fails, shaming us into believing that failure is verboten. We fall for it like sad clowns in pratfall ha ha big top logic and the song remains the same. If you get your ass kicked, don't bother coming home 'cause you'll get your ass kicked anyway. Dysfunctional dildo hype that manufactures nostalgia like junk inviting the masses to mainline a future that will never be. I really don't like myself very much, and I fucking hate it when I sound too much like some pontificating pessimist, so here's a rose : we are that divine thing and we are, if nothing else, champions of failure. Dig the thorns. Celebrate failure, it truly is what we do best. Our greatest failure is not believing or understanding that we will never know a damned thing really, and it's all right, so ride the wild surf. You will figure out how to shoot the tube in the process. Quit trying to catch random fly balls in the field of dreams and build yourself a flying machine that will take you to the other side of wherever it is you wish to go, but you gotta fall. Welcome pain. The mathematics of success count on failure. Takes a lot of bullshit to grow a happy flower. Within the decomposing fist of failure is the composition of success, the secret garden. You can only go as high as you are willing to fall. Yet we insist upon perpetuating the bogus lightening of some easy street success, spreading our happy horseshit out to the stars, nuclear with no remorse. The clone grown future world of tall thin human things with bowling ball brain, gills for sucking poison gases and genetically choreographed stick figure bulimic space strut to keep us grounded. Seems more and more apparent that in the virtual tomorrowland of holographic mindfuck, life will be more or less an indoor sport. A no-brainer with no cock or cunt confusion to spoil the cake. Delicious conflict gone, most human element, missing. Flat line : death. To not know is to be radiant, alive. Eat rejection. Choose to be stupid. The search is, and has been underway for new worlds to adopt, other galaxies to consume. The race is on to pollute the coming centuries with our banners and endless systems of what we think we know; yet if we could be here now, this world would be a paradise of unconditional love, transforming this dungeon of doubt into a heaven on Earth. A nice idea. As in theological myth, it seems that indeed, the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, we just know too much for our own damned good. Timeless dogma has big teeth that bite hard, and so it seems, we may never learn. So then, let's take our human prom extraterrestrial and leave this steaming hunk of familiar bitter earth for the overworked mechanics to repair, shit for genetically engineered maggots from the wizards at Monsanto. Wiggling white things programmed to devour, creatures incapable of reproduction, only perennial function. Because once we're all done with it, the Earth dies burning... which in the end, will always be our greatest success, our failure to save the humans. The outlaw ethic of endless unthinkable naming to do as we continue to play into the virtuoso good ideas and voluptuous language that play us like a violin. The sonic sound of progress which will someday boom and tumble into the silence of another coming. The deafening Apocalypse of human ego. Bang a drum. Embrace the form and figure of imagination, accept blindly the unrequited kiss of time without end, for it loves you madly forever and a day. How else may we see ourselves inside the fun house of mirrors? The outside velocity of the present, provides no choices, yet practice makes perfect... keep your eye on the ball. If you watch long enough, the horsehide will hang suspended and there will be nothing but choice. It is all in the way you look. Walk sideways, know your own rhythm and nobody can fuck with you. Sooner or later, the benevolent superman of the sun and the sheer magnetic beauty of the moon will take you there in their own sweet season; so just kick back, relax and enjoy the ride, don't hurry love. Don't worry about everybody else's good time and have your own. The ordinary stars are waiting for you.

'60 Cadillac Coupe
'60 Cadillac Coupe

click to view
s.a.'s bust of bukowski
collage by s a griffin
sabillboardsm.jpg - 11085 Bytes
Billboard at the corner of Hillhurst

Sunset & Hollywood Blvds.
in Los Angeles, August 2002
Poem by S.A. Griffin
photo by Jesse Hopkins.

3.09.2000 - s. a. griffin

s.a. griffin
green hills memorial park - march 9. 2000

S.A. Griffin is a crash vampire living in Los Angeles. He is a Cadillac wrangling son of the Lone Star State. His mother was Venus on the halfshell, and his father was a used car salesman. He is rhythm and oxygen.

"If you want good head, you gotta give the best." me

books03.gif - 331 Bytes

Unborn AgainWalking Thru the Apocalypse
click for more info

You got the need, we got the weed!
tumbleweed in a box .com

grafitti messageboard

interview | book review w/baskinski | website | email | to forum | BACK
© 1998-2003 s.a. griffin / the-hold.com - all rights reserved
[ TOP ]