Alone In My Bed

I wake on this gray morning
Alone in my bed
The sky outside
A light gray
Not cold outside
Winter no more
No need to get of bed__
Pull up the duvet
Not for warmth
But comfort
I feel the urge
To look at the news on my cell
To see the horror of this world
Not a first hand witness or bystander__
Everything bad
Distant
Far from my bed
And its warmth__
At one point
I will break out this cocoon of comfort
Knowing what to expect
America joining the genocide
No longer just arming Zion
Dropping bombs
Everywhere
Killing Iran's leaders and people
Tens and thousands to appease Zion's blood lust
To divert any need to answer
Questions about pedophilia
To protect a corrupt president
And his pedophile clan__
I would rather lie in bed
Hoping it and they all went away
But not today and not tomorrow
But one the sun will shine again
And 'they' will be gone
Dead in prison or in exile
Good riddance__
Time to rise
The revolution does sleep
It does so awake
Dreaming the dream
Of freedom__

Now More Than Ever

Before Alexander Graham Bell

The term telephone was adopted into the vocabulary of many languages. It is derived from the Greek: τῆλε, tēle, "far" and φωνή, phōnē, "voice", together meaning "distant voice" according to Wikipedia. Prior 10 March 1876 when Alexander Graham Bell called out over his invention, the liquid transmitter, to his assistant, "Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.", all dialogues between humans had been conducted within ear shot or shout.

Nowadays telephones permit same-time conversations across the globe. In Asia in the 1990s calling back to the States required placing orders at the local GPO through an overseas operator. Messages were delayed seconds. Interference and electronic feedback were accepted flaws in the system was normal.

Come the second decade of the 21st Century and in one day I speak with my wives in Thailand, my brother Mawee in Loitokitok, Kenya, old friends in Paris, London, and Rome as well as all parts of the Americas and Hawaii. At least until last Thursday when I stepped on my cellphone.

Crunch.

A drop on tile had previously spidered the screen.

My cellphone resisted all attempts to restore service.

For all purposes it was dead, although the flashlight worked fine.

TMobile offered the option of buying another phone and still have to pay for the damaged device. I tried to connect with old burners. No success and on Friday I opted to order another from my server's insurance company and the agent warned that delivery was scheduled for Monday or Tuesday at the latest.

Four to five days without calls, social media, or texting.

An eternity in the Age of Instant Gratification.

Wikipedia claimed that in 2002, only 10% of the world's population used mobile phones and by 2005 that percentage had risen to 46%. By the end of 2009, there were a total of nearly 6 billion mobile and fixed-line telephone subscribers worldwide. On July 28, 2023 I was not one of them. I existed outside the Matrix and I felt good. Actually I felt better than good. I felt free. My seconds, minutes, and hours were my own. This was my first time without a cellphone since the late 90s in Bangkok. I could still write emails and messages on my iPad, but that was it, almost as if Alexander Graham Bell had never said those words to Mr. Watson in 1876. Everyone else in the world were trapped in the present ticking second by second into a digital future by the Cell Towers of Babble.

Free at last. Free at last.

The Ghost Town Of Anarchy

During the last debate Donald Trump called New York City a ghost town.

Having lived here in the 1970s I refuted the pseudo-POTUS.

The Big Orange doesn't know shit from Shinola.

I admit the city blacked out in 1977.

I had a good time that night, drinking with my gay friends and trying to smash Fiorucci's window to snatch a gold lame Elvis Suit.

Only twenty-five I easily outran the security.

The city was burning in the Bronx, Harlem, and the Lower East Side.

Sin was worshipped in Times Square.

This was our city, but it was never a ghost town and neither is New York now.

I am an anarchist. I only put only dog on a leash.

Pom Pom.

We lived two blocks from Mare-De-Lardo and nowhere is more a ghost town than Palm Beach after dark.

Duane Hanson statue guarding art.

The beach.

My godson wasn't scared of the ghosts of Palm Beach nor those anywhere else in the world.

Trump doesn't love anarchists and threatened New York and Portland with a cut-off of federal funds.

As a life-long anarchist I say, "FUCK YOU. No more years." and I like living in a ghost town.

I might drink in the 169 bar alone, but one day we will dance again.

The ghosts of anarchy are voting all day-long.

Today I exercised my right and cried seeing the old Sistahs of the Hat struggling to cast their votes, dressed as if they were were going to church.

They know the battle is on.

For our children.

VOTE all you Ghost Town Anarchists.

Peace Love and Happiness. ps my old dog Champoo was also an anarchist.

And a ghost along with Pom Pom.

But I love both ghosts and anarchists.

We are the future of the greatestd city in the Solar System.

Seven Months of Limbo

 

In 1977 I left Boston for New York.

I stayed until 1982.

Paris was my next stop.

I traveled the world over the next thirty years.

The Yucatan, the Luberon, Asia, Africa, South America.

Now due to the Covid-19 pandemic I am imprisoned in New York without any chance of escape by plane, train, car, foot, or ship like I have been sentenced to minimum-security prison without any parole in sight. I am not alone. Millions of us are locked down by a government without any solution to this crisis. I want to go to Europe. I want to see my children in Thailand. I want to be free.

None of are now.

Prisoners.

When will we see freedom again?

When we all dance together?

One day we will be able to say tomorrow.

BERENTI MISTAH by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1991 I bought a round-the-world ticket for $1399 from Pan Express. The owner set up a magical itinerary.

"New York - LA - Hawaii - Biak - Bali - overland to Jakarta." John recited the trip from memory, since he sold hundreds of these tickets every year.

"What do you mean 'overland to Jakarta'?" Their advertisement in the NY Times offered a flight between Bali and Jakarta.

"Oh, sir." The Hindi travel agent produced an Indonesia brochure extolling the volcanic beauty of Mount Bromo, ruined temple of Borobuder, and ancient palaces of Yogakarta. "Many people prefer to travel overland to see the sights of Java of which there are many. I will reserve you a flight from Jakarta to Padang."

"Padang?"

"Yes, sir, in Sumatra." Another brochure praised the cultural heritage of the Batak, the awe of Lake Toba, and the jungle paradise of the orangutang reserve. "You fly out of Medan to Penang and Malaysia and overland to Bangkok."

"Let me guess." I was falling into step with the program. "Most people do this overland."

"Yes, sir. What are you going to do on the trip?" Hindi are a curious people and John was no exception.

"I'm writing a novel." NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD was a story about a hustler forced into a contract murder of a porno producer by dirty NYPD cops and who avoids violating the 5th Commandment by escaping into the desert with two lesbians filming a movie about the last man on Earth. John didn't need to know the plot. Hindi men were in some ways very curious about sex.

"Oh, sir, I must warn you that many countries in Asia do not like writers, especially journalists."

"I'm not a journalist." My typing was atrocious and my grammar was even worse.

"Whatever you do, do not tell anyone you are a writer." His head bobbed side to side like a broken bobbing dolls. "The police do not like journalists in Asia."

"I'll keep that in mind."

John was 100% correct about overlanding across Java.

I saw the dawn from the rim of a volcano, met the sultan of Yogakarta, drove up to the vertiginous heights of the Dieng Plateau, endured the scorching equatorial sun riding a motorcycle around Lake Toba and watched male orangutang masturbate without shame. The females shunned the jerk-offs. I arrived at the Medan airport for the flight to Penang. The police spotted my typewriter. I

"Berenti, mistah.

"Saya?" I had learned a little Bahasa in three months.

"Yes, you." A short pineapple-skinned officer nodded and his two uniformed compatriots pulled me from the line. The other passengers smiled with relief, happy to not be me. The police sat me in their very official office and the head officer asked, "Journalis?"

The trio wore grim faces. A single overhead fan wobbled in its socket. The chair was nailed to the floor.

"Tidak journalis. Penulis buca." I claimed the higher status than journalist.

"You write books? About what?" The lead interrogator leaned forward with a metal sap in his hand.

"About the mafia. Porno. Hollywood." I was one smack away from squealing the truth about any crime dating for Adam's eating an apple .

"Hollywood?" The three cops intoned the word with sanctity normally reserved for Allah. Indonesia was 90% Muslim.

"Yes, Hollywood." I followed the lead and told them about how JFK was killed by the CIA. They spoke about the betrayal of Sukarno by the present dictator. A bottle of Johnny Walker Black hit the desk. Red is beneath them. We drank toasts to freedom.

"Beraka," I spoke every language with a Boston accent.

Whiskey in hot weather was a hard slog. It was getting late and I asked the chief officer, "So I missed my flight, how do I get to Penang?"

"You didn't miss your flight. We held the plane. One more drink and kamu boleh pergi."

"To whiskey." Without it the Irish would have ruled the world.

The police drove me to the waiting plane. The other passengers were gobsmacked by re-appearance from the belly of the beast and even more so by the power fist salute of the police.

"Beraka."

It was a small world after all.

Assata For Freedom

Resistance is not futile.