Author’s Note: I wrote this over the weekend. I delayed sending it out this morning with the expectation that they would dial it back or at least pause. Oh well . . . .

– Marlow

Stewpot Images of The Voodoo Two

It started during last year’s summer heat wave during the mirage of an endless summer. At first they yapped in the stillness of their open, non-air raid shelters, as they both smoked cigarettes. The older one drank coffee while the younger fine scotch.

The older one moved into retirement during the early winter, while a colorful and even older one replaced him. The younger one stayed. Now that beginning seems like eons ago, that last innocent summer month of 2016 when people could choose to worry about or ignore global warming, or bask in it, unaware that before the end of the following summer they would be worrying about the end of the world.

The younger of the two particpants has been living in a luxury bubble amidst an exploded landscape since he was born. The other was born and raised in the lap of luxury in the middle of the most expansive luxury bubbled city in the world. Each believes that he has a place to situate himself in this business. Perhaps they both feel that things need some shaking.

Is our future full of murder

Things seems sliding in all directions

Must we hope there won’t be nothing

Nothing we can measure like a blizzard

Will we hear the cracking of the ancient western code

When our private lives suddenly explode

Grisly phantoms surely await us in shadow fires along the road

One seems guided by some ancient myth from the heavens. Is he ruled by some destiny birthmark on his skin? The other relies on the beauty and plenty of his weapons. Both feel the need to rub other’s face in his beliefs. Meanwhile we sheep stand idly by other’s blood, softly humming a Cohen tune.

May everyone live

And may everyone die

Hello, neighbors

And our world, Goodbye

Perhaps human brain cells associated with anxiety and crazy begin to die as we get older. We don’t know if these cells’re dead in these two, but we should pray that they are they’re ailing.

“Where would you like to . . . ?”

“Die?”

“That’s the word I was looking for.”

“In that bed would be nice.”

——————–

Wall Street has always been during my lifetime a scene of intense commercial activity. Pennsylvania Avenue has been one of extreme politics. But the airwave byways between DC and Pyongyang recently seem to be populated with a lot of little stalls where worn, bootleg insults by the boxload are hawked and peddled to the masses for a dollar apiece.

Media coverage gives it a bazaar feeling where intense, alarming boastful exchange takes place between competing stall owners. Nighttime bomber fly-bys, artillery shells, rocket attacks . . . even annihilation seems an available option for sale. Cheap. I am not so sure annihilation is not possible. It just seems so mutual, blasé, and available to both parties.

This boulevard is one of illusions. It is chockful of all the deceptions their words bring, deceptions that become crueler as we get age, since we oldsters know from experience that when they appear in real form they are beyond all imaginable horror.

These airwave byways seem to the unaware as long ago mythical streets stalked by giants, desire, combat and death, while we the ordinary live lives in the embrace of our children, or the kiss of our beloved, or the hum drum daily experiences in which we are dissolved. Sadly none of us commoners know moment to moment when we might be plucked from our peaceful lives and thrust into the maelstrom of a momentary miscalcuation along these byways.

————————————

The Voodoo Two continued to hurl pin point insults at one another across a pacific ocean since my last post. They seem to have an inexhaustable supply of pins. One has a wide variety of civilization ending weapon systems behind the pins he’s been pitching while the other may or may not have a few or so.

It reminds me of the public throw downs during the 1980s between local big city rappers. These are not the ones where the rappers talked about which artist had best beat or top record sales or chart hits. No, these ongoing rap squabbles are about two things:

“He’s Not Real” or a quest for authenticity. Which one was truly living and repesenting what they spoke about in their verbal graffitti? This is more than just about face or its loss. These current existential death rap throw downs demand that the speaker actually be willing to live with the consequences of the deeds promised by their words. I think they both fail on this count.

Numbers Don’t Lie. Do you have what you need to back up what you say? Advantage the dotard. Is rocket man vainly counting some back up support from his Xi-boy? Perhaps.

The Voodoo Two

It was the 13th day of the crisis’s 13th month
Nothing was working, Voodoo Two were Twitter drunk
It was Friday, late at night
Nothing at all seemed quite right

Hey, hey, people, well, this stuff don’t play
Korean folks starvin, they’re about frayed away
Hey, hey, what now, maybe China’s leverage is shot
We’re all tied up together in a misery knot

We ain’t dancing, got no tango feet
Are rockets are flying towards Guam’s Gun Street
Now no one knows what we oughta do
We’ve lost our minds, Koreans, Chinese too

So what now, folks, they’ve cornered themselves with us too
Can we find a way outta this hoodoo stew?
Without some magic we won’t pull through
Don’t want a world burning with fever from the Voodoo Two

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