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A pile of bottles. An empire of bottles
Each leaking spirits into the bottom of the bin
Who built this Solomon’s temple? What spirit?
Just experience
These blown bottles have left their hurts
Accepted and absorbed
With desire and cigarettes

A spirit is always in five different places
I only make it whole by talking
The way the song rings over the glasses
Lose it in a bottle
Find it in a temple

Who built this? Really,
You’ve got to tell me, gorgeous
Who built this?

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I read about monetary easing
And thought of a guy painting a house
Who didn’t give a shit.
He was mad at trans people
He didn’t think of the Fed and his paycheck
He was thinking about chicks with dicks and bathrooms
And he was caught in economic deflation
And the degraded value of his labor
And the asset inflation made him wiggle like a mosquito
in a spider’s web
And yet he’s not thinking of excess trading value
It’s all those dicks, he’s thinking to himself, wriggling around
In an invisible dance of dollars.
Being pushed from job to job, house to house
The dollar making him whip it out, I mean his money,
And buy more expensive
Cigarettes and beer and chicken and barbecue
While people laugh at his overalls
And tumescent paintbrush
“All those breasts and dicks,” he keeps thinking.

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“Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” –Melania Trump

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Clam Fake Album Cover_edited-1I hope it doesn’t seem perverse of me, but I like criticism of my creative projects. I used to be a critic and now appreciate the turnabout, which I feel is good for cleaning out any karmic havoc I might have caused. Here’s a not-entirely-positive-sounding review of my album, “Clam Fake,” my favorite line of which is “I have to hand it to de la Guerre for giving zero shits.”

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My Music Site

I am pleased to unveil the website for my music project Salon de la Guerre, now up and running at salondelaguerre.com

Check it out.

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Upon hearing a climate change denier rant today that the world’s scientists are involved in a hoax called global warming, I realized something:

The oil lobby, the gun lobby and the tobacco lobby have pretty much all worked their magic the same way: They have helpfully allowed their faithful to ignore the dark clouds of statistics and say, “You’re smarter than the numbers. You are secretly wise because you have intuition the scientists must not have. You know smokers who have lived to age 90. You heard a gun was used in self-defense. You see it is obviously snowing outside during so called climate change.” In this way they have freed you from having to apply your mind to unhappy abstractions and troubling numbers, which tell you the dice are mostly going to roll against you if you smoke, own guns or continue to burn fossil fuels. They let you believe that just by yelling “hoax” you are somehow as intellectual as people who have thought about something deeply or studied the numbers with rigor. Such lobbyists have liberated you from the pain of curiosity, empowered you to stop asking questions, freed you to see every scientist with bad news as a Cassandra, arranged in a conspiracy against you personally. By politicizing a fairly obvious problem, for fairly obvious pecuniary reasons, these lobbyists have taken an issue to you and made it about your personal identity, which, if you lost it, would make you feel helpless, cut off from the Petri dish of family and peers. And most important, these people, with their obvious motivations, tell you it’s all right to be the way you are and keep living the way you’re living. That’s a feeling more powerful than love. You will do or say almost anything they want after that.

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After you’ve painted yourself into a corner, almost brought the economy to the brink of ruin with a credit and currency crisis, and undermined the Constitution and subverted democracy to preserve your own minority value system, destroying a village to save it in a way that would make Marxist-Leninists proud, a pretty smart thing to do at this point would be to point fingers at those jackbooted thugs at the National Park Service.

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