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Channeling Bill Hicks
Contributed by
RECKON
on
Saturday, 20th August 2005 @ 11:06:15 PM in AEST
Topic:
mystical
|
Channeling Bill Hicks
(cw 1999.2000)
Bill Hicks came to America
elbowing clouds,
buffering soft mad insanity
with music and gut laughs.
Bill Hicks came to America
crooning odes to the sweetened angel Genius,
surfing black-belted over eternity's ancient lakes
and merry-go-rounds,
staring down the masterminds
for cunning applause.
He resided as a preacher,
as a poet,
as a ravaged wolf
sighing in the deepest wilderness.
He called on tomorrow to report yesterday's demise
and request advice -
After All,
what does one do with six gleaming eyeballs?
When you've seen the ocean's *****oris
swell for us
how do you polish that
and dance around your very own lips?
You dig the illegal soul buzz,
become a star warrior or
slick western outlaw.
You question it interrogate it
watch the mantras fall;
You lash out with the Original Eye
and hash out these fibrous towers of lies;
or coat your words with snazzy sugarcane lest they sting
and permanently disrupt entire belief systems in one blow.
Sword up and seek out
the sordid truth
through the madness of the world,
the madness of the fathers and mothers and secret sites,
the cave which holds dear your very own madness!
Bill Hicks courageously wandered the sins of our
forefathers,
stomping totalitarian trick-sense,
demonic crimes, put-ons for poverty ears
and subtle, naive hearts.
He looked look looked within
the darkest movie of himself;
he chased after it.
Enormous truth-bombs became boomerangs in his path.
He could taste it he could taste it -
He slipped in the back door of humanity and
valiantly spit back;
he ventured to listen with some sense that all
had been answered if one looked to find it inside -
All could be remembered,
unlearned.
They called him a comedian,
some assembling words honoring him as the greatest ever.
After All,
he was an Agent of Evolution,
Poet,
Priest,
Philosopher.
He had undoubtedly glimpsed the neon
vein-strings of the universe across his palm,
wigwagging right out in front
practically begging to be eaten,
begging to be swooning pools of pierced fog amongst firecrackers,
the feel-good scene of the misery
breathing this time:
International Applause!
So Bill adorned his lament
with words arranged just so perfectly so that
the song would bypass all fear of truth,
wisdom, spirit in its listeners.
Alive,
breathing
they were boneless and cackling,
they were patterns of harpy hair and pigtail braids
evoking joyous laughter.
They spiraled from deep-seated pain,
disappointment, anger;
but mostly Love in the Eye of Adherence -
the original seeds and gassy memories;
these endless highways and jokes;
all these new models.
Bill Hicks spoke candidly as if alone in a forest.
He uttered secrets and posed queries most punish
or trap inside for lifetimes.
The creation of an aria is a journey to behold,
and Hicks took to the sky kicking the insane machine
with chaotic blow after blow.
Every thought became an evolutionary quest,
a flower full of seeds sprinkled around closely
quartered corners:
Poet overstands the sleeping dream and explores,
roams high-pitched hallways keen to glowing
candlelight projectors,
a feast-world suffering for existence;
schizophrenic dust intertwined;
waltzing sidewinder vistas under cedar door cracks
leading to forgotten rooms with ascending vines
and outlandish divisions of the Self and
ALL are collected...
He let them go, let 'em go like smoke rings
when he hit the desert with its reportedly long-dead
illusions, punch lines and roaring bellies
hypnotized per-happenstance incrementally blind.
Bill Hicks challenged every aching syllable,
every wondrous moan.
He gave himself to the thought of timelessness
and the thought within that very thought
succumbing to rhythm.
He was not just another ranting panting black-blad comic -
he believed fiercely the human potential limitless,
the art of it ultimately.
Bill Hicks cared enough to make us laugh until it hurt.
The thing is, no matter how dangerous or discomforting the subjects,
they were awakened, soulful, beautiful.
They were manifestations of a deep and abiding
Love
that he imagined
had been invented to stick to everything,
though many had long ago forgotten.
Poet never forgets.
Will not run will not can't.
Will sing atop tree bones,
"We should! We should see!
All is not what it seems!"
Will jar the fairest beauty and bump,
relish quakes and hurricane iris with wide-eyed awe.
Will sniff true guts out
along the trail and snort every flower,
taste each ear's lobe, each nervous lip and flame.
Will memorize pulse-mazes,
the cockroach's lament;
every flat tire and holy, holy high.
Will spit into your mouth
so you can taste him.
Bill Hicks came to America
to show us the detours.
He knew what it meant to see the red fish in flight
with one's own eyes.
He memorized the recipe for an award-winning yard
and kept well-organized notes on Vaudevillain nights -
there exists a list of placebo invites
and line upon line of names.
Bill investigated the upgrades and payoffs,
even the sky itself coming down in shards.
He knew very well that the mice were blind to Van Gogh's lobe and
Global Ear
yet
kept
on
and fought the storm for the sake of a new dream new scene
some better way to be rather than a better way to pretend.
Bill Hicks came to America
to get lost in caverns with hungry bats
who can't read,
taking only thirty-two years of the age
to sanctify nights and lifetimes of timeless centuries
with funny ***** you lines and classic air guitar breezes.
"I am the door," he says.
"I am the electric glove.
I came here to chew the blues and fire the alarms,
not simply breathe."
He had the nerve and faith enough
to lay before us his soul,
his thinking brain & devilish thoughts.
This was the true mettle of his integrity
and foundation of his performance -
absolute devotion to candor.
Where the shell clowns tired of the trapeze
Bill merely held on tighter,
seeing with even sharper eye that most of the smiles weren't real.
He came to America, became America,
with no time but ever,
with nothing less than a miraculous echo,
a prayer ending with a fateful peppered plea:
AWAKEN!
He trembled and scolded for a second's worth of soil
down metal infinity throats
up from which erupted fields of ball masks and spit-shined halos.
Bill never flinched;
only raised his voice, brought the wonder of insightful jabs,
brought the note that said every heart is a doorway
and every soul a breadcrumb along the path.
"Vary the story in your dreams," he says.
"It's not the ocean, it's the sky!"
Don't
you
see
?
Our palms are maps,
our eyes portals to the Source,
our fingernails hundred dollar bills.
Kiss your dog and you'll find your cure.
Bill HIcks played from his heart, his insane humming mix
and re-stored rite;
his animated words were the show,
the imminent light and band.
Each and every syllable, gesture, and shadowy groove
on caravan rocket-ride along the prickly purple horizon
at the edge
of vast and intricately veiled
No-No Lands.
There were times he could hardly breathe,
so irate shaking his fists and hips at a sea
struggling for peace,
stowing away on extensive visions,
warping vaporized years into Meat
around a lonely rusted tin barrel burning
with notions of flags and fake riots,
deep women
and leaky rooftops
bleeding.
With every approaching boat a slave song docked;
heydays,
fast cars,
every blink nearer the fallout of a most perfect nightmare.
Shrouded drips of sound:
To the universe a vision;
to Creation romantic tirades
along the pier in secret meetings
where poets are lined up to trip,
all wind-blown remarkably perfect
whispering sacrificial odes off the edges
of glassy green spoons -
hard-on
strategy gem:
Last second comeback:
Bill with microphone transmitter in
continuous wave
with magic stool and good cobra sly-eye;
with big death and eternal birth jokes
daring the removal of the word coincidence from all diction-aries
for there was no such, none such, never one to none thing in this life.
Lexicon!
For far too long now a million naps per night in your drunken,
sheepish shearer guise...
Sensory overload achieved &
at a glance at a glance it All makes sense:
Tremendous pupils
strip bare on sand dunes binding;
cowboy-philosopher-rock-god-crown;
bow sign restored, divine.
Poet will not be programmed,
will not be the unwitting nephew of any unseen hands;
will stow away long and slow,
will fantasize in empty, white cat-jack
rabid pastures
and likewise among the urban ruins
where the edge of the earth is difficult to perceive.
These words are the show.
These words fertilize fetishes and fester
for tongues unjustly removed or tied by the
cacophony of Fear;
for frogs in slow-going hot water pots and pictures,
united in plain-sight seclusion...
Bill Hicks came to America to scream.
He was the Free Man chasing the thief,
the sage at the tail end of a saga waiting to land.
He bared our fears and contradictions for anyone who would listen.
He took on visionary climax even when he felt cheated,
let down,
spent.
He knew with no uncertainty that
one can't step in the same river EVEN ONCE ,
that death was just a word man-made to cushion the blow
of the Ultimate Ecstatic Remembrance:
Evolutionary leap in the belly of broad harmonic groove;
a purring engine;
the one true cigarette;
the dream that felt a bit too real;
the tear that became an ocean and
spawned a thought; the ink
writing this:
What does flying mean to a penguin?
What does light mean to a blind man?
What does comedy mean to a poet?
It means everything.
.
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1999-2005 Chris Weige / Reckon
Copyright ©
RECKON
... [
2005-08-20 23:06:15]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Channeling Bill Hicks
(User Rating: 1 )
by hardrocker15198916 on
Wednesday, 17th May 2006 @ 08:17:47 PM AEST
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a Message)
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A bit lengthy, and your title doesn't necesarily suit it persay, but, the whole thing was a vicious stab in the human gut made of pure truth. I love it.
~Rae
P.s. Lazy people, like most of the people on this site, will not read something as lengthy as this. |
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Re: Channeling Bill Hicks
(User Rating: 1 )
by europeanprincess on
Sunday, 21st May 2006 @ 12:25:39 PM AEST
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| OK-this was a bit long but you did get to your point about whom you where writing about. good ideas and good values--good write. |
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