Kali's Waltz

Too tired to swim and indifferent to direction, I float along current-compelled to with tranquil and grateful bewilderment comply to the direction of the river Goddess... as must any small and mortal soul-swimmer be Shiva-swept and current-carried by this or that greater Ganges of rushing tribal blood and the rock-conquering, ocean-seeking flow of love's oblivion-defying: war-cold, bracing, stark, stoic, Orpheus-opiated, aptly-mad, raging, ageless and watery, defiantly uninformed, thus does the art-foaming, Helen-haikuing, silicon-sexed, the fearless and perpetually descending, careening flight of fearsomely-lusted liberty toward the sultry wind-blown arms of ship-devouring Poseidon.
We seek her mermaid-lighted garden depths with clutched pen, ready spear, anenome symphonies, and perversely leering nuclear subs, always Id-naked, flowing, decadent, descendent, dawning, fear-fired, fixedly phalanxed in death-de-flowering columns, fleeing and descending, daemon-lit and all-daring descending and ascending downward and downward from the titanic monk-glacier-ice-peaks where with stoic deported Snowden is black-balled and god-like in rusty serenity, Tiber-crossed and air-port bound in Moscow's malevolently motherly arms: come, come to Daddy Dada you charming degenerate dissidents: marble and noble in scythe-sworded revolution, Siberia-suave and missile-poised, a languid and lion-pawed Putin with fervor quoting and incanting Pushkin's melting-icicle wit.

Drunken and cat-clawed outside the artistically deified Winter Palace, the last Tsar's disease-destroying thousand-mouthed Sorcerer and dissipated demi-God: Gregory Rasputin is done whoring now, his sagely goat-like face satiated with erotic Slavic lace. Without constraint of time or tune, the sacred-depraved, empress-coronated peasant Czar lets ghoulishly hang his leathery, clitoris-romancing tongue to belt out profound and sanctified stanzas like a redeeming demon... sloshed with the scented seduction of ghoulag-warming Vodka floating through the air in onion-domed dragon-spired breath from sickle-celled lunar lungs, ranting in pathos-perfumed pianissimos a saintly, serpentine, deviant-devised Renaissance score.

Truth-oozing decorous and dutiful gore-decaled zombies one by one greet his one-eared honor before ornately and sincerely swearing the comrade's oath before relating their melancholy-mangled Zhivago-teeming tales of erudite and idolized pistol-penned poets romancing the fur-dressed nympho-erotically depressive love-locked Courtesan Russia, brought in like Leningrad morphine to perfume histories of tundra-devouring Generals, Karpov pawn corporals, and leap-frogging piano-fearing, avant-guarded, and twitching tar-color-painting ministers, blood-bonded and urbanized with Rosseau's sparkling tomes, to serve valiantly and ambivalently Peter the Great's brutally Europeanized Imperial Beasts' Salon and Slavic Gardens.

Next, enter stage left: Tamerlane "the Great," a dwarfish and deformed yet valiant asiatic warrior-king, pacing his Treblinka palaces unpoisoned and unannounced. And yet time flies by and in the wink of an Ozymandias, even Tamerlane that titanic and sagacious human tiger grayed agonizingly and after his decades of crazed and craven city-razing, soil-salting and slaughterous world-striding, it was nothing but a short and limping Mongeloid who fell in death though not in defeat, and for this reason Tamerlane was devilishly deified, and then lowered, semi-mummified and elegantly damp in skin-soothing Thai silk. And having transformed the early clay-like globe, thus did this death-stilled Asiatic Alexander the Hateful slide slandered into a thousand damning yet revering historical tombs, having sired short and brainy limping apes for a thousand courts. In millions, his bastard princes are hurlers of spears, menders of shoes, and even peddlers of noodle bowls echoing the death howls and savory pork-crowned Shitake mushroom psalms feasts, fit for ravenous tourists waiting for the cool dusk, fit for Samurai warriors, and fit also for culinary-lusting Confucian test-lords, administering innovative Metropolii acting as Kublai Khan's sponge-like, slanty-eyed pawns: avidly gambiting cave-factory economies and volunteering Kamikaze rooks and queens in the long and resilient villainy-checkered chess saga of the giant communist Shocking Mall, replete with blue and plum lip-sticks made of bullet-blessed crimminals, many who proudly produce this oil to charm, energize and harmonize a vast clock-worshipping Ant-mannicled Sino-production macro-corps. On a micro-scape, also, local factory campuses are up-beat and cheerful, replete with strong workers dragging immense scrap metal pay-days and wi-fied I-Pad work units, before at freedom time crawling wearily onto their myriad pollution-spewing Sino-cycles. Yes, today's Middle Kingdom shines a prosperous and enthusiastic ethos, with every citizen newspaper proudly pointing to the increasingly frequent wage-hikes and enhanced lifestyle opportunities. Yes, China's Confucian-modeled metropolii are peopled productively by these savagely civilized, single-child millions of cautious profit-praying minions. Even now, asleep in comfortable production area pod-beds, starry-eyed Chinese youth are afloat and dreaming of grey-clothed high office, of the poems of Li Bai, or of planned productivity-unleashing clerical crusades, while still others see themselves eating lemon chicken in the American movies which the Chinese follow with avid and ally-like interest.

And then, after agua de Bolivia mixed with lime juice, the ebony-clouded night storm arrives like tycoons in comrade-gray ant-suits driving shiny new "aquatic blue" Mercedes made by driven Socialist factory maniacs in Germany...

The Mercedes factory is always busy and buzzing with persistent German intelligence: robotical auto-designers like Herman Bindersen are always writing new and improved safety code, or making silicon data-sketches to ever improve the Mercedes-Meme-Transport-Android in other ways as unmeasurable and aesthetic as the joy of safely zooming our world-famed Auto-bahns. And yet still this particular model Mercedes employee designated as Herman Bindersen is also of a troubled turn, as are many creative individuals from the art world to the eccentric ivory towers of theoretical physics. Herman is of an Ahabian devotion and will never cease his fierce hunt for the Aryan White Whale, which is even recalled to him by the barbaric yet Franco-phile-tinged ambience of the Beer garden in which he drinks down his stein of lemon-livened Heffeweizen in steady sips of lethe-ward loosened life. It is here in this bohemian alcove, that he gives himself completely to fantasy-infused intoxication. With a regrettable but charmingly eccentric nostalgic mind's eye-view: Herman now visually unapologetically his newest Rommellian Field Cammel making good speed through the torturously sandy terrain. This humped companion-android is a diesel-bleeding steed conceived to terrify British crack units, as well as Aussie units which can effectively adapt to the guerilla combat tactics and boggy-heat common to African territories. But the new camel-tank displays a broad range of inventive weaponry, and also importantly serves as a counter-stick to those dark Native hunters of water buffalo, stray dogs, and fleet gazelles; These swarthy and resourceful "primitives" are usually enthusiastic converts to heaven-and-hell mythologies, displaying a fervent piety little known to the educated western world since the paradigm-transforming European enlightenment. Herman however knows nothing of Voltaire or of sprawling feudal estates; A simple Hun, he covets only a pure Berlin smoke, or perhaps say a youthfully tan, tart, and shapely mademoiselle blushing with the vivacity of slow and artistic seduction... and then, forbidden and gleaming in his mind's archaic eye, he sees the sacred war medal: "Oak-tree-with-swords-and-diamonds."

Far before the actual time our nostalgia-deranged hero, the new Russian-front inspired Fok Wolf fighter jets were bestowing aerial devastation upon the Bolshevik juggernaut. These swastika-winged red scourges were creating aces one very front, and would even after defeat be long remembered for design genius and for those Reich-pious pew-gunners who killed many an Allied air-man before the odds of machine-gun patterns splattered their Kantian or Mein Kampf brains across the blue lace that General Goering or Adolf Galland had tied on the gallant young air-knights.

But the aerial career of Lt. Herman Bindersen was proceeding with unusual valor and distinction. Now, on the radio admired as a swastika-blessed hun-wolf, wandering the bars with moneyed pockets, former factory engineer Lt. Bindersen began to quietly feel permitted or even encouraged to develop a small and discreet personal harem. Then, his thoughts swelling like an orchestral viking crew giving sonorous sound to a mystical Wagernian string-piece... such as the Fuhrer was known to admire. And then he remembered something he hadn't dared before: Should he take the rare and bravely modern step of signing up for one of Himmler's Nordic S.S. "Liebensraum" reproduction cruises? These strange resorts were said by some wilder officers to make for very pleasant leave time. The admittedly bizzare scientist-monitored romances conducted there were said to proceed with surprising ease and personal connection. Tossing around feather-bed pillows: the energetic and often coked-up couples threw themselves into their mammalian sex rituals with love with an autumn,erotic passion only possible to amorous ghosts, hopeful and passionate souls only too familiar with the insignia of the Death's Head and the ever-darkening script on the wall of world war. Afterward, they drank Coconut Cabanos and wailed like V-8 rockets to the always provided, someday to be forgotten Third Reich Negro jazz band, just the exotic thing for a brave new air-skeleton with front-transforming new ideas for the Rommel Sand Camel, and a middle-class young lady with discreet literary achievements she mentioned not to the young officer, in whose behalf the S.S. would provide a modestly preferential way and means of existing within the armored culture which had swept the West like Guernica swept the Dada-degenerating art streets, flats, and salons. This jazz-loving lady introvert would receive a monetary check until the summation of the war-storm. After that, the devil knows.

"It's just too bad about the Euros and the Greeks, not to mention those spend-thrift Italian villains," Herman raved in the quiet of the Sunday break-room. "We Nazi world war helmet-huns were no cowardly mustache-artists," Herman continued, "but this dismal new church was ruled by the Angel Anarchica: all war long blood spilled from everyone and after the Neuremberg Hangings and the gouging red revenge, we survived and rose again... to become a pacific beating Boch heart to unify and revive scattered European rivals from Athens to Switzerland. Yes, it seems laughable to some, but it is only by carrying former friends and foes alike that Germany will so honorably deserve her place in the sun that the vast world will smile for the revival of Deutchland and her disciplined socialism... freeing those like Herman to live new sub-utopian dreams fancy free from the dual nightmares of Kaiser trenches and a punitive wall re-dividing the Grimm, anarchic kingdoms which Frederick and Bismark fanatically bound into one Frankenstein-like German 'creature state,' fraternally composed of harsh, repressed, and war-loving production units."

In the crooked alley-way outside Harry Haller's discreetly-lighted dream theatre, a group of ragged young Bohemians listen with curiousity, chain-smoking genetically passed-down clean-mint Menthols and in the case of one deviant a couple of coveted joints. With curious ears, these young aesthetes took in what they'd heard to be a mysterious and transforming musical glass bead game. Inside the torch-lit window, vivacious Pablo was snorting coke lines off a small mirror-square, while looking about the room with one ear. On the assorted furniture, a carefully selected group of musical savants beat, blew, and caressed their instruments with the fierce grace of those who have entirely let go. Still, onward into the alley rolled blood-drizzled, shell-shocked sub-symphonies, floating to Ra-melting Kerouac's madness-lighted beat.