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Viewer’s Choice videos of 2013 THANK YOU VIEWERS!

THANK YOU TO ALL VIEWERS OF MY CONTENT!

THESE VIDEOS REPRESENT WHAT YOU FEEL

IS THE BEST OF MY VIDEO BODY OF WORK.

THANK YOU FOR EVERY

VIEW, LIKE, SHARE, AND COMMENT.

#10 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

2012-01-18 to 2012-02-02 UPDATE of Phoenix Tears Healing A Diabetic Ulcer 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcyouNb7ZxU

Part 3 of the healing…..
Fat Freddy has had a sore on his back for about 3 years and it would not heal! We started putting Rick Simpson Oil on it on November 23, then the next day we checked it and then checked it every 3 days afterwards, changing the oil and bandage every 3 days as well! Here is the progress so far! (WARNING THIS IS GRAPHIC!)

for more info on phoenix
tears, please visit:
http://phoenixtears.ca/

For more info on “Fat
Freddy” of the Freak
Brother’s Comics (a
longtime cannabis freedom
fighter and the dude whose
back we are healing) please
visit:
http://www.fatfreddy.com

to buy Hemp EaZe Baby &
Me Spray (the non thc
lotion I have been using
along with the PTO) please
visit:
http://tierrasolfarm.com/Hemp-EaZe-for-Baby-Me-Spray-335.htm

Check the other videos.
Video 1
11/23/11 to 12/09/11 phoenix tears healing a diabetic ulcer
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fsiFFfYxvs

Video 2
2011-12-12 to 2011-12-26 phoenix tears healing a diabetic ulcer part 2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGy_ICLESk8

Video 3
http://youtu.be/UBICRfOC200

PLAYLIST FOR THIS SERIES of videos:
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLB7A05ED23E5AE962

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FcyouNb7ZxU

#9 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

2011-07 – 2011-11 Sour diesel Grow pics Grateful Dead “touch of Grey”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2q1TWHg3Mc

I worked a private caregiver’s grow from July 2011 to November 2011. I was paid 1/4 oz medication, a roof over my head for the duration of the grow and use of years old trim with no “sugar” left to medicate me. I was supposed to be medicated for the duration of the grow, and recieve winter lodging NO MATTER WHAT for my efforts. Every silver lining has a touch of grey….

song choice: Grateful Dead, Touch of Grey (fair use, education)

Sour Diesel

Sativa 90 / Indica 10
Origins – Mexican Sativa x Chemo
Flowering – 75-80 days
Harvest – Early November

Beyond the citrus end of the pot palate spectrum lies a sour lemon tang tending toward the heay pungency of an open drum of diesel. This odor is so strong in Reservoir’s Sour Diesel strain that it may need to be masked during growing if stealth is a goal or necessity. Even when dried and carried in a pocket, these buds are smelly enough to raise suspicions. Reservoir drew on the Mexican sativa family and the sativa hybrid Chemo in an effort to produce the most psychedelic non-haze sativa possible.

Sour Diesel is a tall, thin plant suitable for sea or screen of green. She stretches in the first 3 weeks of flowering. By maturity she reaches a daunting 6 feet indoors in a slender version of the classic Christmas tree silhouette. Her foliage purples as it ages, and commonly displays pink-hued pistils. The buds are loose and spear-shaped.

Sour Diesel taste combined with its effects may be considered an “exptreme sport” version of cannabis. The stone pulls smokers into the sky fast with a viscerally uplifting pleasure and lots of consciousness expansion in the direction of spirituality. This good-vibe variety may help alleviate chronic depression, as well as the ordinary blahs by encouraging a change in perspective.
http://www.kindgreenbuds.com/marijuana-strains/sourdiesel.html

lyrics:

“Touch Of Grey”

Must be getting early, clocks are running late.
Paint by numbers morning sky, looks so phony.
Dawn is breaking everywhere, light a candle, curse the glare
Draw the curtains I don’t care ’cause it’s alright
I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive.I see you’ve got your list out, say your piece and get out.
Guess I get the gist of it ’cause it’s alright
Oh, well, anyway, sorry that you feel that way.
The only thing there is to say
Every silver lining’s got a touch of grey
I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive.It’s a lesson to me
The Ables and the beggars and the thieves
The ABC’s
We all think of
And try to keep a little graceIt’s a lesson to me
The Deltas and the East and the Freeze
The ABC’s we all think of
And try to give a little loveI know the rent is in arrears, the dog has not been fed in years
It’s even worse than it appears ’cause it’s alrightCow is given kerosene, kid can’t read at seventeen
The words he knows are all obscene ’cause it’s alright
I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive.It’s a lesson to me
The Deltas and the East and the Freeze
The ABC’s we all think of
And try to keep a little loveThe shoe is on the hand it fits, there’s all there really nothing much to it
Whistle through your teeth and spit ’cause it’s alrightOh, well, a touch of gray, kinda suits you anyway,
That’s all I had to say ’cause it’s alright
I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive.It’s a lesson to me,
The deltas and the East and the free
The ABC’s we all must face,
Try to save a little grace.We will get by. We will get by. We will get by. We will survive
We will get by. We will get by. We will get by. We will survive

#8 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

Hind’s Feet On High Places by Hannah Hurnard video 2

(see #3 most viewed so you can view videos 1 and 2 in their proper order.)

#7 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

Patient testimonial “i have cancer, cancer does not have me”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfY3Z8auhjA

music selection:
Rusted Root
“Won’t Be Long”

*****The patient made this video herself. All the author of this blog did was add the music for her.

#6 and #5 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

Phoenix Tears Makers~ Naphtha is not a healthy Solvent!

#6 Version

#5 Version

EDITED BY POPULAR REQUEST TO PUT THE MUSIC ONLY IN THE INTRO!

PLEASE CLICK HERE TO READ MORE ABOUT THE DANGERS OF NAPHTHA

#4 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

2011-12-09 phoenix tears healing a diabetic ulcer 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fsiFFfYxvs

Please Click here for more information of healing diabetic ulcers

#3 and #8 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNSPAmAb8Uc

Please see all the available Chapters by clicking here

The introduction and first chapters of a set of videos in Tribute to the writing of Hannah Hurnard, “Hind’s Feet on High Places” to Art of Breezy Kiefair and the Music of Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Please give it 20 minutes of your time. Chapter 1 “Invitation to the High Places” i just put music and art to a book that has been a favorite since childhood… my mother used to read me that book…. call it a tribute to her and an introduction of the book to an audience that may otherwise remain unaware of it. I recommend it for anyone with anxiety or PTSD

info on the book from wikipedia:
Hinds’ Feet on High Places
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Hinds’ Feet on High Places
Author(s) Hannah Hurnard
Country United Kingdom
Language English
Genre(s) Christian
Publisher Christian Literature Crusade
Publication date 1955
Media type Print (Hardback & Paperback)
Pages 158 pp.
ISBN NA
Hinds’ Feet on High Places is an allegorical novel by English author Hannah Hurnard. Hinds’ Feet was written in 1955 and has become a very successful work of Christian fiction, seeing new editions published as recently as July, 2005.
[edit]Plot introduction

It is the story of a young woman named Much Afraid, and her journey away from her Fearing family and into the High Places of the Shepherd, guided by her two companions Sorrow and Suffering. It is an allegory of a Christian devotional life from salvation through maturity. It aims to show how a Christian is transformed from unbeliever to immature believer to mature believer, who walks daily with God as easily on the High Places of Joy in the spirit as in the daily life of mundane and oftentimes humiliating tasks that may cause Christians to lose perspective.
The book takes its title from Habakkuk 3:19, “The Lord God is my strength, and he will make my feet like hinds’ feet, and he will make me to walk upon mine high places.”
The story begins in the Valley of Humiliation with Much Afraid, being beset by the unwanted advances of her cousin, Craven Fear, who wishes to marry her. The Family of Fearings seems to have some strong similarities to the Addams Family. Much Afraid is ugly from all outward appearances, walking on club feet, sporting gnarled, deformed hands, and speaking from a crooked mouth that seems to have been made so by a stroke or the like.
The Good Shepherd is tender and gentle with Much Afraid, especially in the beginning. However, His many sudden departures may strike the reader as bizarre, given the human penchant to expect kindly souls to never do everything that may be interpreted as rude or as hurtful in any way. Yet, though the Shepherd leaves in a moment, He returns the same way at the first furtive cry of the forlorn little protagonist. “Come, Shepherd, for I am much afraid!”
When Much Afraid intimates that she would love to be able to dance upon the high places as do the surefooted deer, the Shepherd commends her for this desire. In order to accomplish this, he offers to “plant the seed of love” into her heart. At first sight of the long, black hawthorne-looking seed, she shrieks in fear. Soon, she relents, and after the initial intense pain, she senses that something is indeed different in her, though she still looks the same, for now.
Just when the reader thinks that Much Afraid is about to reach the High Places, the path turns downward towards a seemingly endless desert. There is an incident at the sheer cliff that must be climbed with only one rope, which hangs a long way down to her from the top. Then days are spent in a forest that is shrouded in a thick cloud of fog. During this time Much Afraid is sequestered with her two friends, Sorrow and Suffering, in a log cabin. The climax is an unexpected twist that comes as Much Afraid despairs of ever reaching the High Places.
[edit]Allusions/references to other works

The book bears some stylistic similarities to John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress. The name of the protagonist, Much-Afraid, also appears first in Bunyan’s work.
[edit]References

#1 and # 2 Most Viewed from my youtube channel

Pink Floyd The Piper at the Gates of Dawn Side

video created by kiefair.com
music by pink floyd obviously

#1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-zg7EsT4fUA

#2

http://youtu.be/p1zna-cEIZ4

Like these videos? Pleas give my channel a view, subscribe, and share. More vids to come in 2014!

First Video Created in 2014

TOKING THROUGH TIN PAN ALLEY (1-1-2014) 

the audio has been reworked by Breezy Kiefair.The base audio was a live performance of “Tin Pan Alley” by Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble All images created by Breezy Kiefairl.

Dedicated to the low income cannabis patient left toking through tin pan Alley.

“Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place in Town)” is track #23 on the album Essential Stevie Ray Vaughan. It was written by Geddins.

Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place in Town)

Went down to Tin Pan Alley
See what was goin’ on
Things was too hot down there
Couldn’t stay very long
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place I’ve ever been
All the peoples down there
Lord, they are livin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
She get up in the mornin’
Before the break a day
Before she can wash her face and hand
You know she really did go away
Hey, hey, hey, you tell
What kinda place can this here Alley be?
Well now, every women I get here
Every women I get to know
This Alley takes her away from me
I heard a pistol shoot
Yeah, and it was a .44
Somebody killed a crap shooter
‘Cause he didn’t shake, rattle and roll
Hey, hey, hey, hey
What kinda place can a Alley be?
All those people down there
Lord, they are livin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
I heard a woman scream
Yeah, and I peeked through the door
Some cat was workin’ on Annie with a
Lord, Lord with a two by four
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place, I’ve ever been
All the people down there
Lord, they are killin’ for their whisky, wine and gin
I saw a cop standing there
With hand on his gun
Said this is a raid boy now
Run, run, nobody run
Hey, hey, hey, hey
Alley’s the roughest place, I’ve ever been
Yeah, they took me away from Alley
Lord, they took me right back to the pen

Songwriters
GEDDINS

http://www.metrolyrics.com/tin-pan-alley-aka-roughest-place-in-town-lyrics-stevie-ray-vaughan-double-trouble.html

Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble – Tin Pan Alley (aka Roughest Place In Town)

the same video in an earlier draft with an album version (audio unaltered) is available here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/114818245240410041833/albums/5963276613878627761/5963276612816041426?pid=5963276612816041426&oid=114818245240410041833

STATS FROM YOUTUBE:

Thumbnail image
Videos: 137 – Created: Aug 25, 2010 – Lifetime views: 62,345CHANNEL

Last year (Jan 1, 2013 – Dec 31, 2013)

Performance

VIEWS 43,825
ESTIMATED MINUTES WATCHED 240,154 (about 4,002.56 hours)
Top 10 Videos

 

Video
Views
Estimated minutes watched Total estimated earnings
Pink Floyd The Piper at the Gates of Dawn Side 1 14,127
104,359
$0.00
Pink Floyd “the piper at the gates of dawn” side 2 7,500
56,036
$0.00
Hind’s Feet On High Places by Hannah Hurnard video 1 2,489
17,671
$0.00
2011-12-09 phoenix tears healing a diabetic ulcer 2,023
6,337
$0.00
Phoenix Tears Makers~ Naphtha is not a healthy Solvent! (edit 2) 1,550
4,325
$2.20
Phoenix Tears Makers~ Naphtha is not a healthy Solvent! 1,063
2,956
$0.00
Patient testimonial “i have cancer, cancer does not have me” 944
1,991
$0.00
Hind’s Feet On High Places by Hannah Hurnard video 2 720
7,742
$2.17
2011-07 – 2011-11 Sour diesel Grow pics Grateful Dead “touch of Grey” 602
996
$0.00
2012-01-18 to 2012-02-02 UPDATE of Phoenix Tears Healing A Diabetic Ulcer 583
1,707
$0.00

Demographics

TOP GEOGRAPHIES

  1. United States
  2. United Kingdom
  3. Canada
  4. Italy
  5. Mexico

GENDER

  1. Male 61%Female 39%TOP PLAYBACK LOCATIONS
  1. YouTube watch page 83%Mobile devices 10%Embedded player on other website s5.4%Other1. 6%TOP TRAFFIC SOURCES
  2. View referrals from YouTube 57%Mobile apps and direct traffic 31%View referrals from outside YouTube 12%

Questions?

send a pm through facebook to this profile

email: breezyorilley@gmail.com
snail mail:

Bréedhéen O’Rilley Keefer

P.O. Box 849

Franktown, Colorado 80116

2011-11-05 “Howl” By Allen Ginsberg remixed by Breezy Kiefair with video reading

2011-11-05 “Howl” By Allen Ginsberg remixed by Breezy Kiefair Part 1

Text:

I saw the best minds of my generation valiantly struggling to destroy the madness, starving hysterical educated,

dragging themselves through the occupied streets at dawn looking for a fix to their righteous anger,

angelheaded hempsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating class warfare,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El train and saw First Nation spirit guides pale and staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with perscribed narcotic hazed eyes.. desperatley trying to conquer physical pain inside the dream of Ginsberg’s school whilst Debting Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war and peace,

whose doctors with the stroke of a pen excluded them from the academies for weak immune response & too many hospital visits and too much time off required…… and so retired to being a ghost in the machine publishing controversial essays on the benefits of cannabis therapy for the sick.

who cowered in rotten canvas tents in long dirty clothes, burning their resin, paying their land bills and heating canned goods on a candle in the absence of an indoor stove whilst listening to the Terror echoing still today and through the years,

who got busted for their sacramental pipes returning through Maine with a story of hope for Cleveland, Michigan and Colorado.

who grew fire out back of low end hotels in their RV or drank resin tincture on Paradise Mesa, dug in until death, conditions and the cold of hell in their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, cannabis and lack and endless wails,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Mexico and the whole prohibition world, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote spirits haunting the land of no halls, backyard green tree cemetery falls, canna-bliss blowing over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teapotparty joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusk’s of the valley, ashcan rantings and kind cannabis on compassion makes you light of mind,

who chained themselves to their occupation. for the endless ride from park to holy jail on love and hope until the noise of mace and sticks brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the fear light of the memory of the dead man from the Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of the capitol building and when riot police came floated out and sat through the stale beer/coffee house dawn in desolate 16th Street, reading the crack of doom scroll across their social media news feeds.

who posted information continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Twin Towers onto of the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, gifts for the Sacred place just cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen horizon mirage above reality’s plane. leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of the beauty of the world.

Who found it better suffering sweats and bone-grindings and migraines of junk-withdrawal in an MMJ state’s bleak furnished room, with the comfort of a pipe in hand and the knowledge they could use as much of this as their pain required and not worry about an unintended death.

who wandered around and around at midnight in the occupied parks wondering where to go, and remained, leaving no broken hearts except for their own, and even it, scrawled across a bit of cardboard and peacefully expressed for all of the anger and stress madness within their breasts.

who lit hash filled cigarettes at truck-stops truck-stops truck-stops racketing through snow toward lonesome freedom Maine in grandfather night,

who studied St. Jude, astral projection, and bop kabbalah, Rastafarian, the Egyptian book of the dead, the epic of Gilgamesh, and more because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Nebraska.

who longed through the streets of Ohio seeking visionary First Nation guides who were visions themselves

who thought they were only mad when they have every right to be mad and their righteous indignation gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in pig cars on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight small-town blizzard Maine,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through ‘Mosa seeking meds or heat or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to the safety of the horse-lands,

who disappeared into the underground leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the rocks we gathered for the house and ash of my heart scattered on the land, self sustainable American dream in ashes because I cant fund it beyond the empty land, and even that is for sale for survival’s sake.

who reappeared on the East Coast investigating the medicinal cannabis programs in other states in purple pure gift scarf and with big pacifist eyes sexy in their pale skin passing out information and stories in exchange for housing like a true bard of old.

who cold turkey-ed cigarettes repeatedly protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism (and picked them back up again in PTSD coping mechanism to throw them back down again and again),

who screamed in favor of the Cannabis haze of capitalism…. who distributed Congressional Supercommittee petitions in Universal Online square weeping and exposing the secrets of their hearts while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the severe weather sirens also wailed,

who broke down crying in protest parks as if they had been left naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who used their whit to strike at detectives and shrieked with delight in police-cars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and duty to protest.

who howled on their knees in the igloo and were dragged off the sidewalks waving signs and screaming valid points,

who let themselves be maced in the face, and screamed with joy for truth exposed,

who believed in equality for all, caresses and hints of unconditional love

who occupied in the morning and in the evenings and sent messages to delegation rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their opinions freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a public forum when a small & vulnerable woman came to hear their wailing song.

who lost their loves to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom, (DEATH!)

Video 2 text”

who shared themselves ecstatic and insatiable and fell off the net, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate hope and prosperity eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, and a lighting a fire of self sustainability desire

who sweetened the minds of a million hearts trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the image of the sunrise, flashing truths under sad eyes and naked in the soul,

who went out traveling through Colorado in myriad stolen rides, A.G. secret hero of these poems, poet and activist of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable fingers given to censoring conformists and cigarettes shared with corrupted youth in Naropa writing work shop breaktime day. I sing to you on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside debates & especially quiet help in dreams.

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden nightmare, and picked themselves up out of heart sore despair… not drunk yet hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Wall Street’s iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their souls full of dread on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the 1% to open to a room full of steamheat and and lack of worry,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appeasement of bankers of the Stock market under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build revolutions in their parks, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the acid rain skies surrounded by orange crates of theology wishing for wide open spaces,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, rambling and unpublishable without a proofreader’s eye

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for a banana,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next century,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were tortured alive in their innocent flannel suits on social security disability amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, your government docs say your too sick to work, your government says your life is worth $17.42 a day. Make that work you sick lady in the wild all on your own.

who were trapped on the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of the protests, not even one tagline

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the dream’s window, jumped in the filthy Greyhound, leaped on haters, cried all over the street, danced on broken glass pipes barefoot..

who polar bear-ed it across frozen mesa to prove a point to psychopathic husband…. smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz screamed it was 1929 again, finished the joint and still stumbled down the hall just in time for their disease to make them throw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal auditory sensitivity.

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch a widespread panic incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loaned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to the social media class,

who retired to MMJ state to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or France to teach medicine or Southern border to live cheaply or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the feds of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw Knowledge at political pundits and gave lectures on history to representatives and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous reversion to the constitution,

and who were given instead the concrete void of mainstream media, refused electricity, cold-water hydrotherapy long before the dawn, applications for protest trademark names, occupational therapy in the for of police brutality & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic table, resting briefly in catatonia as the peaceful prepare their souls for pain.

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the corruptions and small-town censorship of infanticide in the East,

Pueblo State’s mountain views and Excelsior’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with bio-family finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination— yet in the mind hope still remains

ah, working class, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

whose written dreams made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel citizen in Time, unknown, yet posting here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

video 3 text

II

What Harpy of regulations bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Inequality! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Inequality! Moloch! Nightmare of Money! 1% the loveless! Mental Moloch! State controlled Media the heavy judge of men!

Class Warfare the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Super-Congress of sorrows! Wall Street whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Money for the stunned governments!

My country whose mind has become pure machinery! My Country whose blood is running money! My Country whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! My Country whose ear is an unknown and smoking tomb! My country who adopted me and is therefore my parent.

My parents whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! My parents whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! My parents whose factories dream and choke in the fog while paying down their carbon footprint as if the damage was undone! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities making my body ache!!

Moloch is My father whose love is endless oil and stone! My father whose soul is electricity and banks! My home whose poverty is the specter of genius! My home whose fate is an uncertain roller coaster based on regulations that keep shrinking my resources! Freedom’s only home now whose name is the Mind!

Moloch is My home in whom I sit lonely! My home in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Crazy Bitch in Moloch! Lacklove and friendless in My home!

Moloch who entered and attempted to own my soul early! My home, in your information superhighway I become am a consciousness not bound so much by a disabled body! My father who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! My parents I abandon! Wake up in my country! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! Corporate Persons! invincible house or representatives! granite senates! Corrupt lobbyists! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting their country to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American Dream river turned to flushing toilet!

Dreams! adoration! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of bill of rights constitutional BULLSHIT!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and revolutions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the the edge! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street! Were the 99%! This is what martial law looks like! As they are beaten back but do not submit.

III

Breezy Kiefair

Occupy Together! I’m with you on Wall Street

where you’re louder than I am

I’m with you in Oakland

where you must feel strange

I’m with you in Saint Louis

where you imitate the shade of my mother

I’m with you in Michigan

where you’re brother murdered a baby so you covered up the archives and put him to work as an administrative assistant.

I’m with my regulars

who pick apart and you laugh at this invisible humor

I’m with you in Denver

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I’m with you in Colorado Springs

where your traveling protester’s condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I’m with you in my heart

where the faculties of the skull admit the worms of the senses but only in shades of pain

I’m with you in Nederland

where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Indica

I’m with you in Facebookland

where you sell nugs with the bodies of your nurses

I’m with you in Facebookland

where I scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of actual chess of the abyss

I’m with you in Facebookland

where you bang on the catatonic newsfeed

What’s on my mind? “the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse”

I’m with you in Facebookland

where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I’m with you in Facebookland

where we accuse our doctors of cruelty, insanity and plot the revolution against the bankers influence and unequal distribution of wealth..

I’m with you in Facebookland

where you will split the heavens and find the beauty where you are, resurrecting your living human freedoms from the superhuman tomb

I’m with you in Facebookland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the songs of their youth all saying there is hope and we rebel.

I’m with you in Facebookland

where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and whose problems won’t let us sleep

I’m with you in Facebookland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ chemtrails roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop censorship bombs the digital hospital illuminates itself   imaginary walls collapse   O skinny legions run outside   O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here   O victory forget your underwear we’re free

I’m with you in Facebookland

in my dreams you drive from the story of your-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night to build a life here with me away from such woe.

 read source poem in its entirety and more edits here 

https://breedheenorilleykeefer.wordpress.com/2011/10/30/america-and-howl-by-allen-ginsberg-updated-for-the-occupation/

And now the master reading his own work…

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