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Solstice Gift! free ecopy “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot” One Day Only!

DECEMBER 21, 2013 ONLY!

Hurry over to Amazon.com and download your free ecopy Of Poetry, Pain and Pot, by Breezy Kiefair featuring works from The Art of Breezy Kiefair and Kiefair.com. Don’t own a kindle? no worries…. download Kindle for PC or Amazon Kindle for Android to access the book without purchasing the Amazon Kindle hardware. The Book is free today in honor of the Winter solstice celebration

Of Pain, Poetry and Pot is a poetry book centered on pot written by cannabis activist and artist under the influence of cannabis , Breezy Kiefair. “Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Ginsberg – Howl and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own.

http://www.amazon.com/Pain-Poetry-Pot-Breedheen-ORilley/dp/1492830399/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1387652549&sr=8-1&keywords=of+poetry+pain+and+pot

I just published a poetry book with amazon.com…..this is the book cover. It is called “Of Pain, Poetry and Pot”

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

Of Pin, Poetry and Pot cover

the electronic edition is still free for one more day folks! Please distribute the following link for people to get their free copy
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FGF8WUY

“Of Pain, poetry, and pot.” Is a collection of cannabis centered poetry in a neobeatnik style. It includes updated versions of Allen Allen Ginsberg – Howls “howl” and “america”, along with an update on “to whom it may concern” by Adrian Mitchell , a cannabis parody of Rifleman’s Creed and many other poems that are all my own. I hope ya grab your free download while it is available and be sure to lend it to your friends (I have enabled book lending on this piece). Yes, I am aware of the odd format in the table of contents. I assure you that is semi-intentional. and please! Share these links around so the pot poetry can be read easily.
another link for the paperback
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1492830399/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_47gssb1B996P0K2N

What the reviews are saying: (dec 20, 2013)

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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Talented, insightful artist and writer, November 25, 2013
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This review is from: Of Pain, Poetry and Pot (Paperback)

This multi-talented artist and writer amazed me with her insightful and sometimes heartbreaking poetry. Her artwork is not only beautiful, but different from any I have seen. I have actually ordered several individual prints off her website to give as gifts this Christmas. I highly recommend this book.

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2 of 2 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Rare and Lovely, October 2, 2013
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Would You Like To Pick Breezy’s Brain? This wonderful book is a chance to witness the creative process at work; author Breezy Kiefair (aka Breedheen O’Rilley) is the real deal, a gifted poet/journalist/activist on the forefront of the battle for medical marijuana patients’ rights and for truth in media. And speaking of truth, emotional truth is exactly what you’ll get here. Breezy isn’t afraid to take an open-eyed, unsparing look at society, at herself, at her illnesses, at the lies we tell ourselves and each other — and at the scintillating, breathtaking beauty which is more real and more powerful than all else. Highly recommended.

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excerpt:

A bit of Cancer poetry for thought…

To Whom It May Concern
I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the diagnosis I have been this way
So burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Couldn’t find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my veins with Chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Every time I shut my eyes, all I see is pain.
Made a little ribbon to remember all the names
So empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. I hear they are thinking surgery, hope it’s not my brains.
They’re only gutting fishes for their own personal gain.
So numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank  account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer. Where were you at the time of the crime?
Ripping up the Hippocratic oath, just to make a dime?
So chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer

You put your doctors in, they take their conscience out,
They take the human being and they twist it all about
So take my world away
chain my Life with hopelessness
numb my brain with Morphine
empty out my bank account
fill my veins with chemo
burn my body with radiation
Tell me lies about cancer– 

Adrian Mitchell’s structure.

Words by The Art of Breezy Kiefair

There is a cure for cancer…

how many beautiful women and men need to be butchered

because doctors want to run from the cure

for the sake of monetary gain?

Medicinal Cannabis Activist Creed

Medicinal Cannabis Activist Creed

This is my medicinal cannabis path.
There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My medicinal cannabis is my best friend.
It is my life. I must master knowledge of it, as I must master my life.

Without me fighting for it, my medicinal cannabis is useless.
Without my medicinal cannabis, I am useless.
I must represent the path of my medicinal cannabis life with truth.
I must debate more effectively than my opponents who are able bodied and trying to limit my rights to good health.
I must show my science to lawmakers before lawmakers imprison me or those like me.
I will.

Before my creator I swear this creed.
My medicinal cannabis and myself are valuable to the economy of my country.
We are the masters of our legislators, they are in OUR employ.
We are the Saviors of a life giving medication.
So be it … until there is no prohibition.

by Breezy Kiefair of The Art of Breezy Kiefair, an artist under the influence of cannabisReefer GurlKiefair.com, and Gardening Tips for the Medically Damned

Love the art on Kiefair.com?please visit:https://www.facebook.com/Breezy.Kiefair.likey

Love the art on Kiefair.com?
please visit:
https://www.facebook.com/Breezy.Kiefair.likey

based on The Creed of the United States Marine or “Rifleman’s creed”

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.
My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will…
My rifle and I know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, or the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit…
My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will…
Before God, I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.
So be it, until victory is America’s and there is no enemy, but peace!

Cannabis Parody of Children’s song “This Old Man”

This old man he rolled one…

He smoked it up with his son…

With a nick nack paddy whack roll us another bone…

This old man came toking home.

This old man he rolled two.

He smoked reefer till he flew.

With a nick nack paddy whack roll us another bone.

This old man came toking home.

This old man he rolled three

outta  out of his bag og home grown trees

with a nick nack paddy whack roll us another bone…

This old man came toking home.

This old man he rolled four

because today he was so sore

with a nick nack paddy whack roll up another bone…

this old man came toking home.

This old man he rolled five

cannabis oil helps keep him alive

with a nick nack paddy wack roll us up another bone…

this old man came toking home.

This old man he rolled six,

some men need weed to stiffen their dicks

with a nick nack paddy whack his girl is comin to ride his bone….

this old man tokes in his home.

This old man he rolled seven

smoking weed helps him talk to heaven

with a nick nack paddy whack roll up another bone.

Its spiritual use up in our home.

this old man he rolled eight

just so he could eat what’s on his plate.

with a nick nack paddy whack roll up another bone.

No chronic wasting in this home.

this old man he rolled nine,

after toking out he felt just fine

with a nick nack paddy whack roll up another bone…

this old man came toking home.

this old man he rolled ten

then handed ’em out to all his friends…

with a nick nack paddy whack roll up another bone….

this old man tokes in and out of home.

The classic children song

“This Old Man Nursery Rhymes”

This old man, he played one
He played knick-knack on my thumb
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played two
He played knick-knack on my shoe
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played three
He played knick-knack on my knee
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played four
He played knick-knack on my door
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played five
He played knick-knack on my hive
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played six
He played knick-knack on my sticks
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played seven
He played knick-knack up in heaven
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played eight
He played knick-knack on my gate
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played nine
He played knick-knack on my spine
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

This old man, he played ten
He played knick-knack once ag’n
With a knick-knack patty-whack, give a dog a bone
This old man came rolling home

more history from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Old_Man

Origins and history

The origins of this song are obscure. The earliest extant record is a version noted in Anne Gilchrist‘s Journal of the English Folk Dance and Song Society (1937), learnt from her Welsh nurse in the 1870s under the title “Jack Jintle” with the lyrics:

My name is Jack Jintle, the eldest but one,
And I can play nick-nack upon my own thumb.
With my nick-nack and pad-lock and sing a fine song,
And all the fine ladies come dancing along.

My name is Jack Jintle, the eldest but two,
And I can play nick-nack upon my own shoe.
With my nick-nack, etc.[1]

The more familiar version goes like this:

This old man, he played one,
He played knick-knack on my thumb;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played two,
He played knick-knack on my shoe;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played three,
He played knick-knack on my knee;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played four,
He played knick-knack on my door;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played five,
He played knick-knack on my hive;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played six,
He played knick-knack on my sticks;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played seven,
He played knick-knack up in heaven;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played eight,
He played knick-knack on my gate;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played nine,
He played knick-knack on my spine;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

This old man, he played ten,
He played knick-knack once again;
With a knick-knack paddywhack,
Give the dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.

A similar version was included in Cecil Sharp and Sabine Baring-Gould‘s English Folk-Songs for Schools, published in 1906.[2] It was collected several times in England in the early twentieth century with a variety of lyrics. In 1948 it was included by Pete Seeger and Ruth Crawford in their American Folk Songs for Children and recorded by Seeger in 1953. It received a boost in popularity when it was adapted for the 1958 film The Inn of the Sixth Happiness by composer Malcolm Arnold as “The Children’s Marching Song”, which led to hit singles for Cyril Stapleton and Mitch Miller.[3]

[edit]In popular culture

  • The song was parodied in The Two Ronnies skit The Plumstead Ladies’ Male Voice Choir, with funny verses such as: “Her old man, next to you/Needs a damn good talking to/Knick-knack, paddy-whack, now she’s in the club/He’s off boozing down the pub”; and “This old man, he played nine/He’s as bad as your’s or mine/Dick, Jack, Harry, Mack, Trevor, Doug or Mike/All old men are all alike.”
  • Columbo (Peter Falk) used to whistle this tune in several episodes.
  • In the Cheers season eleven episode “The King of Beers”, Norm awkwardly blows a job interview by complimenting his possible future boss’s pants and singing “This Old Man”, something Rebecca said she did when interviewing for her “dream job” at the House of Pancakes.
  • Nerdcore rapper MC Frontalot recorded a track on his album Nerdcore Rising by the name of “This Old Man”. The track’s refrain lines are done in the same meter and the lyrics describe an elderly rapper.
  • The song is referenced by Korn in their song “Shoots and Ladders” along with many other nursery rhymes.
  • Fiddler’s Green sang a version of “This Old Man” on their 2009’s Album “Sports Day At Killaloe” with eleven stanzas.
  • In Mad Men Season 1 Episode 4 “New Amsterdam”, Bertram Cooper whistles it after lecturing Don Draper on the company’s need to keep Pete Campbell.
  • The Wiggles covered this song with Sam Moran on Pop Go The Wiggles.
  • Barney & Friends changes this song with “I Love You”.
  • The song was heavily sampled “This Old Man” by Destiny’s Child in their song “Temptation” from their 1999 album, The Writing’s on the Wall.
  • Paddiwack Song by Ritchie Valens is a Rock and roll version of the song.

[edit]References

  1. ^ A. G. Gilchrist, “Jack Jintle”, Journal of the English Folk Dance and Song Society, 3 (2) (1937), pp. 124–5.
  2. ^ S. B. Gould and C. J. Sharp English Folk-Songs for Schools (London: J. Curwen & Sons, 1906) pp. 94–5.
  3. ^ N. Musiker and D. Adès, Conductors and Composers of Popular Orchestral Music: a Biographical and Discographical Sourcebook (London: Greenwood, 1998), p. 248.

[edit]External links

Shall We Call it Wail Oil or Phoenix Tears?

Its the bitter watches of the night and I wake. I ask myself what it is that has rousted me this day from my slumber. Its not near my body clock’s time of 4am…. There is a wailing in my mind and I must ask myself “whose pain is this?” for I know it is not mine. My body is aching with the storm on the peak, but I’d just found my center and there was no wail with in me like this to speak.

So trying not to wake the other in my bed, I sit quietly and listen to see what it is this wailing voice has come to seek. Its victims so many victims… victims of war, hungry ghosts of a corrupt system, victims of the human butchers and legal poison vendors, victims of industry and victims of hard work, being eaten alive by cancer and bodily disorder of so many shapes and forms it makes me shudder in vibration with this wail. And within me I hold an answer for so many a gift from above that I try to spread without regard to a patient station in life….. It is a wail of responsibility. It is a wail of the profiteer’s victims. It is the wail of prohibitions ugly head……

I light a candle to guard my heart from a wailing so deep in the thick of the night and I still listen to the voice in my mind reminding me of their plight. I sit a while with the lamb in my breath asking that higher than I to step in and take this wail up with my smoke to the sky. I ask for the means to bless those wailing with even a few grams of healing and hope cause I believe in doing what my creator said. And I know that this life and this path I have chosen for myself has never been easy but its not about self.

I give honor to the earth. I burn sacred sage of the earth and cleanse the darkness from my mind until light only remains. I light incense and honor the air. More candles glow and I honor the firey spirit of the soul and I soak in salted and perfumed waters and try to scrub away the victimization of these beautiful souls. Lambs breath fills my pipe and lungs and mind and I try to send a shining beacon of the creators light to these wailing in my mind and in the dark and in their own lives and pain… Dressed for the day I inhale organic tobacco and ponder quietly.

Then another presence comes upon my mind…. and I am taken back though the years and back in time. To a place and time where my body was not constantly sore…. Its boulder its Ginsberg its 1994. Its a little bookish Jewish dude who howled for his time and who brought me to his feet to sit for a time… You see he was my own personal poet willy wonka who saw a bit of my poetry and brought me on up to the Naropa factory to sit at his feet for the anniversary of his beloved school. It was Allen Ginsberg day in Boulder and I was with the master and yet a child myself….. I remember how he opened my eyes and smoked a blended herbal cigarette with me in an intermission…..

What dreams I have of you tonight Allen Ginsberg as you dreamed of Walt Whitman…. with sick people wailing in the night and my soul howling at the moon of my own inner madness.

I wonder where you are tonight while I feel so small and so responsible. I imagine you my zen master in your own nirvana or perhaps your here again in another body and another life… But from wherever you are I seem to hear your voice reminding me of the power of my pen and of the ideals to which you and I both try to keep. You wanted freedom of the plant and so do I. I’m trying to be a willy wonka for others where you were willy wonks for I… and so my musings and prayers and light intercessions complete I turn to what I can do for those wailing from where I am and put actions to the light that I keep.

And so I begin to wail for these folks online saying with my writers voice and my mighty pen:

I begin with this blessing: Virtual early Sunday morning tokes to all of the Rastafarian sacramental strain lambs breath. For me this strain quiets fears and calms my mind. It clears my mind and puts me in a space where i can enter my creators holy throne room with gratitude and peace instead of chaos and turmoil. It makes me still enough to hear the still small voice of my soul. It points me to currents and springs of strength and reminds me of the good i do. All of this i have for me i extend to you virtually and in energy and prayer.

Note***** There are two sacramental strains to the Rastafarian religion. One is called Lamb’s bread (I have never had the pleasure of smoking this strain) and it is said to have cola’s so large that the buds are sliced up like slices of bread. This is said to be more for dancing and rejoicing before the Lamb. Lamb’s breath is characterized by smaller dense highly resinous buds that are mellow, mind clearing and good for quiet contemplation.

I am still looking for new raw material sources to meet demand. I will pay $100 a pound for quality trim. I know a lot of you usually process your own trim but who cant use an extra few dollars around the holidays that the transaction goes to save lives? Call 719 480 0238. you must be in Colorado. I need bulk i need it quick.

I will travel anywhere in the state and negotiate on price for the right weight of the right stuff. I need trim that bad. I am trying to get people served as quickly as possible while longer term sources Relationships are in the works. Call 719 480 0238. A portion of any and all trim purchased goes to provide free phoenix tears to those in need that is why i need good prices. To put goodies into financially challenged cancer and severe illness folks hands. Lets get those free folks their Christmas presents and the paid folks what they deserve. It will make you feel good to give some people tears of joy.

The rest of you who cannot help with actions you may offer you energy to the task. Never underestimate the power of prayer in intercession for someone else. If we focus good vibes on those free peeps and paid peeps their lives can improve exponentially by far more than me just getting Their oil delivered to them. I invite you to join me in that intention…. No, i challenge you to.

Where is the heart that used to beat in this state for the less fortunate? Have you all gone mad with greed? I am willing to pay a fair price so i can give meds away for free. Will no one support me in that cause? Are you all so rich you can laugh at thousands of dollars? Are you all so unmoved by the plight of the less fortunate? Is there no one who believes in me filling hands where mine once needed filled? No one thinks its good to repay kindness by paying
it forward to others?

I just gotta get these people taken care of. For some it means hope to try for another year. There is a couple who lives on the street. One partner has bone cancer and has all but given up. When my oil is there they live as good as they can and enjoy what life they have. Without the oil bone cancer boy gives up. They cant pay and i don’t care. I wanna give them both some hope and quality of life.

There is a writer whom many respect respect within our community whose belly aches him to no end and he cant sleep among other serious issues that are more private. He works hard for our cause but cant afford oil. He is the very picture of a starving writer and artist with a good soul and I wanna get him some rest and comfort so he can continue to serve us all so well.

There is an awesome bud-tend who works for far less than he is worth. The shop he works for sells oil yet it is out of his price range. A grain of rice a day would stop him from needing a diabetic needle yet his pancreas is far overworked. I wanna be sure he can keep giving patients the strains they need with the brain in his head. I have never left his shop with anything other than a strain to treat exactly the conditions I am concerned about that day mostly due to his knowledge that keeps a wide variety of strains for a wide variety of ailments on the shelves and getting into the right hands.

There are Numerous ladies and gents with tumors praying to avoid chemo and folks hoping not to need their noses scraped off their faces Who cant pay and need mercy. How can anyone deny the value of what i”m trying to accomplish? will no one sell me the raw materials i need to enrich these lives. I have shared but the tip of the iceberg.

Someone calls these folks I’m trying to help jewels in my crown. I bristle at the suggestion. I don’t care about jewels in my crown. If the creator blesses me as such that is incidental. I give because i know need better than most and to repay the kindnesses done for me by good people when i had nothing.

I do it because someone needs to and far too many are far too concerned with profit. I do it because these are victims of a corrupt system each and everyone in one way or another.

And i do it because it is in my nature to do it. And to make my murdered son proud of me from where he sits waiting on me in the afterlife and to make his wait have meaning. Help me make these sick people’s wait have meaning too.

So if you have some trim and a heart call me at 719 480 0238 And lets bless some people together. If you have a heart and no trim please just keep these good folks in your thoughts and prayers or however you communicate with the universe offer some strength in the direction of one or more of these people. Don’t direct it at me please. The sick need your love and light far more than i do.

I ask again! Where is the heart that used to beat in this state for the less fortunate? Have you all gone mad with greed? I am willing to pay a fair price so i can give meds away for free. Will no one support me in that cause? Are you all so rich you can laugh at thousands of dollars? Are you all so unmoved by the plight of the less fortunate? Is there no one who believes in me filling hands where mine once needed filled? No one thinks its good to repay kindness by paying it forward to others?

And so I move from being woke in the night, to prayer, to action trying to get some help to those who need it most. Won’t you please help me? I want to buy raw materials to make them medicine. That’s all.

Some Raw Materials images purchased after this post:

This is some sugar out of one of our big bags of trim

GEDSC DIGITAL CAMERA

virtual tokes from my bag to your bowl.....some bud from an oil making bag of raw materials that came from an awesome friend — in Denver, CO.

virtual tokes from my bag to your bowl…..
some bud from an oil making bag of raw materials that came from an awesome friend — in Denver, CO.

You Can't see my pain with your eyes. The only thing that relieves my pain is Cannabis! You could never imagine the pain I suffer, yet you deny me my freedom.

You Can’t see my pain with your eyes. The only thing that relieves my pain is Cannabis! You could never imagine the pain I suffer, yet you deny me my freedom.

Would you like to pick my brain?

Would you like to pick my brain today? Will you hear me and just turn away?
Or have you come to lay siege to my heart and to watch me tear my world apart?
Have you come because you are a plant lover, or are you just a plant? Have you come to spew your political slant?

Do you find my content rare and lovely or are my words a beacon of woe for thee?
Do you remain watching because you love it when I stumble, or better still, waiting to see me fall? Do you understand anything about me or do you just laugh at it all?

I’m here every day I am able throwing myself on your digital table.
I research in hopes of an answer to cease the pain.
and ask you all to pray for Colorado Rain again….

I share what i find and I share what I make and get called a bitch and told I’m a fake.
Yet, Each day I say to all who will hear:
“Happy Wake and Bake… Virtual Hits my Dear.”
~ Breezy Kiefair of The Art of Breezy Kiefair

The LIterary LIneage of Breezy Kiefair

Preface:
My lineage is made up of many things, most of all experience, the experience of the ugly side of humanity. I was born to parents who cared little for me. They handed me off to one seemingly well meaning relative to the next, until there were none left to take me. None were left in my own bloodline who had any use for me. So I was passed on to friends of the family, and then to friends of friends of the family, until I landed in foster care, the worst fate of all. In my experienced opinion, the worst fate that can befall a child is to be raised solely by society. I learned to read when I was 3 years old, no thanks to my parents, only to my brothers and sister. I followed them around, with book in hand, begging them to read to me. It was the same book each time, a Chip ‘n Dale and Donald Duck Little Golden book with the cover torn off. I knew the letters on the pages had meaning. I could recognize the letters when written, and I knew that once they were strung together they made words. But I just couldn’t make out what those words were. I reasoned that if I could hear the those words enough times, I could unlock their code, and I did.

The Literary Linage of Breezy Kiefair
One magical day, after hearing a book a million times,
and knew the words of it by heart as I knew my ABC’s
the letters suddenly transformed before me,
and somehow, magically I could read!
From that moment on, I began to devour books to escape
from my childhood which was unfolding grimly before me.

I was subject to all kinds of abuse

Physical abuse (I was beaten to within an inch of my life more times than I care to count!)
Pedophilia, manipulation, penetration, endless mind fucks – (that hurt more than fists)

My emotions
were toyed with
and twisted with tautological terror,
until I had been taken down a peg one too many times and all that was left was a trifle!
I was a child given over to society to raise,
yet the only civility I found was in books – books I devoured with an insatiable appetite.
Learning my ABC’s served me well.
The author mattered not, whether it was fiction or nonfiction was irrelevant,
all that mattered was having a book before my face

so I didn’t have to deal with the ugliness of man.

I read of Archaeology and Alice in Wonderland
of Bibles and Biology, of castles and clichés,
of dictionaries and dinosaurs, of epochs and ecology,
of fiction and fact, of Greek Gods and Gatsby,
of hobbits and Howl, of idiocy and intelligence,
of journalism and jurisprudence, of knowledge and knights, of Kafka and Kerouac,
of love (which I dreamed about experiencing, but didn’t really understand)
of mysteries and molecules,
of narcotics (I got a very different education as an adult known as being street-wise)
and National Geographic
I read of oblivion and observance, oppression and orators, orchestras and overtures, of outer space, owls and the orient!
I read of pagans and pageants,
painters (and the whole field of visual arts, with which I began to experiment)
and paleontology, palindromes and pantomimes,
papacy and paperbacks, parables and parchment,
Paris and particle accelerators, passion and pacifism,
patents and plagiarism, patriotism and patronization
peace and the parvenu people
the power of pens, pencils, petitions and philosophy,
of pixies and plagues, planets and the profound,
pleasure and plots, plumage and posterity,
poetry and prose (I began to experiment with these almost immediately)
politics and pollution,
posthumous publishing, prayer and pride
primates, princes and princesses, pirates and probability,
persecution and protest, pseudonyms and the psychedelic,
psychiatry (foster care gave me an intimate enough knowledge of this) and pogroms,
and of publication (which I became mildly obsessed with attaining)
I read of queens and questions (all varieties…
the quaint, and the quixotic, the quality and the quarrelsome, all the quiet queries of man)
I read of races and racism, of radar and the radical,
realism and reverence, redemption and redundancy,
relativity and remorse, resilience and responsibility.
Revolutionary as well as routine ideas entered me through books.
Slowly I began to realize the sadism of the name
so salaciously supplied by those who sired me,
and words that symbolized “Me” began to seem sardonic in sound,
so I simply sacrificed it, and my new signification saved my sanity.
Outside the tales, my talents and tested “genius” withering in the wind.
All I am was continuously trampled on an left in tatters,
teaching me the inescapable cruelty of time.
Until I grew to be a teenager full of temerity teetering tumultuously.
My tenacity (and my nose in any book available) the only things
tenderly holding me back from terminating my own terrible tale
in tall tenement housing and government dorms.
Ubiquitous ugliness, ulterior ultimatums, umbrage un-abbreviated,
and umpteen unchangeable underhanded unjustifiable uproots,
let me know I was undesirable, un-lovable and would remain forever unknown,
despite my dreams
I was valedictorian – very nearly
(my GPA was the highest,
but the powers that be chose
to give the honor
to those among them
who had attended the school the full 4 years)
I valiantly struggled for my honor, but all in vain
so after graduation I voyaged.
wanderlust then took my feet, and I was on my way
wanting to wade into all that wonder I had found within the worlds
not wanting to wallow in the waste that my life had been thus far,
wanting so desperately to prove myself worthy of any literary lineage.
Much later, with Xanadu unattained,
I settled into xerothermic xyloid adulthood and obscurity.
YY chromosome grew within me,
yet as a young yearling he perished,
ever yoking sorrow wit me
a year later I fell ill, my youth gone,
illness making me old before my time,
yet I carry on, for a reason known to Yahweh.

I am no Zealot
(though I continue writing zealously)
My writing is the zeitgeist of my own soul.
My zenith my come if ever I am included in part of
someone elses literary lineage.
perhaps then I will finally be worthy of having a literary lineage.
written by Breezy Kiefair at Naropa
November 10, 2007

poem post resurrected from: https://www.greenpassion.org/index.php?/topic/19229-poem-the-literary-linage-of-breezy-kiefair/

Where Have All The Flowers Gone Parody for Cannabis Prohibition

Rewrtie of the lyrics to “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Pete Seeger

This additional verses were added to the song by Joe Hickerson. This song has been done by many artist over the years. I really love this live version by Joan Baez.

I have taken the liberty of writing this parody of the classic protest folk song for cannabis prohibition.

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time prohibition
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the flowers gone?
DEA picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young clones gone?
Long time prohibition
Where have all the young clones gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the young clones gone?
been uprooted every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where has all the young hemp gone?
Long time prohibition
Where has all the young hemp gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the young hemp gone?
Cutting trees instead for every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the l warriors gone?
Long time fighting
Where have all the warriors gone?
Long time I know
Where have all the l warriors gone?
Censored content every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time prohibition
Where have all the graveyards gone?
It’s sad, I know
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

“Howl” by Allen Ginsberg updated for the Occupation

Howl

Updated by Breezy Kiefair

For my friends, fans, and fiends

I

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,

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.

Howl

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters 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 jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

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

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

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

a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out 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, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys 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,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson 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 harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

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

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

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 decade,

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 burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue 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,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz 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 & loned 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 Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

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

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

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 madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’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 mother 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—

ah, Carl, 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,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 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 beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down 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.

II

Breezy Kiefair

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.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

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

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

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

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! 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 roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

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.

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland

where you’re madder than I am

I’m with you in Rockland

where you must feel strange

I’m with you in Rockland

where you imitate the shade of my mother

I’m with you in Rockland

where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries

I’m with you in Rockland

where you laugh at this invisible humour

I’m with you in Rockland

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I’m with you in Rockland

where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I’m with you in Rockland

where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I’m with you in Rockland

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

I’m with you in Rockland

where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

I’m with you in Rockland

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

I’m with you in Rockland

where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I’m with you in Rockland

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 Rockland

where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

I’m with you in Rockland

where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

I’m with you in Rockland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

I’m with you in Rockland

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

I’m with you in Rockland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the 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 Rockland

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

Footnote To Howl by Allen Ginsberg

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an
angel!
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!

The Story of Angels on the Pass from 1981

by Breezy Kiefair on Wednesday, December 22, 2010 at 3:17pm ·
Archangel michael

The Story of Angels on the Pass from 1981

By: Breedheen Keefer AKA Breezy KiefAir

It was the Winter of 1981. We lived in Grand Junction, Colorado. My child’s mind seems to remember that it was Christmas time, but isn’t any winter Christmas time to any child’s mind? My mother had gone out shopping. I’d been left with my father, my uncle, and his wife while ma was away. I remember that I had been sent to my room and told not to come out. After hours of playing alone, as I was often prone to do anyway, I fell asleep. I was jarred awake by the sound of my mother screaming. I cracked the door of my room to listen. She was angry because the quilt she had made by hand was ruined. I understood that there was blood on it. The rest I didn’t understand at all. I knew she was furious, and if she was furious, then my father soon would be too. I had heard enough to know that it was probably best for me to close my door and wait for the violence to pass.

I heard blows land, both verbal and physical. I cried and looked at my picture book wishing that I knew how to read. I just wanted to escape. In time, my mother came into my room. She was red in her face, and red on several parts of her body. She grabbed my little red jacket, picked me up, and put me on her hip. My two elder half brothers and full blood sister and ma with me on her hip headed out to the car and piled into it. My eldest brother was in the front seat with mom. I sat between my middle brother and sister in the back seat. As we pulled out of the driveway, a few snowflakes began to fall.

“Please Almighty, don’t let it snow too much. Don’t let them close the passes.” My mom muttered under her breath as she dried her tears.

“Where are we going mama?” my two and three quarters year old voice said.

“To Grandma’s, and I don’t think we are coming back here.”

I was puzzled. I saw that my brothers and sister didn’t even have a jacket on. My mom hadn’t brought anything with her like she usually did when we went over the mountains to visit grandma. We drove for what seemed like forever. The snowflakes got larger and more frequent. My brothers and sister fell fast asleep. Only my mother and I were awake in the car.

Finally, my mother got to the mouth of the lower pass. There was a road block set up. The snow had closed the pass. The officer smiled at my mother. “If you hurry, you might make it to Wolfcreek pass before it closes. Its a lot steeper and more dangerous, but if you have to get over the mountain with those kids, it may be your only chance.

My mother turned back to head for the higher, more difficult and dangerous pass. My adult mind remembering the event knows she must have been terrified and doubtful of her chances that the pass would still be open by the time we got there. The snow increased, it was a proper blizzard by the time we got to the entrance of Wolfcreek pass.

There were officers posted there too. My mom got out and checked her snow-chains as she was required. As we pulled to the entrance, the officer explained that we were to be the last car let over the pass. They were closing it behind us. He advised that she stay near the 18 wheelers, but don’t follow too closely.

So we made our way up the pass. The blizzard increased to a white-out. I remember the massive flakes flying at the windshield and my mothers wipers trying madly to keep up.

“Put angels around the car baby” my mom looked back and said.

So I did. I put my tiny little two year old hand in the air. Fingers extended and moved it in a circle.

“I’m putting angels all around the car. They are going to fly us over the pass.” I repeated over and over.

My mother’s face looked no less worried. The wind was howling, as it had been for hours. She was tired. I could see it on her face. Then, suddenly, all was silent. The car seemed warmer. We could see nothing out any window but white.

The silence hung in the air for a few minutes. And then I blurted out, “Mama, can’t you see the angel’s feathers?”

My mom looked at me like I was insane for a moment, then she really looked.

To this day, she swears she doesn’t remember making it to the climax of the pass, or making her way down, or much of anything before she got to the city limits of Canon City. But she does remember the warmth, the silence, and the feathers of those angels who came to carry us over the mountain safely.

This is one of my earliest and clearest memories. Believe it or not, that is your choice. I was there. Just thought I’d share.

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