Back in the 90s, our neighbor Dan Moriarty, was an old man ready to spout whatever gibberish Nick put in front of him. We loved him.
During the occupation, we had a preoccupation with going nuts. We had to eat the shells with the nuts. We had to sell our jewels. We were stuck in the Attic which was hot as hell, stuck in our ruts and feeling unwell. We had to climb into our shells and not show our true selves until our true selves were untrue to us. So, being the whatever we are that we are, we ask them to leave. But, then someone was afraid they might never come back. So we caved in, put up with their lousy table manners, such as the clattering of dishes, the tattletale signs on the scales of the fishes, the tablecloth tears, the splattering of stuff on the stairs, the scuffing up of cuffs, the flushing of the flares, the hairs and fluff in our drains, the cares in our brains is if we hadn't had enough, the pushing around with their canes of our earthly remains, the putting on of masks, the putty made from clams in casks, the claims on our poor puttering old Eternal paternal grandfather, the reliance on the grandfather clause despite all its flaws, the incest with the in-laws, the becoming of because, the sipping of something thick through straws, the cat calls from the claustrophobic strobe light closet that woke us up after a late night deposit, the no deposit no return policy of the Return of the Native Nativity scene, the policy of permitting polygraphs in our naive scene, the secret police at the scene of the scenic overhang, the scene by scene, Blow by blow breakdown of our nervous breakdown and the bad breakup thing, the break-ins in the pantry, the scandals that wore through our sandals and seemed so slanty after the scanty learning we got in college, the freaks from rhe shanty town, the frenzied fear when the sun goes down, the free love and frottage that some suspected went on out in the cottage, although we never went out there because we were too nervous that the night patrol might pass, that the snakes in the grass might try to put a cap in our collective ass, so instead we collared our corollaries and collaborated, collecting samples to the many analytical critic passed, we would attain critical mass, and explode and implode until we are at an inane impasse, and were granted asylum, put in insane asylums along with the other infectious fellows from our phylum, put under lock and key in the penitentiary, put down and pissed on when we had to pee, then they put up our parole sessions until after the next century, put us in the center of the yard with three three armed armed sentries with us and their gun sights, put us into little cells until we got into fist fights, and we couldn't put up with it anymore, and we agreed to their terms, their terminology, and their terminal illness.
Free Radicals sends a new collection of Palestine solidarity and anti-genocide music to the world, and to our rapper and
friend Beesh in Gaza.
Without a phone, electricity, food or water, and with bombs dropping all around him and his daughter, we hope he's still alive and not in pain....more