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(
[sid] => 104038
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Channeling Bill Hicks
[time] => 2005-08-20 23:06:15
[hometext] => Channeling Bill Hicks by Chris Weige
[bodytext] => Channeling Bill Hicks (cw 1999.2000) Bill Hicks came to America elbowing clouds, buffering soft mad insanity with music and gut laughs. Bill Hicks came to America crooning odes to the sweetened angel Genius, surfing black-belted over eternity's ancient lakes and merry-go-rounds, staring down the masterminds for cunning applause. He resided as a preacher, as a poet, as a ravaged wolf sighing in the deepest wilderness. He called on tomorrow to report yesterday's demise and request advice - After All, what does one do with six gleaming eyeballs? When you've seen the ocean's *****oris swell for us how do you polish that and dance around your very own lips? You dig the illegal soul buzz, become a star warrior or slick western outlaw. You question it interrogate it watch the mantras fall; You lash out with the Original Eye and hash out these fibrous towers of lies; or coat your words with snazzy sugarcane lest they sting and permanently disrupt entire belief systems in one blow. Sword up and seek out the sordid truth through the madness of the world, the madness of the fathers and mothers and secret sites, the cave which holds dear your very own madness! Bill Hicks courageously wandered the sins of our forefathers, stomping totalitarian trick-sense, demonic crimes, put-ons for poverty ears and subtle, naive hearts. He looked look looked within the darkest movie of himself; he chased after it. Enormous truth-bombs became boomerangs in his path. He could taste it he could taste it - He slipped in the back door of humanity and valiantly spit back; he ventured to listen with some sense that all had been answered if one looked to find it inside - All could be remembered, unlearned. They called him a comedian, some assembling words honoring him as the greatest ever. After All, he was an Agent of Evolution, Poet, Priest, Philosopher. He had undoubtedly glimpsed the neon vein-strings of the universe across his palm, wigwagging right out in front practically begging to be eaten, begging to be swooning pools of pierced fog amongst firecrackers, the feel-good scene of the misery breathing this time: International Applause! So Bill adorned his lament with words arranged just so perfectly so that the song would bypass all fear of truth, wisdom, spirit in its listeners. Alive, breathing they were boneless and cackling, they were patterns of harpy hair and pigtail braids evoking joyous laughter. They spiraled from deep-seated pain, disappointment, anger; but mostly Love in the Eye of Adherence - the original seeds and gassy memories; these endless highways and jokes; all these new models. Bill Hicks spoke candidly as if alone in a forest. He uttered secrets and posed queries most punish or trap inside for lifetimes. The creation of an aria is a journey to behold, and Hicks took to the sky kicking the insane machine with chaotic blow after blow. Every thought became an evolutionary quest, a flower full of seeds sprinkled around closely quartered corners: Poet overstands the sleeping dream and explores, roams high-pitched hallways keen to glowing candlelight projectors, a feast-world suffering for existence; schizophrenic dust intertwined; waltzing sidewinder vistas under cedar door cracks leading to forgotten rooms with ascending vines and outlandish divisions of the Self and ALL are collected... He let them go, let 'em go like smoke rings when he hit the desert with its reportedly long-dead illusions, punch lines and roaring bellies hypnotized per-happenstance incrementally blind. Bill Hicks challenged every aching syllable, every wondrous moan. He gave himself to the thought of timelessness and the thought within that very thought succumbing to rhythm. He was not just another ranting panting black-blad comic - he believed fiercely the human potential limitless, the art of it ultimately. Bill Hicks cared enough to make us laugh until it hurt. The thing is, no matter how dangerous or discomforting the subjects, they were awakened, soulful, beautiful. They were manifestations of a deep and abiding Love that he imagined had been invented to stick to everything, though many had long ago forgotten. Poet never forgets. Will not run will not can't. Will sing atop tree bones, "We should! We should see! All is not what it seems!" Will jar the fairest beauty and bump, relish quakes and hurricane iris with wide-eyed awe. Will sniff true guts out along the trail and snort every flower, taste each ear's lobe, each nervous lip and flame. Will memorize pulse-mazes, the cockroach's lament; every flat tire and holy, holy high. Will spit into your mouth so you can taste him. Bill Hicks came to America to show us the detours. He knew what it meant to see the red fish in flight with one's own eyes. He memorized the recipe for an award-winning yard and kept well-organized notes on Vaudevillain nights - there exists a list of placebo invites and line upon line of names. Bill investigated the upgrades and payoffs, even the sky itself coming down in shards. He knew very well that the mice were blind to Van Gogh's lobe and Global Ear yet kept on and fought the storm for the sake of a new dream new scene some better way to be rather than a better way to pretend. Bill Hicks came to America to get lost in caverns with hungry bats who can't read, taking only thirty-two years of the age to sanctify nights and lifetimes of timeless centuries with funny ***** you lines and classic air guitar breezes. "I am the door," he says. "I am the electric glove. I came here to chew the blues and fire the alarms, not simply breathe." He had the nerve and faith enough to lay before us his soul, his thinking brain & devilish thoughts. This was the true mettle of his integrity and foundation of his performance - absolute devotion to candor. Where the shell clowns tired of the trapeze Bill merely held on tighter, seeing with even sharper eye that most of the smiles weren't real. He came to America, became America, with no time but ever, with nothing less than a miraculous echo, a prayer ending with a fateful peppered plea: AWAKEN! He trembled and scolded for a second's worth of soil down metal infinity throats up from which erupted fields of ball masks and spit-shined halos. Bill never flinched; only raised his voice, brought the wonder of insightful jabs, brought the note that said every heart is a doorway and every soul a breadcrumb along the path. "Vary the story in your dreams," he says. "It's not the ocean, it's the sky!" Don't you see ? Our palms are maps, our eyes portals to the Source, our fingernails hundred dollar bills. Kiss your dog and you'll find your cure. Bill HIcks played from his heart, his insane humming mix and re-stored rite; his animated words were the show, the imminent light and band. Each and every syllable, gesture, and shadowy groove on caravan rocket-ride along the prickly purple horizon at the edge of vast and intricately veiled No-No Lands. There were times he could hardly breathe, so irate shaking his fists and hips at a sea struggling for peace, stowing away on extensive visions, warping vaporized years into Meat around a lonely rusted tin barrel burning with notions of flags and fake riots, deep women and leaky rooftops bleeding. With every approaching boat a slave song docked; heydays, fast cars, every blink nearer the fallout of a most perfect nightmare. Shrouded drips of sound: To the universe a vision; to Creation romantic tirades along the pier in secret meetings where poets are lined up to trip, all wind-blown remarkably perfect whispering sacrificial odes off the edges of glassy green spoons - hard-on strategy gem: Last second comeback: Bill with microphone transmitter in continuous wave with magic stool and good cobra sly-eye; with big death and eternal birth jokes daring the removal of the word coincidence from all diction-aries for there was no such, none such, never one to none thing in this life. Lexicon! For far too long now a million naps per night in your drunken, sheepish shearer guise... Sensory overload achieved & at a glance at a glance it All makes sense: Tremendous pupils strip bare on sand dunes binding; cowboy-philosopher-rock-god-crown; bow sign restored, divine. Poet will not be programmed, will not be the unwitting nephew of any unseen hands; will stow away long and slow, will fantasize in empty, white cat-jack rabid pastures and likewise among the urban ruins where the edge of the earth is difficult to perceive. These words are the show. These words fertilize fetishes and fester for tongues unjustly removed or tied by the cacophony of Fear; for frogs in slow-going hot water pots and pictures, united in plain-sight seclusion... Bill Hicks came to America to scream. He was the Free Man chasing the thief, the sage at the tail end of a saga waiting to land. He bared our fears and contradictions for anyone who would listen. He took on visionary climax even when he felt cheated, let down, spent. He knew with no uncertainty that one can't step in the same river EVEN ONCE , that death was just a word man-made to cushion the blow of the Ultimate Ecstatic Remembrance: Evolutionary leap in the belly of broad harmonic groove; a purring engine; the one true cigarette; the dream that felt a bit too real; the tear that became an ocean and spawned a thought; the ink writing this: What does flying mean to a penguin? What does light mean to a blind man? What does comedy mean to a poet? It means everything. . All rights reserved. Copyright 1999-2005 Chris Weige / Reckon [comments] => 2 [counter] => 211 [topic] => 49 [informant] => RECKON [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => mystical )
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