Thursday, February 15, 2018

The Testament of Adam

Old Adam Snores

Adam was saved from death & put on the stole of glory...

-Cave of Treasures 51: 20-23 
 We are, we feel
a shunted thing
homunculus of our own 
sloughed off
cradled & unAbeled

mind unsound 
broken in spirit, in body bowed

O, Adam! Immortal!!
trembling monument to 
First Father Figure
the one who
of precursors none
his curse's cant
the obituary of all my incarnations

moulting an ornithology of wings
men litter the sky
lit by untempered demons
nomadic ash, fugitive dust
of cowardice & courage
the soul campaigns
to furnace ash a finer mill

long smouldering
barely lit & sputtering
embalm this fire
& call it a day
 Hevera Devera et Cetera
 a temple in man
exconjuratory in ruins
rubedo gone awry
every third thought
the magic of tears
recovering sonorities of the Rapunzel Suite
summoned by her black skirted billows
the tolling of the 13th bell

vaulting the stampede of circumstance
in the still embrace
of Before and Everafter
the two arms of Eternity
Hereafter apriori
wherewhen confounds 
the go-between
scampering therebefore

and there the robin dropped his worm-white sign

clock unfroze
a flock of crows
stroking the balls of
the bell
the cockledoodle
lock down

what is this moment
stripped of its crypto-currencies
fashion's tattered brocade of empty epithet

an aeon yawns Old Adam
dimly seen in the zodiac arcade's
unseemly spooky action at a distance
what lips may moan its name
portent of doom and all looming 
intrigue of terrorjoy?

before the pulse and demesne
of clockworks ratcheting
into hatcheries of soul

a fractured thought
unmarked deficiencies
deface the mask
of these aeternal goodbyes
by seasons weathered

honor these vulnerabilities
descending into dust

Madam I'm Adam
lone below
in the cool of the evening

I in Everyman
 I, in my broken Adam
through shattered worlds
& scattered sparks
the Tree of Life's
cradle craft & broken bough
fruit unfallen
wings for the furthermost

created a crown
but craved to crawl
there she found me
in the desolate garden paradox
where everything promised
her pilgrim soul
Mammograms from Eve
 I am the jealous store-house of candle-ends

That lit your adolescent learning"

-from: Songs to Johannes- Mina Loy
 "If we had worlds enough & time

this coyness, dear, would be no crime"

 -Andrew Marvell

circumscribe the libeled bride
her sugared refineries
the muse that dares
the daemon dotes
demolishing etymologies
& fable quotes

suckled on outlaw milk
& mutterkorn
the dreams of matter
lactescent squeal
blood writes in ritual
sleeps seeping
beneath intimate & unknown
veins & membranes
tissue & terrain
surge uncurl the chambered
tabernacles of the living

she told me her name
the one she had chosen for herself
Her Tides
what is this ocean 
that pours from my shores?
I stand
combing dolphins from my hair
as slumber ebbs
of these powerless hours
in every grain of sand
these final forces freed
the microgram & the atom
creation destruction
whispering into the abyss
my precious antiquities
by Love bequeathed
skry a driftwood druidry

and I, dreaming
neath thy mermaids throne
hath seen
Dominions dark
Principalities, virtues

she in her
shouldered cape of isotopes
& boots of Spanish weather
her tides
& by the heavy artillery
of her soul

lusts wrapt
in the measures of surf
& seizures of thunders
from within
dabble in sunset explorations 
of self
ebb, return as tears

there are no left-overs of wisdom 
at the end of things

erect, then
and make of it a mast
last to vie
with the Siren's final cry
Sister Before the World
 when the first sister 
bade fire her body consume
from the ashes a paradise arose

-this the hummingbird 
from its office of nectars relays
whispering into the abyss:
"the butterfly is equal to the wind"

let these words an altar be
in that temple of ravishments

we fashioned there
tentative conjunctions
fervent alchemies
an eidolon unformed & void
for a descent of incense
rose arising
from the bower of your ash
this slumbers affliction
urn of my heart's repose
a dithyramb's alembic

how lonely was I
for thee Muse
I could never call my own
for shame of ardor
& a thespian distress
abcessed & mute
to fetch forth the kernal & corona
lambent & lustrous
the shame of poets
plundered of dark vapors
from sibilant vaults
the pried fibre from shroud & caul
this unprofitable commerce of Shade
to pay for that emergency operation
the tracheotomy of word
to free Her
that she might live again
a breath of relief
Tracheotomy of Word
fashioned in the forge of misprision
there are words at the
heart of things
that ask us to hear

it is not through memory alone
that we have heard their
but through the calm bewitchments
they have lain upon us
by charm's grace hither

entice this entanglement to cohere
curdling upon the tongue
siphoning phonemes
to free these heathen partridge
singing unbearable cherubs
of despair which hover

dark lunar kernel
into parcel poured
haunts me with its
unpronounceable hounds
an accomplishment of
tarnished volts
& unbolted consonants
capacitor incapable
of current

O little Monster
come forth from your merry shell
in triumph's talon

the star in man
will rays him
hold this charge

Wild Holy Boys
 cruisin' for a gutenburger
wild holy boys, we roared
rapt in our roaratorio's
throwback's fossilized

upon common battalions of stone 
& wrapt fierce in thy bitumin shawl
we had coaxed these
engines of transformative delight
to sing with changes
to purge & flourish
our flowers of anticipation
their bouquet abandoned
long years hence

all poem
in their own subsistence
asaphoedita pearls
though I may make neither
hide nor hair, head or tail
of them
-do they admit their authors?

bad taste is in the mouth of the beholder

escape the confines of ensorcerating tongue
a tale told & story signed
an autograph all our own

so spread your bread with stutter
and honey it with word
shutter both your eyelids
& pray you never heard

breathless is best
stir me deep
O daemon sleep!
 burrowing into the brood
daemonic incubations
living now on spiderdust & lacy
inchworm lingerie
laundering ashes
& verities honed through polished evasive gazes
smoke comes from our eyes in aimless signals
betraying origins

the stirring of leaf
& murmur of winds unseen
cures the serenity from my blood
this sibylline listening
ushers me on

loathe to commit blasphemies
to the visible wave-lengths of light
silence sews its silver thread
from Diana's quiver
to repent the urgencies of word
sprawled in chains

I shed  the pwned chlamys of Hermes
naked with discovery
our ravelry is ended
a stitch in time bespoke
sewing wild oaths
 echolocation in the land of the dead
domain of the impulse
my heart had a concussion
& whispered some final secret
I've forgotten
spellbindings all ravel down to the
bald palimpsest of nought
nothing up this sleeve
& the hands gone missing

why lift this lid of ashes
& stir the cruel wind of memory?

secrets out
perhaps the dead 
communicate by symbols
we have yet to imagine

bird looks underwing:
-did I just fart?

abacus bonepearls undimmed
symbologies broadcast
from the Orisha Radio
correlate with us
counting the ancestor forth
in whisper's rhythm

dead & well read
geographies of my impassable land
where goeth I
vanished in abundance
and yet there lingers
a nameless
writhe & roil
 Arbor at the End of Day
 to harken unto daemon
or muse
is not to kneel
for what authority in
a conversations of aethers 

what counsel with clouds,
a pillar of fire?
a conference then
dark speech of ravens adream
where I purchase my ink

via mirrored curtain of the 
afterlife, this
"styx of quicksilver"
communes through the 
not one wink
 queasy greasy
wipe your chin
eager ogre chew
no marrow within the morrow
a sparrow then 
to sue for your hollow sorrow

losing weight's a worry
a pound of flesh the loss
a bright & golden tongue
when once a wordsworth was

profess thyself no poet
tis for silence to attest
word secretes in shadow
to shape the lips a jest
Assayer Prayers: 
 cold pie for breakfast
& peonies in the rain
hot coffee cupped
in cold hands grateful
children, their mother
and the cats
butterflies that listen
fireflies that dance
peepers that stamp out winter
and the songbirds' rendition
of tyrannosaurus romance

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

    casket moth

a fluttering remark
of braile fettered breath
falters in dark
languish for letters
but for a loss of the spark


Thursday, January 11, 2018

Friday, January 5, 2018

'Clinging to the Old Boy's Briefs
                             - for Allen Gurevitz, Poet

chasing the wild geese
feathers caught up in the wind
grabbing at thin air


I'm in a dance to woo all illusion

will you be the one
to love mirrored in zero?
twice I am your twin


slow dance hold me close
you don't even need to move
when the oyster shouts

listening to you
that the secret of life is
you can talk to me


I squeezed my baby so hard
my button-flies blew
in the back-yard
now I'm 1/2 her & she's 1/2 me
we're dancin' swell with our one body


vowell movement

the lead toad of
lanced the petunia's
with its gold tongue


amoeba mob
synechdoche of family
what is me is you


what does the tooth faerie
do with your tooth-
carve petroglyphs
amongst the stars
in a tutu


3 kids & the art of war

blue Farfisa in my head
leslies full throttle
Civil Defense sirens; this was
just a test


raccoon viscera gleaming to the sky
no predator but
just some dream thunder in transit
dislocating the soul
grim the riptide
& victims of its whim...


the meadow is that
which may be mown
mead from the meadow made
ne'r shall be
tho honeydew is
meadowsweet's very own
this thirst remains
ere thirsty


wild roses explode in hand-
prints bequeathing perfume
amongst the gulag of thorns
where dwell the spirit songs
of birds


outside the carnival
lonesome train blows
raw as a cock's crow her
blowtorch lipstick
boiled crawdad & henna
apple flames in her mouth
-flaying knife laid
to the ruse


the finger of silence =
the measure of chameleons


that sweet old thing her
tambourine of dentures
tosses up a mean tango


drunk-boxing eyelids
see girl in blown
pear petals
waiting to cross street


wake up hangover!
nuthatch & mate carrousing
in the window


very old man walks
in wild flower spray of Spring
eating ice cream cone


crone diploma

ruby red rose has
in the theatre of
memory, I yell


why bruise this flower
effortlessness overworked
perfume so fleeting


Make Belief

All I am
is a wish
for Everything you are
and I am coming true


when the crow calls out
doubling over with laughter
Spring's private joke flies


Sunday morning bray
motel full of righteous hooves
shhh, tiptoe to God


a perfidy of Haiku

this donkeyskin suit
gift of the Elven King's ire
fits like a prayer!


"prohibit sharply the rehearsed responses..."
-W.H. Auden


Dharmatot says:

Perfect Insight Comes
when Mind is finally still
She rises on top


for the One in Exile

The Perfect Insight
occurring, She eclipses!
distinctions vanish!


365th Lament

Nest of thorns atop the ayrie
cold kindling of briars
upon the hearth disposed.
No place to alight,

-maybe later


Dabbling in Babel
is not the same thing as
The tree that grows these apples
does not fear
the worm
I keep covenant with the union of wisdom
& she makes believe in me;
her pretend protege


may the crown of your achievements
adorn your head
triumph of horns


may the crown of your achievements
compliment the appointments of your antlers


even the stoutest craft
finds occasion to quench
the thirst of its anchor


Hermes in a hot-rod
blond crew-cut & mustache
very polite
"let's go!"


treasure fruit
whose peel hath no surface
whose curve delights


wounded by exposure to the elements
sustained by the nourishment of secrets
I pass
between the stars
lighting small fires
to make the medicine
that heals the Diagnostician


whither which way
shepherdess of sphixes
lambnapped and in Arcadia
knight errant of the doleful countenance
lord of misrule
shaft that pierced the
swansong in limerick
there was a madhatted hyperbole
that sipped upon unzippered
gerbil tea
when it had it go
wouldn't you know
you wouldn't and so
it went when it shouldn't
downstreaming your neck
most gracefully

joust with demons of the deep
millenery mills & hapless sheep
I'm always on my way
it's hard enough to tell a monster from a mill
much less a madman from a saint
therefore, if you'll excuse me
I'm always on my way
my religion neared extinction
when your patriarchs were swaddled tots
but I stumbled into Bedlam
collecting up stray thoughts

I burned
torched sunset desert of cactus
my heart
crumbling needles
ash in the wind


Iris aura oracular
with eyes on the prize
observe the shifting
seasons of the Graal
to deserve a response
one must quest for position:
Almanac index
pronoun of sundials


sun tea, samores & Paracelsian sugar star jellys

"cooked" or "uncooked" poetry
I want the Adamica Lingua
oratory & laboratory
or as my hands press together
Romeo samores/prayer sandwiches
the kitchen as Holy Place
where I may take my meals
ingrediants chosen w/care
seasoned with the
immortal spice
of Wisdom's recipe
Alchemical step by step
but does the work stop
in the kitchen?
must it not proceed
room by room
ineluctable fengshui
from North to South
to East to West
cooking, shitting
sleeping, rising
the house entire
room service proffered
on a fine gradale;
that is, the geomancers
Lo Pan-
banquet for the retinue
of Heaven


There is no Distopia
or Utopia
Civilization is just
an old beggar
rattling his false teeth
in an old tin cup


Gepetto from these
splinters of grief
buoy at the bottom


these words owe their liberation
from the celibacy of my pockets
-may pleasure be their ransom


the heart of man is
a tangled beast
call for the Huntress
before yousend for the


Diablo Mascara
King of the Hummingbirds
navigating south on his
birch bark canoe
studies the papyrus
charts intently


the little shits
that make up rules
Elelectroshock Maggots
the wannabe lawyers
of the world, Maldororize
em all


Mystic sleuth &
Hear the wheeze
of the Geezer as he
peddles his fondue

Honeycutt Markham Bodhisavaha


Sacrifice of Father Time

the old geezer's a gonner
don't wait around & watch him wane
need be no question about
just gift-wrap that
bullet to his brain


Haunted House

sometimes a great notion
conceived in your head
jumps on the radio


into the blue
smoke skeletons dissolving
always never mind


I gotta libate
my parchment


the vaults of the


moment to moment
through the weeping pine
needles stretch
the forest floor


parked poets of Kirkwood
forth from your office cloistered
all dirty dinky & drdee
to the heights!
to the heights!
The Magic Forest awaits


even dead roses
may dust off the
keys at midnight
-88 doors to eternal
no skylark's


Down in Bog Squalor

its ruthless in the
grip of God
though your fists
rail gainst the
pillar of Mercy
salvation is a
long ways away-
and another day,
another dollar damned


59 obituaries later
hazard of the annual
orbit overdue


Once, in the great outback of the Hideho Gardens,
Jemima Kittlewick cooked a Rambo of BRBQ.
The Drunken Boat had a wet bar, Saison D'Enfer the menu,
and Illuminations provided the musical entertainment.
Trolleyback lollipop oer d'euvres.
Meentzy Tendertoe there with his toothpick & razorback harmonica.
Jemima unbundles her brassiere with the aid of varmint's contraption.
Halleluja! The amplitude of her banquet suffices.
Now, retie your shoelaces & zip up your leverage-
Time marches on no empty stomach.

"Ach Du Libra
Quoth the Zebra"
-Ken Kesey


black sheep
vex the flock but
it ain't no badge of courage
still its just a fuckin' sheep


those who dare
win favor of the gods
must first look them in the


well, I'll be a poached
fevered bowell
skinny midnight
marmoreal & savage
mozzarella pallid


like the werewolf
I have better things to do
than work at night-
say, labial swashbuckling
for instance


cigar consort
escaping heavenward
"Maybelline, why can't you be true?"
her ecstatic lips
writhe with inscrutable
Life's purchased smoke


At the Flim-Flam
the burden of sustenance
overwhelms the
appetite for discovery


been a Buddha, beaten
bought and even obeyed
O baby
: : : : : : :
"Look into the mirror
of your mind
which is mahamudra
the mysterious home of the Dakini"

Owed to Ernest

Trudy kept a booth
both tooth & booty
that is all ye need
forever know


fetching babe bones
& pursuit of the
Doom Booty
and there
the Glory of Carnival Rum
tumbled to a deleterious perfection
all told in a singular tattoo
invisible on the angel's cheek
solemnly received
in the one human tear
fallen from that
all seeing eye


grafitti written on Indiana University Arboretum's bridge 3/18/2011:

"Lysergic Acid
what could be better in Spring?"

-Evidence yet for Life on Planet Earth


my party animal
was murdered in my
sleep, however:
on the endless safari
to find another;
the ghost of the beast
still dwells within me


her marshmallow split open
& all this make-up fell out
-harvest of Portalet Farms


dappled sunlight
fever in the flower
thirst that filled
halls of hazel hallows
fear in a handful of dust
hyacinth anniverary
[this abutted up against Swinburne's:

"For the glass of the years
is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; A littlle
soul for a littlle bears up this corpse which is man"]


I'm ready to return
now to the Paradise & Eve
my air, earth,
thirst & fire ascends in
the east, descends in
the west; through arctic north
and meridian south
riven awrest from
Grandmother Twilight
my blood no longer pallid
etching from my tale
leached chromatic ichors
fabulum made whole



mingled minutiae
with horae
Aeonic in soliloquy
A season seized
A snivel sneezed
Lips be still, shut squeezed
Hand that writes, hold
be teased


Little Miss Flipper Britches
immerses into the sea's
secret pages
savin' her scallop shells
for a rainy day
midst the landlubbers
I really have a thing
for her. I feed her
cherries & ice cream (peach).
Hope she keeps
me around a while...


San Blas Haiku

Garnet board
Hang nail
gently gives the finger to
old Pain in the Ass



The taste of ash, regrown
callouses beneath the nails
all that's left of touch
climbing intangible walls
echoes of exile
retrace a path of
Bloom & thorn-
inveterate hound in the blood
have you lost the
blind & gone to seed?


On Victory:
In a contest here below
there are only losers
because we are all
daubed from a confabulist's


when the glossary of the tongue's
a garden slug's slithery
demise, meaning-
less petroglyphs

as it ventures
like the suffering of a
wick in the lantern
embrace this immolation
for the sake of sputtering
and call it light?


cicada tremolo
jewell of the touch-me-not
virgo skinnydipping


broken fingernail
crumbling cupid
moth candelabra
old moose lost
 in a boudoir
bellow for bordello


To wake w/roses
midst thickets unkempt
what wonders
we imagine we've dreamt


why deny transition's impresse
her charged charm within our
secret mode & hieroglyph?


Poet's toothpick

no mumble mouth Mr. Ed
Pegasus bit
these crumbs stuck
tween teeth

offending bit once freed
then free these crumbs



To regard the goddess
each day I go
my trollop lightly

reduce the arcane
arm-twisting of Death
to the still embrace
of Before & Everafter
the two arms of eternity


Walpurgisnacht offerings

the tears of frankincense
a demitasse of mead
4 honeybuttered cakes
beneath the wild rose
there in the dark
I thought to float
a votive flame in the pool
of Aphrodite
for the world burst forth awonder


O Sea Harem Hotty!
wet dreams
inner vaults, outter banks


the golden gates
of the Finch Pagoda
glow in the setting sun
our song ripens


conquering empires of my own
this tale of moments unseized
while anxiety awaits


old doubtfire hisself

with the jesters all gone
God jokes
I could rule the world!


little ms. muppet sat on her puppet
eating her cottage cheese
along came the director who sought to correct her
by offering her lines on his knees


sweet little candied raddish
in the honeysuckle
hummingbird undisturbed
by my lavish huckleberry outhouse


dangling lingual-berries
elude the ass
spellbound, sputtering
clinging to the Old Boy's


choice cuts

no longer at the door
the beast has made a place
for itself at our table
maintain pleasant
dining conversation



of grace or regret
words can't say
with holy fire her journals burn
evidence of a wondrous & unruly era
here & gone
vanished like the treachery of magic


True, 'tis but a cheap conjurer's trick
ending the attentions of Posterity
I gather this
gone to the Wilderness
to leave no trace


we recite the cuckoo clock
to ourselves


before the rosebud
spill from the Hummingbird Tavern


This dark carnival
we have dragged into Springtime
-the ticket you left behind
               -for Art


"Arturis sepulcrum nusquam visitur"

Arthur's grave is nowhere seen
gone to the Isle of Apples
Merlin lingers


held these wounds
to be self evident
whimpering stylus
a lifetime of inscrutable
forgave it all to hear
briar-rose of Springtime


where the rose bit the bony beet
in exchange for some imagined
the bruise that blooms sucks
sour watermelon candy


Lament on the Brevity of Breaks

wicked clock
gobbled coffee so quick
nearly torched
the luscious tome too
alas unfinished
that might cool these
heated words
with jitterbug perfume


old fool parked in piñata
takes crash course in
punch lines
zen & chuckles


life is too long
to be a haiku


dangling from the
alley of lost continents
the monkey on your shoestring's
last tango to the outer limits


mail order bride

He wasn't at all like she expected,
a deficiency wrapped in dog collar, bourbon & bow tie
but he played a pretty good game of miniature golf
naked in the rain


which came first
the forest or the tree

beneath the veneer of consciousness
a profound rot


roadside laid waste
by the blind idiot god's bush-hog
setting free the milkweed
awaiting Monarch's wing


The Wealthiest Poet & the Million Dollar Poem

No matter what you see
threading camels
your words will come
unstitched, gone
scraping through
by the skin of your teeth



as the bow of the new moon
aims at the seething light of the failing year
a paradise empties
mourning there may never be
but a twilight of houris lingers, bereaved
unable to hold those warriors lost
to the endless night


Old Goat

nuzzling nymphs
on the threshold of heaven
toss the meager salad of his scalp
another unrepentant Last Supper

Friday, September 25, 2015

Gargling With The Gods of the Underworld

Gargling With The Gods of the Underworld

                               The Abyss Yodels Back

Bob Braudis said..."I miss him. When shit pops up, like when Deep Throat was outed, I thought,'What would Hunter say?"
-William McKeen: Outlaw Journalist: The Life and Times of Hunter S. Thompson 

"Nobody doubted that Carl and Bob had tapped a main source. Deep Throat was the tap-root, the man with the final credentials.His motives were never made clear, except in some giddy gray realm of "morality," and the rape of his personal ethics. "

"In the legend he is a figure like Socrates, a man of long reach and wisdom, too smart for his work and obviously Not Like The Others."

 He works for the President, but his hero is William Burroughs and his knuckles have grown together like crushed roots... his name down at the 15th and "L"  in the newsroom was "Deep Throat."
 Some people knew, but not many. Scott Armstrong* knew, along with Oscar Acosta and a senior stewardess for one of the airlines. We even kept it from Frank Mankiewicz, who knew almost everything else. It was one of those things that seemed better, at the time, not to talk about."
 April 14, 1986
         - HunterS. Thompson: Generation of Swine; They Called Him Deep Throat

[*Scott Armstrong was a journalist for the Washington Post during Watergate and childhood friend of Bob Woodward.]

 "With the Watergate thing, what we took great pride in here was that it didn't really have much to do with the President himself or the office. It was more the fact that the people, and the press, actually did run the country and that we could throw out a crooked President and there was a great amount of pride in that.  ...We took great pride in that we could throw him out. You know, chase the bastards out of Washington. And somehow there was a great celebration of the power of the people after Watergate. Hell, I did it myself; I was proud of all of us. And somehow that has not carried over. There was a great celebration but it was honoured more in the spirit than the reality."
   -Hunter Thompson interview with Jack Thompson:  "Studio for Men", [an Australian magazine similar to GQ.]  February 1989.

On Karma - "It's extremely bad karma to brag about things you've gotten away with. I'm a great believer im karma in a profound sense: You will get what's coming to you."
  -Hunter Thompson Interview with Tim Mohr for Playboy, Dec. 2004

 "Dr. Thompson, Is it true that you are the real Keyser Soze?

I've been accused of that, it's a good question. Say yes. ...That's a very intelligent question and I compliment the person that asked it."
 - interview with Sara Nelson for Book Report, June 1997

ON FATE: " I'm doomed all my life to violent actions. I'm closely associated with the gods of the underworld—not crime so much but the underworld."
  --Hunter Thompson Interview with Tim Mohr for Playboy, Dec. 2004

Norma Jean Thompson: "Are you afraid of death? HST: No ... No. There is no death."
-NuCity Goes Gonzo, NuCity Press


On February 21, 2005, the day after Hunter Thompson's death, I got a call from a guy known in certain Colorado circles as "The Mess of Snowmass." It was no casual nickname. He was a real wreck. He was the kind of guy who often bumped into Jesus Himself around dawn, so I wasn't surprised when he woke me at 4 AM with a story about having Hunter's final writings in hand. I was curious; I knew he knew Hunter and that they'd once shared a close common friend. But they also shared a penchant for wild fictions. There was reason that week to be worried about my friend's state of mind, as the death of French porn queen Karen Lancaume had thrown him into an obsession with suicide. Plus he suddenly wouldn't shut up about his weird idea that Hunter fucking Thompson was Deep Throat.

This was three months before Vanity Fair outed Mark Felt, but Throat had been in the news due to a rumor that he, whoever he was, was near death. At first I figured that my friend was just playing with that story; Hunter had been unwell and had spoken before about suicide as succor to the sick. But the Mess insisted that he was telling the truth. "They're going to name this Felt, but it was Hunter," he kept repeating. "He says it in the note, I'll show you."

A friend I talked into checking on the Mess called later with news that there was indeed a "note," a food-stained photocopy of what looked like a typewritten document. She had no clue where the thing had come from; all she could say for sure was that our friend hadn't written it. He was a lovably lousy writer and remained so until his death, which, when it finally came last year, came accompanied by its own note reading simply, "Sick of this." He'd driven out to the woods and put a pistol in his mouth on the thirty-ninth anniversary of his brother's death in Vietnam.

What follows is the text sent to me by the Mess on February 28, typed painstakingly over days into a library computer. He was so convinced of the document's authenticity -- and of the version of events it told -- that he wouldn't even make a copy to mail. He refused to tell me where it came from, deleted the text numerous times before finally sending it, and grew increasingly concerned that just possessing it put him in peril. My friend was a great believer in the brutal appetites of power; he believed the rumor that Thompson had been working on a piece about a 9/11 conspiracy and was convinced that Hunter had been murdered by his government.

The Mess flushed his copy of the note shortly thereafter, so I never got to see the thing myself. Years of effort have revealed nothing in the way of origin. I make no claim that what follows is Thompson's, though even the most questionable passages -- the loftiness, the purposely obvious phrases from Hunter's older work -- are oddly authentic in their way, for Hunter couldn't help but plagiarize himself in later years, and he never did get over the dream of writing like F. Scott Fitzgerald.

The last confessions of Hunter S. Thompson have enjoyed some small attention over the years, coming and going from the weirdest corners of the conspiracy scene. Some of the evidence still exists on the Internet; postings and discussions date back to the week after Hunter's death. And though I myself shared the text online as soon as I received it, I've seen excerpts dating to before the Mess ever sent it out -- mysterious, unattributed postings in blog comments and car forums -- suggesting that my dear old friend wasn't the only recipient.

I don't believe that these are Hunter's words. I don't entirely disbelieve it either. I certainly don't think that Hunter S. Thompson was Deep Throat. But it's the sort of thing I would like to believe in, like democracy and human dignity and the devils getting what's due, and for that reason I assure you that every word you are about to read is gospel.

Rin Kelly
Denver, Colorado
Feburary 15, 2008 originally written for L.A. RECORD)

"In three decades of speculation about the identity of legendary Watergate source 'Deep Throat,' few prominent members of the Nixon administration swept up in the scandal have endorsed a likely suspect. Even John Dean has hedged and offered multiple guesses. But now E&P has learned that former top Nixon aide, John Ehrlichman, who went to prison for his role in Watergate, felt strongly that he knew the identity of Deep Throat.
His candidate: Henry Kissinger.

This revelation comes from Walter Anderson, the chairman and CEO of Parade magazine and a close friend of the former Nixon aide, who died in 1999. Ehrlichman, Anderson said, identified Kissinger as Deep Throat in a conversation with him more than 20 years ago.

'He was absolutely convinced of it,' Anderson said, when asked by E&P to comment on the recent surge in speculation about the identity of Deep Throat. He added that Ehrlichman's view of Kissinger as Deep Throat has never surfaced before, as far he knows.

'Ehrlichman argued that Kissinger was high enough in the organization to have the information, and understand it, close enough to Nixon to know all the details,' Anderson said, 'and he was virtually untarnished by the Watergate scandal, particularly in the press.'" -journalist Greg Mitchell, Editor & Publisher, February 16, 2005

Well...shit. But it is worth noting that Kissinger, the stench trap I will smell for all eternity, doomed or no, is not the person you seek. No...Kissinger is a mere stock genius among swine and we are guaranteed to suffer these jackals again so long as vice and cruelty and their witless apostles trample and piss the Earth, and none of their stripe would (or will) ever rat nor fink on a crook like Nixon--and, I'll add, in the long haul Kissinger will look like the five-cent Satan ride before the doors to the big party came squealing open. Selah. I leave you to posterity.

But before we get to my posterity, as it were, I'd like to say that it is a very strange feeling to be a Dead American writer in this fresh century, looking at all this gibberish of mine that seems to belong so much to the last. Even Kissinger seems to belong to that Gone Century now--the stink is foul but quaint. There is a closing world up ahead without very much glimmer of me in it, either; I had hoped at least to leave a pining green light at the end of a distant dock. Right now I am staring at a fat red light on the wing of an iced-over 747, trapped in the Denver International Airport, and when I tire of musing on this last souvenir of Life on Earth I am still Free, as it were, to take in those big white barn tits DIA calls a roof, heaving-ho into the yonder. This, I suppose, is Death...(exactly as you had imagined it).

Before we get to Throat I will also mention that there is some kind of heavy connection between the keys on this machine and the words themselves--the high white sound is all in the speed-lashing, the banging, all things being wretched and alive, and I frankly don't give a fuck about that these days. I've grappled with these elegant mechanical beasts for the last time. I tend, more and more, to just sit back and think the words I if you are reading this...then on with the gameplan...

And this is a grim thing to think: I feel now my words are essentially complete. They've run off without me somewhere and don't want me ghosting around the exits anymore. I know in my heart the maniacal little fixers only ever wanted to scrape me open and screw the gristle into ever more freaky shapes, all for the sake of the Work. Who can argue with a battle-plan like that? My words, after all, are Americans too--balls-out, vicious careerists to the foul bleating core. They wanted to Succeed so bad they whacked me to get us all on the cover of the New York Times (AP says Las Vegas is number 15 on this week and Vintage Books has a "significant" reprinting in the works...Ah, then Hallelujah! To Be an American Writer!) I suspect that Horatio Alger's words must have gotten to mine. Alger always knew how to sell and Americans can't resist a salesmen come to sell them themselves, especially when it's a babyfucker, of the Super Eagle Scout Variety. An honest thief will never do.

Lord! I tried, O Lord, to teach them better, like Jesus says: they are not of this World, just as I am not of this World. But I'm out (once this plane takes off--they tell me we are waiting on Gidget) [note: Sandra Dee (April 23, 1942 – February 20, 2005) played Gidget 1959] and they're in for good, a fixed final part of the world that will never howl against it in rhythm with the newer, fouler plunders the Hearts of Evil have in store. I should have armed them somehow. I never thought it would be necessary...there was a time when it seemed rage would break like hard winter lightning over the mountains and a scouring rain would crack open the sky, to ruin the Minds of Fear, dissolve all the kin shrines of the rich and send them coursing like rivers into the flatlands...It was not hard to believe these things then, if you were young with eyes like two big fury wheels and a mind blown in all directions on the American Dream.

"France was a land, England was a people, but America, still having about it that quality of the idea, was harder to utter--it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart."

  -F. Scott Fitzgerald [note: short story "The Swimmers", 1929]

Indeed. And it's that Quality of the Idea that will do us all in one day, and already has... Bush needs only to cackle "Freedom" and textbooks fly open coast-to-coast inside our wicked, gutless minds, right back to the page where George Washington frees the slaves and hustles them across the Potomac in a Thanksgiving gravy boat built by B. Ross, from a cherry tree. They get you with the Idea, and the Idea (like Journalism, as Oscar Wilde once said), reigns forever and ever...and woe betide the doomed fool who dares get in its way. Nixon was a fiend, a dupe and an evil swindler, but Reagan was the Idea--even I could never hate Reagan right, because he had been a sportswriter...and for all his savage and howling buggery he gave the people what they wanted most of all--more than Life, Liberty, or the pursuit of Happiness, or whatever it was Tip O'Neill thought they, Reagan, like Alger, knew that Americans will endorse any obscenity if it comes cloaked in a vision of themselves as they have never been. We are a nation of Gatsbys desperate to relive the past...only Gatsby actually fucked Miss Daisy a time or two, while Norman Rockwell was never anything more than a collective fever dream. No one loves Rockwell/Reagan's Shining City on a Hill more than the hate mongers and lynchers among us, those who clamor for death and weep with wonder as they suckle blood from the petrified tit of Innocent America. We are myth-mad, homesick vampires. And our heart's grown brutal from the fare.

Bush, of course, has none of Reagan's magnetic hokum...but he has Fear, and Fear needs the Idea to live. Backed against the wall a Good American (first cousin to the "Good German") will see Glory Stars and Sobbing Eagles popping like fizgigs on the air where any normal person--a Spaniard or a Bolivian, say--would see a firing squad...and Bush knows this, lives this, feasts on it. His America is Reagan's America without the phony hope...all cowering, all cringing, all bleating madness with only the Flag to protect us from the outside, menacing world. There is something of the Beast in the way his eyes glow with a dull light, as if the man has a Greyhound terminal inside him--then, as the subject turns to War...Torture...Murder...Terror...he leans forward and the eyes shock alive into twisted, ferocious glee. Bush's Dream is a fucking slit trench of a world and it is already halfway realized. But it could not happen without the Idea, the Dream that gets to us all so early. It is no easy thing to live in a country founded on a concept; because the concept was never realized, the nation is at the mercy of anyone who can hoist aloft an effigy...and what foul dust floats in the wake of our Dream? Iraq? Syria? Iran? We are junkies. There is no crime we will not consider to get a fix.

Cazart! I began writing all this with a point, I'm sure--something about Pat Buchanan and the Capitol Hill Hotel. But now we are ascending and I've got a plastic cup of the finest finger of Royal Salute $450 can buy. Below is Denver, dimming away, and the dark atlas of the plains, and somewhere is Lisl Auman in a cage for life for no reason but human stupidity...and who knows how many others, all the way back through history, rolling out in all directions across the dark republic in the night...

"Take one last look at the prison yard, goodbye Prison Grove Shine on all these broken lives, shine on shine the light on me."
 -Warren Zevon: Prison Grove, 2003

"In prison, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all."
 -Eldridge Cleaver: Soul On Ice, 1968

The flood is coming, I'm telling you.-Deep Throat

As far as I know, Nixon never learned the identity of Deep Throat: at least there is nothing about it in this fine, sleek in-flight magazine they've brought around with the cigarettes and pillows. It's an over-saturated, perfume-brittle Condé Nast affair and as queer a piece of lit as any I've seen, clocking 900 pages and reading something like a cross between Soaps in Depth and The Big Book of Mormon Genealogy. Here we have Dead Alumni cross-listed by Nation, Century, Manner of Death, Hobbies, and Career...and a Feature on Bob Hope called "Toilet Trading Beyond the Mortal Coil." The most common career, as it were, seems to be "Whore" (though Nixon, robbed again, didn't make that list). Vince Lombardi is currently said to be busy with "rough wooings by mean-minded mechanical arms on loan from General Motors," though previously he was "naked and knee-deep in angry voles." They have already inked out a place for the Pope under the heading "Vicious Polaks" and a feature-peek into his future daily doings, returned to Earth, as a box of Trojan Enz. I am cross-listed under Hobbies: Peacocks alongside American Writer Flannery O'Connor and Hobbies: Football with Richard Milhous Nixon, 37th President of the United States, a fellow fan of Grantland Rice, a Quaker, and a jabbering, pigfucking crook--Nixon currently resides at Number One Observatory Circle as the pacemaker that is keeping Dick Cheney alive.



What about Eternal Damnation?

Well...what do I know about a thing like that? I have already suffered hell with that trench-faced maniac, and I am a better man for it. It was enough to see his presidency come splitting apart stitch-by-crooked stitch as he paced the beach at San Clemente, moaning and brooding on life's simultaneous screws...and yes, to have had a part in it, too. I almost killed the motherfucker in Manchester, New Hampshire, leaning over the fuel tank of his jet with a king-size Marlboro butt burning out of the side of my mouth--and who knows what manner of weird paradise might have flowered on the Earth if I had killed Richard Nixon in '68? Was Nixon merely a symptom? Would setting him off like a ten-ton water buffalo even begin to squelch the rot? We would not have experienced Watergate...and at the time, Watergate was a glorious thing to see; I believed, at one point, that Nixon would stand trial, not just for his cover-up but for his very existence as a political monster--because by that time there were no questions left to ask but how he ever became the president at all...So the real defendant of that trial would have been the American Political Machine itself, visible at last. Just as Nuremberg forced Germany to confront Volksgemeinschaft as nothing more than the obsequious smile of a corpse, the Trial of Richard M. Nixon would have exposed all the swine...sucking fat and afterings from their fingers at the devoured heart of the American Dream...

Ho ho. So now you see why I did what I did. It was not a hot blast of Nixon-hatred that blew me to Washington, but Divine Afflatus beat was the Death of the American Dream and seeing the whole jabbering whorehouse come down was to be a fine work of Art, far beyond Jay Gatz and his sundered longing at the edge of Long Island Sound. I can admit now, I guess, that Gatsby once gonged in my head night and day and I lashed away thousands of letters to publishers and Famous American Writers Everywhere declaring myself the fucking Coming of the New Star-Spanked Christ Child of Doomed American Prose, at the ready to write the next soon as they sent me cash. Jesus! It was all some maniac fury to make the whole doomsday mess clear, and people could see, as it were, "what was on the end of every fork."

I see that our friends at Condé Nast make no mention of this. Under my name the word "drugs" appears 14 times and we score the trifecta of "hippies," "counterculture," and "Doonesbury," all in one foul sentence. Who are these thugs? Does the Columbia Journalism Review know about this? Is that little bastard Marty Beckerman writing for the kingdom-come trades now? I was almost the Governor of Samoa! Good God! Jimmy Carter offered to drop out of the '76 presidential race for me! And again...what manner of weirdness would wander the Earth if I had run in '76 and Jimmy hadn't? Strange to think...If Reagan had won that year he likely would have smashed up against the same ugly rock as Carter, and maybe the wreckage would have befouled the Goldwater Revolution for good...

Jesus, here's a revolting thought: am I responsible for Bush?

Or is the whole shitrain of history just the Fates at Play?

Baseball is great because anything can happen through the ninth inning. -Richard Nixon addressing a White House reception of the players in the 1969 Baseball All-Star Game, July 22, 1969

Indeed...and just a week before the Watergate break-in Nixon was whistling a tune in the Oval Office, busy at work with David Eisenhower on a list of the greatest baseball players of all time...which he then had printed as a gold-embossed tract and shelved alongside his famous Enemies List (and the lesser-known List of the Ugliest Women in Key Biscayne). I had a sort of relationship with Nixon for many years, and his love of sports was as high-humping crazy as my own. I have always maintained that I enjoyed our ride together one midnight in New Hampshire in 1968; Pat Buchanan and Ray Price were sitting up front and it was just me and the Dingbat at the hindmost, talking football--it was, indeed, "probably one of the weirdest things I've ever done."...But the pilot has just announced that we're 30 miles outside of our is time now to admit that Dick and I never spoke about football that night: we talked about whores.

I was feeling a little paranoid and Nixon only exacerbated my gloom by waiting at least five minutes to speak. He was sweating so much I could smell the South Pacific on his collar.

"Hookers, Thompson," he said finally.

What? Good God! The bastard had lured me into some kind of brutal mano-a-mano McCarthy hearing! He was going to run down a list of treasons and then torch me and dump me in the woods! Terror fused my brain. I fumbled at the door handle. No! I thought. Fucking Christ!

"I'm under the impression you might know a little about that."

Jesus! What? It all made sense now: they'd seen my Levis and my ski jacket and singled me out as the kind of person who could summon hookers at all hours. "You crazy son of a bitch!" I answered. "Get your own goddamn hookers!"

Nixon laughed. "We're interested in a group of hookers connected to the DNC."

Indeed. And this is where Watergate began: a staffer at the DNC had been arranging slam-ups between Democratic kingpins and a parlor of whores operating out of the Columbia Plaza apartments. Even in 1968 Nixon was onto it, and he asked me for whatever information I had...which was nothing until I visited the Columbia Plaza a few weeks later with Buchanan, a group of visiting friends of Plimpton's from The Paris Review, a porcelain frog full of cocaine, two bags of grass, and sixty pellets of mescaline...And late into that godawful night, after over three hours of wrestling Buchanan off the ledge and into the bathtub, one of the girls came kabooming out of her room with eyes like Atomic Fireballs--she had the Fear so bad that her dentures hit the floor and I could see all four of her candy-flossed teeth bobbing on her gums...she was wailing about a pimp with corkscrew toenails and "a beard like God," who wore Kleenex tissues on his hands...

"And Mormons!" she shrieked. "He has Mormons! His fucking Mormons will get me with needles to kill the germs!"

"Howard Hughes?" I asked.

Ye Gods! Hughes was the dough behind the whole operation...and after Bobby Kennedy died Hughes snatched up one Lawrence O'Brien, gnat in the eye of Richard Nixon and future subject of a bungled burglary at the Watergate Hotel, to be his lobbyist and Grand Pimp of Columbia Plaza...meanwhile Hughes was busy greasing the other side, kiting mastodon-sized checks off to Nixon's sidecar Bebe Rebozo in Florida...and in return Nixon offered a monopoly on Las Vegas casinos to Hughes, scoffing off any whispers of "antitrust"...but Nixon was so crooked he narced even on himself, and for security he sent Plumbers out to fix O'Brien's phones (or as H.R. Haldeman said: "On matters pertaining to Hughes, Nixon sometimes seemed to lose touch with reality. His indirect association with this mystery man may have caused him, in his view, to lose two elections.")...Hughes was both funding the DNC and funding the slush CREEP used to weasel it...meanwhile pimp Phillip Bailley, of the Columbia Plaza Bailleys, was arrested for sexual pandering...and John Dean called the special prosecutor up for a debriefing and a look at Bailley's address books...

And who is in the address books? Besides the hookers?

Why, Mo Biner--John Dean's dearly betrothed.

Ah...but we will be landing soon...Do the details really matter? They were all thieves and evil swine. And I'm having a hard time remembering the specifics...they seem to be blearing and whipping away from me now. Outside the light on the wing is green and smearing out like weird honey on the bunching clouds that tremble and sing below, and I can just make out bright bits of Earth bathed in batches by the green...this is where my words are headed now at the speed of death, back to my crippled country...

And before I go I must say that it is no small thing to have a king like Muhammad Ali alive and hungry on the Earth in your lifetime. I have been thinking, these last few days, of Ali most of all...I don't know the exact mechanics by which a smash-up with a bullet fucks up your memory, but when I try now to see America I first see Ali. He was a souvenir of some other world, of This Nation Before the Fall...there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life...and they wanted to fucking lock him up in the name of America.

America! Lord! I won't miss it for what it was: a fucking snakehouse where the crooks snatched up all the Beauty and garotted its aching joyful Throat before the song ever began. But I think I will miss what it was meant to be...

I tried to make it so. Watergate was my try. They will tell you it was Mark Felt, but they've never been anything but a pack of shiv-fisted liars anyway. I was Deep Throat, and Watergate was my Great Work. It is a testament to the pains and exactitude of Art that I only told Woodward the believable parts...Buchanan barely knew the extent of the thing, because Pat is fine and straight and the straight never know what's really happening. Not in Washington...Not in America. It takes a madman to burrow all the way down into its seedy heart.

My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. -Muhammad Ali

-Hunter the Headless Thompson Gunner (HST #3)
posted: Johnny St. Clair
Saturday, March 05, 2005"we're gonna be using aliases on this one..."


In the blog posting Tuesday, October 21, 2008: The Last Testament of Someone Apparently Named Hunter S. Thompson, beneath the excerpt of journalist Greg Mitchell, February 16, 2005 is the actual "Mess of Snowmass" document purportedly by HST. It is missing two identifying phrases contained in the two remaining online sources of the main document here:

 -in the 4th paragraph: (AP says Las Vegas is number 15 on this week and Vintage Books has a "significant" reprinting in the works...Ah, then Hallelujah! To Be an American Writer!)

-5th paragraph: (once this plane takes off--they tell me we are waiting on Gidget)
[my note: Sandra Dee (April 23, 1942 – February 20, 2005) played Gidget, 1959]

These insertions in the two other blogs are here dated 3/2/05 & 3/5/05 respectively.

Together they demonstrate they were possibly written consequent to HST's demise whereas the document presented here: Tuesday, October 21, 2008
The Last Testament of Someone Apparently Named Hunter S. Thompson
(Intro originally written for L.A. RECORD)
does not by it's internal contents preclude the possibility of being written prior to his demise.

Rin Kelly did not answer my email for further information.

further notes:
* see:

hst=deep throat:

Indeed, the mysteries surrounding the estate of HST, the endless delays in publishing his finished unpublished works, the silent pursed lips of those in a position to know merely add to the Extended Enigma of that force reckoned as Hunter S. Thompson. And of course, speculations bordering on the eldritch...

"The poets are wrong of course […] But then poets are almost always wrong about facts. That's because they are not really interested in facts: only in truth: which is why the truth they speak is so true that even those who hate poets by simple and natural instinct are exalted and terrified by it."
 -William Faulkner: The Town, 195

 "So vast, so limitless in capacity is man's imagination to disperse and burn away the rubble-dross of fact and probability, leaving only truth and dream."
 -William Faulkner: Requiem for a Nun, 1950