It's over

The Rootman doesn't care if I inform you that this, this is the happy ending, all of them can die now and that leaves us! US who wait, us who are the forgetters of the ancient rain, the murderers who forgot their victims, lost their weapons, fell off-course and plummeted, plunged through the hole, fell into the shadow city, and saw humans in the mists, saw through cheap sunglasses, saw fog, overexposed in cold sunlight, trapped inside eyes and scull, the Rootman comes as WE ARE stressed for, phones, for dead relatives, fast moving in boxes on road or rail, walking between boxes, sleeping in boxes watching out for the boxes spinning by on the street, running back into boxes to be safe, cages to keep the animals in, cages to keep the vicious humans out, fog blowing between boxes, cardboard walls to keep out our president, his storms and volcanos, and the voodoo, the bad voodoo the corporate voodoo that makes us walk in our death, as though we were disturbed children, children sick with lead poisoning, us children who mistake our herbicides for our low-cal shasta, us children who are blinded in sunlight, blinded in fog, we turn to the wall, we wail, we decide to start, maybe tomorrow we will remember the important thing, the thing that glows blue, and we love it, and we will start, now we know that this is the blue we love! We forgot the thing we promised always, always to remember,

but this isn't what I've come here to say.

I've come to say this:

Live with all your horsies

I would have done it myself, but I didn't have time, it cost too much, it took up way too much room, and what if they broke, what if they chipped out, I mean, I don't want to be held responsible if I was caught asleep on the job, dreaming, gardens, trellis, trailing vines, a dirt road at night, mud, overhanging trees, the cart, the clown, the tiger, the cage, they circle.


This will be transformed when the Rootman comes.



Dear Friends, can't you see that this is OUTRAGEOUS! Don't you know that THIS IS A BAD TRIP!

This is the blind start and a fucking lame end, of an era. An era, buddies, of awkward bad friends, strangers, siblings, You'uns all! This is the orchestrated news conference of the righteous appearance, of the rotted stage presence of this beast and beastette. This is the vermin covered corpse of the American dream, ALL OF YOU! STARE AT YOUR SCREEN TOGETHER!

I think I need to whisper to myself for a while..............OK.





Once I finally get into the darkness, I find that I really like it in here. I will smell must and peat moss, hear peacocks crow in this place. They will usually play Flamenco music in here, and we will listen to the rain hit the floor in between sets of it. I will stir the sawdust with my feet, but I remember I was arguing, bargaining for position, for money! I was loaning someone my shoes, so my feet got all cold. I did those drugs so I would relax, but I guess it backfired. My irons were there in the fire, but now they are so hot, that now I can't touch them. The man in the corner tipped his hat towards us. I am afraid to look at him. Look in his eyes, look how big his holes are. Look how white his hands are. Look how in his trench coat is a dark landscape. Look how it has dried grasses painted in it, and dark clouds and dark little people, with horns of dark unicorns on their heads. Look how you can't even see their hands, can't see their feet. Look how restless and impatient they are. Look how they pine and sway, how they darkly jive. See how hard it is to see their shirts, their buttons, their belly-hairs. Look at the children of the Rootman.



Why does the man in the corner stare at me like that?

Does he think I have peanut butter smeared all over my face or something? Does he think we are missing somebody? Are we forgetting to write? Are we sleeping in, even though we get up at fucking Six-O'clock every fucking morning, getting up again and again all day, alarm clocks ringing and buzzing, radios blaring news of brilliant fucking troop maneuvers all fucking day long?

Just who does he think we are? Doesn't he know that we are avid cigar smokers who have thrown off the yoke of black clothing?

Doesn't he realize that we record our dreams, WE KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE, and it's NOT VERY FUCKING FUNNY. I mean, fuck!

Just who do we think he is?

Maybe under those layers of pasty pale makeup, maybe he's naive, pathetic, maybe stupid, sadistic.

Why else would he plaster his retarded Uncle Sam image all over America's TV sets every evening? Why else would he want to see fortresses, bottled up military installations, teargas filled bunkers; why would he want to thrust his hand into the dark pools of dirty oil and water under the old house? Why else would the room at his parent's place be filled with old Soldier of Fortune magazines?




The root man is coming and he has sticks in his hands!

The root man is coming and he wants some action!

He wants to spring board off of stealth aircraft wings, he wants to stomp-out their windshields!

He wants to make everyone camp out! He wants stride, like the Jolly Green Giant over factories of poisons and vile consumer products and billboards, he wants to put his big hairy fist through the window of your cute fucking little Japanese TV!

He's going to tear your shoes to shreds with his big wooden molars, he'll grind and grind till we don't even remember what high-heals, or neckties, or BMWs were.

We don't remember nothin' when 'de Root Man come our way.

We don't have to go to any meetin's when 'de Root Man come, we don't need to worry 'bout no brassieres, nor no testicle restraints, we don't need to worry 'bout nothin' when 'de Root Man come.


His huge hairy root reacheth down unto the earth below, and up, up to the sky above. His roots grow through your eye sockets, and into your fingers until you feel and hear everything! The Root Man takes all comers. The Root Man invites all futures, The Root Man loves to dance! The Root Man fucks the earth, and baby animals come out of all the holes!

Little baby stags are born with their horns on, baby eagles in full plumage. Baby storks are ready to fish. Baby cougars eat baby mice in the fog. The Root Man takes no prisoners, and takes no excuses. The Root Man wants everything, The Root Man fucks with everything. The Root Man dances really, really hard. The Root Man sucks life, and shits more life. The Root Man knows how to recycle genocides and tortures and poisons, The Root Man never looks where he is going, the Root Man will stumble right through your thrice dammed death culture.


The Root Man will even the score, The Root Man will make clear the way, the Root Man will impale you with your life whether you are using the phone or not. The Root Man taps moisture in your core, in your soul, in your spine. You'll change your tune when the Root Man comes. You'll worry 'bout no 'mo regrets when 'de Rootman bears his great load down on us! You'll get your paws dirty and teeth bloody on that great day! Washed in the blood of the Lamb! Hallelujah, the morning is almost here, and we won't want to sleep in on that day! Mighty is the stone, mighty that hurricane, Mighty the ocean that roars with anger, roars with furious delight. The Rootman stretches out his naked body, and the sky darkens! Rootman Gobbles up the fire and death of ten thousand Hydrogen bombs, ten thousand lava-spewing volcanoes! Rootman dances! Watch Rootman dance! Rootman sings! Listen to Rootman sing! Feel Rootman hold you close! Smell Rootman's outrageous breath! Rootman whispers in your ear, Rootman's precious hormones course through your veins, Rootman grabs your cocks and cunts and breasts, Rootman presses in and around you, Rootman pumps you full and sucks you are his seed-pod, you are his prize, his golden egg, his trophy scull, his sperm bank. You are his parents, he wants you to watch him. Watch cute little Rootman come down the slide... here he comes! He wants you to listen to his baby song.... listen!


That cute little song is the howl of the apocalypse!

That cute little pee-wee is the root that joins heaven and earth!

Those baby-blues are the eyes of your firey death!

There is blood in the tree.

There are bones under the concrete.

There is a wild soul churning under the shopping mall, under your favorite little cafe.

There is fire in the rock.

I swear these things are true.

God forgive us. Amen.