Celebrating the Creative Community of Venice.
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well
your neighbours running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.
no one leaves home unless home chases you
ﬁ re under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
and even then you carried the anthem under
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
because prison is safer
than a city of ﬁ re
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough
go home blacks
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off
or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
or the insults are easier
than your child body
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
your survival is more important
no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here.
The new Pope so far has been better than the last couple of Popes. However, some priests from California deceived and pressured him into making Father Serra a saint. He was a saint for Lucifer! Millions of Native Americans died because of him. Native American groups have been upset by the callous making this monster into a saint. Father Serra was the head of the evil Spanish Inquisition here in the West. He was known for self inﬂicting beatings on himself and so thought nothing about the brutal beating of heathens. Native Americans in California were forced to give up their religions either by threat of death or by beatings. They were forced to build the missions and work in the mission ﬁ
elds. They were forced to wear clothes even in the terrible heat. Califor-nia, Oregon and Washington had the largest populations of Native Americans in the U.S.A. Most of them either died of depression and disease or were hunted down and murdered. The treatment by the early priests here in Cal-ifornia of Native Americans was deplorable. The treat-ment of Indians by many early Protestants was usually also just as terrible. It was the prejudiced way that White Americans used to view Native Americans in those times. In the minds of the early California priests it was better a dead Injun than a heathen going to hell. Many Native Americans and many other people are sure that Father Serra also made it to hell.
This text was intended to be revealed after my last hand was dealt. After my ashes were sprinkled on a bench in a park in Las Vegas, the capitol of Disneyland. Since this plan is taking longer than I thought, “Now is always a good time.” You can quote me on that. So, in the spirit that every saint has a past and every sinner a future, I present “The Confessions of X Swami X.” This letter was delivered to the Beachhead
Confessions of X Swami X – from page 1
My long afﬁnity for benches goes way back. I was discovered under a whimpering moon, Thursday night, December 17th 1925, on a park bench, during a recess of the Scopes Monkey Trial. The next day, surrounded by spectators, spontaneous laughter broke out and has echoed through my nervous system until December 17, 1968 when I was there for the debut of “Planet of the Apes.” What does this mean? It’s all foretold in the Mayan calendar, the ennegram, a sonogram, an anagram and various telegrams. The meaning escapes me at the moment. But I’ll get back to ya after some coffee and bad acid.
My parents were neither very poor or conspicuously honest. All my ancestors were born to be hanged. Under star crossed skies, they were “swingers” who suffered unplanned fatal falls off horses, scaffolding and benches.
My father, whom was never ﬁrmly established, might have been a cop. I always had more conﬁdence in my mother because I was born in the same town where she was known to frequent. They met during regular business hours and had a stormy ﬁfteen second relationship. The early years are a bit of a blur but I will be forever grateful to Judge Crater.
During WWII, I served in the Merchant Marines. Bowlegged and on the run from some rough tattooed bunk mates, I looked for deeper meaning in my not so divine comedy. In Italy, I got on a hot streak selling Jesus bubble-heads. The Pope got word of it, horned in on my concession and ran me out of town. I jumped ship in New Caledonia, waited out the war as a greeter in a bar and opium den called, “Mother’s Milk”. Got back to the states on a tramp steamer…..naturally. My parole ofﬁcer sent me to a Hindu hustler named Swami Premananda. He had a rap instead of a rap sheet. His ashram was in D. C. Through exhaustive study and hallucinogenic vitamins, I learned the Swami code, “Have a good time, don’t hurt anybody and don’t get caught.” Twenty years of schooling and Harry William Hart become X Swami X. I was now a “swinger” but fortunately nobody sprung for the rope.
I like to talk but I’m shy. So, I hit the rode in a ’62 VW van with Rosey Palm, the one gal who never gave me any trouble, and could help out with the driving too. I had a lot on my mind crossing the country. Can I get Zsa Zsa Gabor’s phone number? I heard her sister lives in Palm Springs. Should I go back to the ashram and retrieve my Playboy magazines? What does a lynch mob look like? Has the guy I borrowed the car from, to get a haircut, called the police? I better keep moving. Where to go to get a docile crowd? California? Yes!
I hit all the hot spots as I hustled my act to the Paciﬁc Ocean. I broke it up, at “The Burning Bush” in Pahrump. “The Dead Tortoise” in Blythe, “The Burnt Tortilla” in Barstow, and “The Rubber Room” in Needles. These were mere warm-ups for, “The Big Room” at Olive View Mental Institution. I got a lot of laughs from the straight-jacket set. I needed a note from my Swami to get me out and on the road to my destiny.
[ 1972] When you’re on the run and ﬁnd you can’t go no-further, it’s Venice Beach. Where losers collect like driftwood, where Mayans, Muslims, and even Mormons are welcome, where nudity is cheaper than second-hand clothes, where the scent of pot and suntan lotion mingle in salty air, where monkeys fucking under a palm tree is considered entertainment, where Pollocks on credit stroll with banker’s daughters, where homos, hobos and hipsters are thrown together like washed up seaweed, where thousands migrate to bask in the sand, where cool blue waves struggle after a long journeys end, where a room and a view is cheap, where wine and cold beer are within staggering distance, where musicians, chainsaw jugglers, lawyers, pickpockets and comics work the unsuspecting, where a nude beach is an island of freedom, where the laws of Santa Monica and Marina Del Reno are out of bounds, I found my constituents, my comrades, my brothers and sisters, my audience.
Due to a Family Emergency, the Agenda will be posted on Saturday October 3, 2015
VenicePaparazzi updated gallery '2015 Venice Vintage Motorcycle Rally and Ms. Venice Vintage'
The next meeting of the VNC Neighborhood Committee will be on Spetember 24th strarting at 7:30PM. The meeitng will be held at Oakwood Rec Center, 767 California Ave, Venice, CA. 90291.
The agend for the meeting can be found at: www.venicenc.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/Agenda_Neighborhoods_150924.pdf