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tearing the rag off the bush again
CRACK REPORT: Guerrilla Nut Twist & The Peripheral Bullet: Daisy Pulling in the Jungle PDF E-mail
Two able crackies stood outside my motel room attempting to convince me that there was only one able cracky knocking on my door.  But I could hear two crackies whispering to one another.  A few days prior cracky number one, whose name was Abel, had noticed my out-of-state plates and directed me to a cracked hotel where all crack related services were provided at little financial cost and great spiritual loss.  I thanked him for his considerate recommendations and found my own meager motel with a relatively clean room and a low-lit bar tended by a gorgeous woman.  

I went to research this small town in north-western Illinois with hopes of discovering a female character.  The town was frequently rated as the number two town amongst First World counties for consuming the most amount of alcohol per capita, and the possible truth of the town's history was documented in questionable archives.   

Onetime brothels, which were owned by the onetime Capone, were now seedy strip clubs that still resembled onetime brothels, and may continue to be in the possession of a present time criminal citizen.  One particular strip bar held my interest for many years.  It sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, nestled under the buttes, creaking back and forth as the wind slammed its door.  A stripper with a patch over her eye and a red head with one leg shorter than the other were dancing to no where in the River Queen, while a pregnant stripper was nesting at the bar waiting to do her part for the plebian labor force and a few bucks.  

The image of a red comrade sticking a hammer and sickle up a weathered comrade's ass with the slogan, "All This Pleasure for 19 cents An Hour," flashed through my brain, but being the natural egalitarian I consider myself to be, I saw another image of a corporate bureaucrat stuffing Central Americans up to their necks in Fair Trade Coffee Bean sacks while kicking them down an embankment and into a river with a slogan that read, "Fair Trade For Who?"  

The brain is a great trickster, and it often gets its way.  But what did this mean for these three working women?  The answer came in Déjà vu by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (with Dallas Taylor on Drums and Gregory Reeves on Bass).  The slogan was Helpless.  And it wasn't ironic that the short-legged dancer resembled Stephen Stills.  Then I started feeling helpless, remembering myself in bed with one of Stills' many erratic and illegitimate offspring.  And if I recall correctly, after she came, she sang,
in my mind I still need a place to go
all my changes were there
blue blue windows behind the stars
Thank God she wasn't singing The Band's rendition in the Last Waltz or I might never have stopped feeling helpless, but then, here I was, five years later, sitting at the bar in the River Queen.

The business district of town was three or four blocks long and the regular daytime patrons were the occasional exotic dancers, running back and forth across the main road to grab lunch between dances, and other ordinary country folk,, who didn't need to know what they were talking about because their use of metaphors was profound.

The night was littered with sullied drunkards carrying bottles regardless of the NO OPEN CONTAINER Law (that meant absolutely no containers), and this law was the only thing contained in this homie town in north-western Illinois.

Cops in black and blue wool uniforms and black leather gloves kept the peace by enforcing the no open container ordinance.  They also ensured that drunk college girls, from the other side of the river, maintained their auto insurance premiums as they swapped favors.  The leather glove industry was also stabilized because the peace officers wore them out weekly, as they were sure to become tax-write-offs.

In the summer of 2000 I worked as a photographer and got a gig taking photos for the heavy metal band L.A. Guns and this town was one their venues.  It was also my favorite stop of the tour.  I knew that someday I would return and learn something of its history, and in the summer of 2004 I learned something that perhaps I should not have learned.

On my fifth day I bumped into Abel who was sitting in his cab talking with a working girl.  I asked him if I could ride with him.  Three days later, on Saturday night, he called his dispatch and I was approved.  We drove around from 11:00 p.m. to 4:20 a.m., but we didn't have many fares.  We did pick up a few drunks, who couldn't afford the fare, and a couple of raving college boys who shouted and slobbered at Abel about the people he worked for.  "The mafia, you know.  I live next to those guys you work for."

Abel asked them to be a bit more specific as to where they wanted to go.

A drunk college kid slurred, "Just take me home.  You know where it is, next to my uncle's house."

At 3:00 a.m. we received a call to go to one of the two hospitals in Dubuque, Iowa (on the other side of the Mississippi) and pick up an igloo from the basement.  Nothing was signed for.  As we walked down a hospital hall I couldn't keep my mouth shut, so I asked, "Since when does the hospital use a cab service to transport urine and blood samples.  What do you have in there, a liver?"

Abel didn't want to know anything about it as he was a multiple felon, and a black one, from New Haven, Connecticut.  He asked no questions and was glad to have a job.

We dropped the igloo off at another lab in the basement of another hospital and picked up a second ice chest from a security officer in the Emergency ward.  Again no documents were signed.  Abel put the cooler in the trunk, but not before I asked if he wouldn't mind letting me piss in it since my flask was half full.  He raised a brow, which I took for a no.

We were on our way to a pharmacy in Gainesville, Illinois.  Abel asked if we could stop by my motel room because he had to use the can, upon where he produced a thin empty Energized can.  He made an indentation in it, poked a hole in the indentation with his pen and then reached up between his upper lip and gums.  With his forefinger he pulled out some crack wrapped in plastic.  He took a couple of hits and offered some to me.  I declined as I slammed a bottle of Boru Irish Vodka down, thinking I might have to fight in order to save my ass, and that I might have a long walk home.

When we got in the car to drive to Gainesville I figured out what I was hoping to discover and wished I hadn't.  The cab service was owned by the Mafia and they had hospital employees on their payroll supplying them with Oxycottons, Norcos, Vicodins, and whatever other pharmaceuticals that were popular among the users of the time.  Abel was the Mafia's crack head, multiple felon, who could maintain a job and would eventually be their fall guy for some murder that they needed done somewhere down the road.  The media would spin it as another black man, addicted to crack cocaine, murdered so-and-so.  And that so-and-so was going to be me, because when Abel returned to the garage his dispatcher figured that he had taken me with him on those hospital runs.

Abel and some other crack-head showed up to my motel room at 6:00 a.m. asking for my recordings of our adventure.  The tapes sat on the table.  I quickly, but quietly, put them away and grabbed a knife.  I told them to fuck-off and to come back at 6:00 p.m.  They waited and I continued to shout, "Fuck-off, I'm sleeping!" as I stood in front of the door, staring at the shoddily repaired door jam that had been busted down before. I did some of my own waiting, knife protruding from my fist.  I figured that if they kicked the door in I'd punch the first guy in the mouth, drag the blade across his face and then come back up to catch the second guy under his chin, after which I would make a run for it.  I rehearsed the scenario, repeating, "Fuck-Off!  I'll see you tonight!"  The sun was rising quickly and I suppose they decided they would come back.  When they left I packed my bags, and I got the hell out of the town where the flag of the fleur-de-lis once waved and sang, "Groove Town, Move Town, Gettin' It On Down Town."

I didn't stop until I reached Michigan, where I pulled over at the first Rest Area and slept a couple of hours.  My buddy Gene wasn't expecting me for another ten days.  He didn't have a job and was living in a basement in Detroit so my early arrival was of no inconvenience.  Besides, I had a box of food and a couple of bottles of vodka.

The moment I arrived Gene would not stop talking about he how he hasn't had his dick sucked in six months and how he was in need of getting laid.

The next night I drove around Detroit with Gene, who was drunk, in the back of my pick-up while zonked Al--who had left L.A. and returned to Detroit--buried his face between Gene's legs.  I drove until Gene could no longer question the face whiskers chaffing his thighs.  So I pulled over, Al bought a pack of cigarettes and some gum and walked home.  Gene would not stop hassling me, screaming, "I'm not gay!"  

"I don't care."

"Really, I'm not gay!"  Gene would not let it go.  He was obsessed with proving to me that he wasn't a homosexual.

"I don't care.  O.k., you're not gay, but what you did was gay, and I don't care," I repeated, but he would not let it go until I couldn't take it any more.   I pulled over and dragged him out of the car.  We got into a fist fight but neither one of us won, but both of us gained.

The next day Gene and I picked up Dale who scored some grass for me and in return I gave him some moonshine, which made him grimace hard.

Dale stood well over a lanky six feet.  He wore 1970's-styled corduroy shorts.  His hands were stained with paint and grease from working in an auto body shop in the foulest part of Detroit.  Some of his teeth were missing, but those gaps in his mouth could not deny his honest smile.  He had the kind of smile that only a white trash, scumbag with a heart of silver could only have.  He drank 40s of malt liquor and had an occasional tumble with a crack whore, only he was smart enough to not share his 40 with her but kind enough to buy her one and give her the change for a blow job.

Dale struck me as a wayward philosopher who had fallen out of the Blue Book when he was an adolescent.  There wasn't a crack whore he wouldn't sock square in the face if she pulled a knife out and lunged for him, but he'd let her keep the change without giving him what he'd paid for.  He could have jumped back into the Blue Book, but he preferred the Who's Who of Filthy Drunks in Detroit because he loved the stink of Detroit too much.

Gene could never find his way out of the stink of any city.  So much of it was soiled into the seat of his trousers, and dripped from his mouth over the front of his shirt and leaked out the zipper of his crotch.  He stank of himself, which he mistook for the city.  That's how I found him years ago when we met at Club Tee Gees in Atwater Village in Los Angeles.  

Dale bathed, washing away his sins on his way to work in any bottle or can of booze he got his hands on at the local liquor mart.  Whereas the liquor mart poured out of Gene concealing his sins from any recollection so as to not have to justify them; not that he ever felt as if he had to conceal anything.

Gene, Dale and I sat in the open shadow of Crack Whore Lane, at the Rouge River, far from the vibrations of any church bells.  We drank and chain smoked, contemplating how good it was to be drunk, how foul the river ran, how bad life could get, and how our achievements could destroy our environment as well as our selves.  Simply stated, we materialized into three drunken, masturbating half-wits, dangling our feet over the sludge gasping by.  Gene kept complaining that he hadn't had his dick sucked for quite sometime.  He had forgotten about the night before.  From Gene's disadvantage, the conversation bounced back and forth from pussy to philosophy and eventually to the quizzical, "Which came first, pussy or philosophy?"

We weren't going anywhere and we weren't quite sure where we wanted to end up, so we contented ourselves with the Rouge River and the Crack Whores bent over about thirty yards behind us, engaged in redemptive sucking and fucking with their knees on the pavement and their faces in a father's or a grandfather's lap.  

The Crack Whore has found her distinctive gift.  Her sexuality bridges her inner self to her body.  She has lost both equally to her addiction, and has become, therefore, whole in her loss of inner sanctity and her outer splendor, which are no longer in conflict.  She neither cares for infinite possibilities nor considers material limitations as they come together when she sucks the pipe and hits a dick.  She has overcome penis envy by the mutual loss of her entire being surrendered entirely to euphoria.  There is no guilt in sex, as she has no need to be wanted in the act of fucking.  She neither protects her humanity nor affirms it.  

The Crack Whore has the courage to enter into shame without a disguise, without a defense against fear.  

The Crack Whore mirrors our great horror, the loss of self.

The Crack Whore is a tool of the universe to admire, explore and imagine itself.  She is what is left of an argument, the energy that divides the deep cycle batter and the solar battery.

The Crack Whore is a musical note tolling the hours of the day and the rotations of the planets.  She is a statue inhaling the breath of the wind.  Her pink condition is a pirate that rescues her from the clutches of sanity.

The Crack does not ponder the question, "Would you rather be judged guilty for righteous reason, or be judged innocent for unrighteous reasons?

  As I watched these Crack Whores sucking and fucking for 98 cents up to $10 at the Rouge River in Detroit, Michigan, I became aware of my heroic potential--I felt that I might have some sort of chance for something beyond my current life.  I wondered what it was about these Crack Whores that created hope in the infinite possibilities.  Was it their sheer selflessness that gave them the courage to suck a stranger's dick and take it in any orifice and possibly be a mad man's punching bag that empowered them to strive in degrading strides, reaching the euphoric bliss they could only get through the pipe, deep in the lungs or through a needle straight in a vein?

The Crack Whore makes me wonder in the hope of her smoke.  She makes me cry in the dream that opiates entice in a world of ideas but only materialize in the gravel embedded in her knees.  She has no need to be nuzzled or nurtured, wanted or treasured.  She can be nothing to everyone, nothing to herself and everything to her Master who holds her deeply on a ragged mattress or in the backseat of an abandoned automobile or in a crusty, torn box in an alley or under a dehydrated bush.

The Crack Whore's Master washes the smell of cum off her body with the scent of Jimson flowers.  He scrubs the grime off her teeth with St. Pedro cactus.  He soothes the bugs out of her hair with wormwood.  She falls asleep contented that no man will ever want her in this world.

The Crack Whore menaces me no more than the wise men from the past, who enslaved me to be free.  

The Crack Whore solicits me to pull my pants down so that she might breathe me into herself, so that she might earn enough to forget herself, as she too is enslaved to and by her own freedom.  She manages to find her grace and style.  She works her way either up or down, the same as all of us.  Some stay down and some stay up, but so few ever master their manners.

The Crack Whore wants love but not the kind of love spooned out of a Campbell's can poured in a soup kitchen.  Maintaining a gracious style among all the watered down salty balls turns one into a pathological mystic that most everyone thinks is a Mother Teresa.  No one wants to have her around unless there is a party where she can serve everyone who has morphed into some kind of a psychotic themselves.

The Crack Whore flies by night and finds her way to rest by early noon only to wake by late noon to attend to those who were never punctual, because they were too confused about what to do with themselves, while those who never cared about time went about their business.  She ferries the tardy back to work to spend and trade with pieces of eighths of her body so that she might fairy herself away from her work.

The Crack Whore.  She encourages me to look at myself, and to judge myself generously for forgetting what I look like when I walk away from a mirror each morning.  The Crack Whore's servitude teaches me to master my manners.  These Crack Whores are Hosea's and his prostitute wife's offspring.

We, as hunters, have been trained for thousands of years to accept defeat.  We know what it feels like to go out and hunt all day and come home empty handed over and over again.  

"Women are emotional wrecking balls," Gene complained.  "If I didn't like vagina and motherly sentiment so much I wouldn't have anything to do with them."

Dale and I didn't say a thing.  We sat there, staring at the Rouge River and the island across from us, where a steel plant had once been, but all that remained were mounds of black coke.  I asked Dale what the black mounds were.  He gave me a dictionary definition, "That's Coke: A solid, carbonaceous fuel obtained by distilling the volatile constituents from coal by heating in ovens or retorts."

I thought it serendipitous that we were sitting across an island that had mounds of black coke in front of us and half a dozen Crack Whores and half a dozen crack heads behind us.

These Crack Whores were like sirens with a geographical defense of a whirlpool and a six-headed snack-pack.  It's only when you get past them that you can hear their deadly song.

Dale said something about a country that threw away all that it could have been right at the start because of its bad philos-ophy.  It's a crib-bite fungus that leads to coccidioidal granuloma.  Christian thieves are stealing the souls of children all around the world.

At the Rouge River Satan's crème de cacao Sirens came out of their burrows and appeared as butterscotch whores fervidly felicitating syphilitic fellatio.   I'm going to say it flat.  I know it's a corny cliché, but we are destroying ourselves as a species.  We're creating an enveloping cloud of darkness.  And we're all going to need a blowjob from a Crack Whore to pull us into the light.  Besides, she is going to be all that we can afford, as our rate of consumption is close to consuming us.  

I figured my purpose was to overcome my own limitations and discover the dog within me, my shamelessness, my guard, my survival behaviors and my discrimination for friends; to be a dog that protects the pact.  Christ went into Timeless Hell and returned victorious.  He listened to Satan's vague and insipid love speech and then Christ taught Satan love's true meaning.   

An old black guy who looked like Poseidon with a white beard and white hair, who drove a beat up 1950's pick-up truck, was fishing for cancer, reeling in pulsating tumors that had the vague look of a carp.  Gene, Dale and I commented on his dementia and he answered, "Boy do they taste good with a little cayenne pepper."  

He heard us talking about which came first, pussy or philosophy and he let us know how amateur we were shouting, "I was banging pussy when you guys were still shittin' yourself."

Gene was quick on the trigger and answered, "That could have been last night."

I asked Dale if the old man was a pimp but before he could answer a Crack Whore sprang from behind a bush adjusting her g-string, complaining, "It's bad enough I have to go bikini shopping, I shouldn't have to listen to Bryan Adams songs and pay a hundred bucks for string.  Can I at least get some bar lighting in the dressing room?"

"Who in the hell wears bikinis in Detroit?" Dale asked her.

The Crack Whore mouthed back, "What would you think if I called you a lucky fucker with a pension for speed?"

Dale asked, "You mean penchant?"

"Yeah, pension, motha-fucka!"

"I'd think you were saying that I was a man who didn't like to be out of supply."

The old fisherman answered the Crack Whore, "I'd say your momma's titty gone dry."

It became apparent that if the three of us ever bombed out in life we could still afford a meal and a blowjob at the Rouge River.  That was a sure 401k.  

These Crack Whores wore their ovaries on a switchblade and the open wounds of their cracked skin.  They were the gymnosperm that bloomed out of the polluted Rouge River.  They were naked seed pods on their knees, fucking their way into a state of crustacean.  

Gene believed we were like God, tuning in to his favorite T.V. show, "Slaves of Planet Earth."

The moon was full and I thought of my first dog, Toro, a Pekingese.  He was run over on a night that felt similar to the night we were having.  My father and I drove to Forrest Lawn, across from Warner Brother's Studios, and buried Toro next to the fence of the cemetery along the road.  The moon was full that night and my father told me that Toro had become the moon.  I was three years old and it was the first time I had ever seen the moon.  I always assumed the moon was masculine.  The Crack Whore who was complaining about the lighting in the bikini dressing room protested that the moon's name was Conchita, and that it was the grand taco that all the bulls gorge themselves on.

The old guy started singing Al Dexter's, "Pistol Packin' Mama."

The song reminded Dale of what Henry Kissinger wrote of Teddy Roosevelt, "A great president must be an educator, bridging the gap between his people's future and its experience…Americans could be moved to great deeds only through a vision that coincided with their perception of their country as exceptional."

"That's an altruistic way to of saying that the ruling class needs to keep the non-ruling class in a perpetual sweat.  You feed slaves Fruit Loops, hyper sugar puffs; jack them up first thing in the morning when they're kids.  Hook 'em on exceptional coffee when they're thirteen," Gene interpreted.  

"Captain Blye was ordered to pick up bread trees in the South Pacific and take them to another island because it was too expensive to feed the slaves bananas," Dale continued.

"Kissinger is just scenting a big stick with flowers!" Gene yelled.

A good Crack Whore can addle any man's eggs for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and these eggs aren't much different from the scrambled brains politicians are serving up on television.  

Numismatics and Epigraphy at their base philosophy are, simply observed, "as the upsurge of diffused indignation, soul-stirring enthusiasm, copious fervor and the exaltation consummated into wild hopes."  They are the contribution of an indirect certainty, which is plentiful, but limiting.  Obsessive scientific inquiries into the nature and function of coins and their ancient inscriptions seems to be rooted in the persistnat appetite of "the precarious discontent of the 'wealthy.'"  It started with the Gyges, the first barbarians, to send offerings to the Delphi, who had no need for written inscriptions and coins.  Non-the-less the Delphi accumulated a large and fantastic treasure that was coveted by man, so men invented the laws of logic that birthed the syntactical rules of the written word; they usurped the power of the Delphic Oracle and women have been subservient ever since.  This was the war that Civilization created between amours amity and a buffet of calamity.  What followed would be stymied by Kronos or Keynes.

Dale quoted Nelson Algren (which Gene and I guessed immediately), "I tell you, men, its plain hell when you get into a country that has self-respect."  

"Thank God we're not in one!" the three of us responded in unison.

The Crack Whore destroys male virility by taking it in her toothless mouth and slurping it into a limp thumb.  

No one can say that the Crack Whore is a landless illiterate.  Her knees are always grounded on the pavement or the floorboard of an automobile, and she can read the gear shift which controls her momentum and sets her prices.  P for Park and it costs $10 or a bit more.  1st gear) she takes the John's knob for a buck.  2nd gear) she handles the John's shaft while she gums his knob for a measly $2.50, which is more than minimum wage in some countries.  3rd gear) she shifts up taking the John's prick down to her bread basket and gums his balls, and fingers his anus. If the John can manage to pry his hands away from his crack pipe and lighter, he can bobble her bologna tits and finger her giny all for $3.50.  Park) the John can Magellan his ship right into any of her ports, but then he has to dig deep for that 10 spot which means less crack for the John but more for her, and, but, then again, the John gets more of the crack that the good Lord has given to this generous woman.

Uneven curing causes runaway cracks in concrete.  The cracks in the pavement leave impressions on the Crack Whore's knees, which run all the way up her and flows out of her bleeding lips, down a man's main pipe and caves in his eyeballs in between puffs off the glass.  Cracks come full circle as he sprinkles her hair ash white. Hopefully, the blowee is moderately healthy, but his moral health is usually on the wane.  His ethical health got sucked out of him and spit in the gutter with the exhaled vapors of his chalky lungs long ago.

A Crack Whore stuck her head out a car window with her ass up high, as she was about to make ten dollars.  She called out to a friend who was only making a buck or two, "Debbie, let me borrow your diaphragm, I got a big spender?"

Debbie pulled some old man's knob out of her mouth shouting, "Fuck you, bitch!  I barely got that thing in all proper like.  Took me hours to get that motha'-fuckin' toilet plunger in."

Ass High offered, "Bitch, you never git anything in right.  I'll share wit' you to-night."

Debbie looked down the small street to see how many cars were lined up and wondered whether she would need that diaphragm herself.  

A transvestite Crack Whore who was having his balls rubbed while sucking off a John, pulled away shouting, "Why don't you two bitches get yourselves some condoms and shut the fuck up, Goddamn-motha-fuckin'-Crack-Ho's."  

Ass High and Debbie shouted back in unison, "Fuck you, you-motha-fuckin' trany, who the fuck you callin a Crack Whore!"

Then Ass High got back to the business at hand.

Ass High pleaded, "Come on Debbie, don't be a whore.  Give me your diaphragm."

Debbie, who was growing agitated, grabbed the dollar from her John, wiped her lips with the tips of her thumb and middle-finger and made her way towards Ass High.  Debbie reached deep up her snatch and pulled out the coveted diaphragm and tossed it in the car that Ass High was in; who quickly scrambled for it on the floor board and then rolled over on her back and became Legs High as she shoved it up herself as deep as she could.  Her high rollin' John helped her out as he pumped it in deeper.

As Debbie walked to another car, pulling her skirt down, transvestite Crack Whore shouted, "Baby I can see a bleeding hemorrhoid hanging out your ass."  Debbie turned around giving him the finger, shouting, "Does it make you hungry, you motha'-fuckin' ugly faggot?"  As she approached the car furthest from the river she picked up a ten spot.  She screamed at former Ass High, who was now Legs High, that she needed her diaphragm back.  But her new John was younger and sportier than the rest, as he had a condom.  

One John lifted his foot off the break, just as he hit the pipe.  He must have forgotten about the Crack Whore who was on her knees in the street, with her face down in his crotch and the car door open.  That's when someone needs to throw a wrench in this whole wretched affair.  When a John rides the break in first gear the Crack Whore has to be on top of her game, otherwise she ends up doing the gutter drag.  She has to hold on to the John's shaft with one hand and her dollar with the other.  She's done the gutter drag before, and she holds onto that dollar like a gutter draggin' champ.  

No civilized man, regardless of his lost morals or over extended ethics would drag a Crack Whore, hanging onto his shaft with one hand and a dollar with her other past first gear.  If he hits second she's going for a drag around the block.  And if he hits third he just might circle back and drop her back off where she belongs, that is, if she's still hanging on.  But this was Motor City and these Crack Whores know how to do the gutter drag and these Johns have the shlong for it.

The older Crack Whores pass their cherries around like a snow cone that all the kids on the block have licked.  The Ice Cream Man chastises the Crack Whores for ruining his business shouting, "That ain't no way to treat your pussy!"

These Crack Whores, these Mother's of the Earth, disseminate their reproductive qualities culminating into parthenogenetic off-spring of the South American Coca Plant, and they always enjoy a cold Pepsi-Cola after every synchronized blow and toke.  One might call this synergistic marketing.  These Crack Whores exceeded the corporate drug-world's anticipation, as they got more out of their clients than was expected.

These corporate drug-pens are like the Scythians plundering Ascalon, the oldest temple in Syria, whose goddess was Atergatis, who was depicted as a mermaid.  Each day that grows and dies becomes shorter and farther from our grasp and is likened to the fairytales that prick our wonder.

            The European Empire's great discovery in Asia was finding out how the natives would take to having opium forced into their lives.  The United States' great discovery of her ghettoes was finding out how the natives would take to having crack cocaine blown up their ass.  The natives started sucking and fucking the old geezers who were bringing the shit into the ghettoes.  Next thing, every official and non-official CIA man wanted his own crack whore, and he got her too, because he made one all for himself, until she started looking unruly.  Then he tossed her out on the street.

But the Crack Whore understands universal grammar as she reads the world as it is written on the skin of humanity.  Her act of taking in a strangers cock and sucking the dream out of a man is where essence and significance merge.  The Crack Whore expresses the grand and profound failure of our leadership, yet she redeems us in her capacity to sell herself cheaply, so that all might come to a clear understanding of how the least amount of effort for the greatest amount of gain is a bastard of a' economic philosophy, adopted by greed.  Our economic capital has become an axiom that excites the rulers, who can't help themselves from behaving in a squalid manner when it comes to hoarding all the facial shots.

The Crack Whore's illustrious vernacular, "I'll suck your dick for a dolla'," is the cornerstone of both Communist and Capitalist economic thought, which is based on scarcity.  She throws in her lot with the plebian work force. The Crack Whore and the sucked dick get as much as there is to gain.  Her entire demeanor declares, "I will not play a game where the rules have already been established," because she represents the divine harmony between the sacred and the profane.  

Crack Whores are the mermaids in a kingdom where the monarchy is ruled by secrete shaking, God fearing Christians, who cove their balls even when engaged in vulgar conversation.

            "The indelible trait of the capitalist is his ceaseless pursuit for primitive accumulation and expansion."  This is a bastardized quote from Adam Ulam.  A bastardized quote that everyone uses is, "We are a nation of consumers."  The Crack Whore knows perfectly well that she is the inevitable result of over-consumption.  She sells her labor sucking as many dicks to prove she' no slacker.  She'll even suck our founding father's dicks who gave us the freedom to loose our gag reflex; while Evangelical Christians judge the loss of the gag reflex as immoral, yet they support any Anglo with a scandalous look and dyspeptic psychosis folding his hands in prayer to the Lord on the cover of NewsWeek.  Who cares that his family invites Columbian drug smugglers to the house for Christmas dinner?

         We have all the time in the world to learn the easy road to excess, and it may possibly be a natural one.  It is especially easy when the general majority opinion favors popular choices.  Ben Bernanke said, "Ratings often lack reality," that's what's so damn confusing with all this "excess saving" that's occurring in the United States.  But I don't know anyone who has any real savings.  Crude and idiotic manners often are the result of psychological absurdities.  Abstruse absurdities might be the works of a suck and spew, bleed to believe faith.

  The Crack Whore is not a hag.  She might have a chunk of seaweed on top of her head, but here is a complex beauty weaved through her ragged hairdo.  A hair dresser in Chico, California, named Darrel has styled many Crack whores.  He is empathetic as well as encouraging when he tells a banged up whore, "Honey, just because I'm a bone smoker doesn't mean I have to picnic in the graveyard and neither do you sweaty."  

Gene, Dale and I got up and looked away from the Rouge River and took a long look at six Crack Whores and their Johns.  They made us feel proud that America beat the Nazis.  I felt like a spectator at a zoo gawking at a bunch of monkeys engaged in vulgar behaviors with glass or skin pipes hanging from their mouths, yet I didn't want to take my eyes off of them.  And though I consider myself benevolent there existed in me a sentiment that wished these Crack Whores and Crack Johns to be nothing other than what they were.  They were the freedom that Nelson Algren described as the "…inexhaustible source of recovery...Whenever you shut a human being out of the world, he or she will for better or worse, build one of his or her own."  It's one's particular approach and perception of reality that is unique to the spiritual path and everybody has to deal with some form of molestation in their own way, hopefully with their own style.

We said goodnight to the Lacedaemonian Ladies and blessed them, "May the Dark Sky kiss you deeply and hold you tightly.  You may not be the kind of women who read the directions but you always see the warnings.  Use your poise and genitives the way you use your genitals, and your proverbial panties might turn white in the Vanishing Point, where 'the best way to get away is to root right in.'"  

When we got to Gene's basement apartment and he finished throwing up all over himself and pissing in the drain that was on the floor next to his bed I popped open a bottle of wine and drank to the Crack Whores who were alone as I was, "You unfading flowers, I drink this wine that comes from the finest, southern lands of France, where Vietnamese boys, wearing tighty-whities, squeeze grapes into douche bags and rinse them through the most agitated regions of an Algerian whore, until properly fermented.  Civilization is populated with a species that thrives in captivity.  To the Crack Whore, she disrobes and vanishes into the coke piles that industry has laid waste in the waters of our time."
 
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