So let us now place monetary value on information.
Let us return to the source,
Mining & prospecting that fertile intel seam.
To wit: WWII and G-2 shenanigans.
Wild Bill and OSS-capades,
Artificial disseminations.
Partial recriminations.
And PSYOPS:
A literary nightmare--
THE CYCLOPS from The Odyssey,
For example,
If you lack your own,
Your own personal Bogey Man.
Or men. For me:
Allen Dulles or Richard Helms.

The Intelligence Community:
It was a small tightly knit crew,
Less than battalion strength in 1942;
A few myopic soldiers,
Who, although could barely type,
Were still too cerebral to
Waste as infantry fodder.
It was a huge converted Army-green warehouse,
Space strategically partitioned,
Sectioned off into cubicle-like spaces,
By giant 4-drawer file cabinets
Standing tall like MPs,
Sentinels & Guardians,
Monuments to pre-electronic storage,
Data relatively comprehensive, and an
Archive secretive & intimidating.

Within the Army-green incunabula,
Scattered throughout the intel landscape,
Here and there a few commissioned officers,
A smattering of college psychology majors,
Personalities with predilections,
And penchants for mind games.
These self same WWII vets,
Would morph into Cold War Mad Men.
Stalwart, stouthearted men of Eisenhower,
And J. Walter Thompson,
De-mobbed, as they say in the UK.
Consumptive.
Self-indulgent,
Particularly when it came to the kids;
Children of the peace,
Called Baby-Boomers,
An entire generation enabled & destroyed.
Who would produce little of value
Except medical marijuana and
Coupons, clipped by that sober ruling class—
Fat interest-bearing college-loan portfolios
Held by that neo-Calvinist Elect: The 1%.
Fat cats one and all,
Loaded dice & canasta cronies--
In concert a stacked deck,
“Una mano lava l'altra.”
The words of my namesake--
My grandfather Giuseppe--
His vowels reverberating,
Rattling in my dreams.
Not friends, but
Fiends in high places, like
The Fed and dark liquid pools.
Thank you, Barack, for
Fooling us again.
For giving us
“Belief we can believe in.”

But I digress.
It was when the Government Secrecy Act,
In all its transnational incarnations,
Embraced capitalism in a big way,
Elevating the ideology to whole-Earth saturation,
Systemizing the ethos of Darwin,
Into one global Moby ****,
One solitary leviathan,
A multi-level marketing labyrinth,
Where wealth is the end game--
Greed: pure, unbridled & unrestrained.
Bond--James Bond—
Did his bit, supplying catchy
Slogans & tag-lines:
“For Your Eyes Only.”
“On a need to know basis.”
“Confidential Information.”
“Top & Ultra-Top Secret.”
“Hush, Hush & a Bag of Chips.”

The sealed letter sits in a locked drawer,
In that stout desk,
In the Oval Office
In The White House,
“To be opened by my VP in the event of my death.”
Another staggering work,
Of achy-achy-heart breaking genius,
The culture commoditized,
A disease containing its own cure,
Assayed, graded,
Portioned & packaged.
Priced accordingly,
To a logic that goes something like:
“Anything this tightly controlled,
Anything the government deems to be
This illegitimate and/or & secret
Must be really, really God-awesome,
Must really be Da ******* Bomb.”

Brother Coolidge was right:
“The Business of America is Business.”
And INFORMATION:
“The Most Valuable Commodity on Earth.”
So said Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III,
19th Century robber baron, and
Consummate Fat Cat.
Get the picture:
We were smoking cigars and sipping cognac,
Mighty comfortable in leather armchairs,
Muted billiard clicks,
Punctuating the atmosphere
In this spacious lounge,
His East Side
Downtown & private
Manhattan club.
I, his guest, had not the slightest idea
Why I was there.
"By God, man," he went on,
My eyes speared by his laser gaze,
His bushy eyebrows,
His monocle.
His bulbous nose;
His thick wet mustache.
And those EYES:  
Those crazy,
Insane eyes.

"I am talking about a profound change,” he continued.
“Back when the steamship
Gave way to electronic wireless radio."
He puffed smoke,
Removing the cigar from his mouth,
Holding it,
Examining it critically for a moment.
"I'm talking about communication,
Instant communication
With business associates, &
Cronies far away,
Way out there,
Far beyond the places we know well.
Picture it:
You're running a fleet of
Ramshackle Filipino banana boats,
Out of some nameless cove,
Indenting the south coast of Mindanao.
A cyclone comes out of nowhere.
Good God--there’s sixteen banana-packed
Coal burners lying on the bottom of the Celebes Sea.
Think about it:
You've got telegraph radio.
Everyone else has the post office.
Now, I ask you:
‘Who's going long,
Who’s getting rich on the
Caracas Banana Exchange?’
Good Lord, man, it would be
Like being omniscient!"
“This very conversation,” he went on,
“Could well be a verbatim transcription
Of a conversation right here in this very room,
Between people like: J. Pierpont Morgan
And some lesser Gilded Age nabob;
Some Astor, some Rockefeller,
A Gould or Vanderbilt,
Whitney or Duke,
Some Frick or Warburg--
To name just a few, old sport.”
He stopped suddenly.
He looked down at his hands,
As we both realized he had counted these names
Out on his fat curled fingers.
He looked at me and smiled.
I was afraid.
Why had I been invited to this meeting?
I smiled back at him,
Doing my best to mirror his
Carnivorous menace.

I knew it.
He knew it.
He knew I knew it.
Mr. Whitehead’s growling rabid jowls,
His slobbering canine smile held me steady.
“Okay. Touché. ‘Ya got me.”
He shook off the phony smile,
An absence, accentuating
His stare: lethal, carnal & rare.
“I never had much formal schooling.
I’ve been hungry.
Hungry enough to know for sure
That the correct fork,
Don’t mean ***** from shinola.
When I’m dining out, fancy-like,
Me manners is the least of me problems,
Far less important than
The dinner chit they
Hand me after I slake
My thirst & appetite.”
Again, he stopped suddenly,
Recognizing that, perhaps,
He’d revealed too much of his
Bedford-Stuyvesant pedigree.
He turned again and stared at me.
“None of that,” he said.
“None of that means squat to me, Boyo.
What matters now is I’m rich.
I’ve got mine, By God,
And ******* It!
Tough ***** on the rest of you losers;
The rest of you fecking whiners can go
**** yourselves over at Zuccotti Park.”
He pounded the armrest,
The padded armrest of the rich Corinthian leather—
( . . . ***, Ricardo?
Get your Montalbán
Mexicano ***, back in
Random Access Memory Land,
Where you belong.
**** ya’ Fantasy Island
Hospitality, Mr. Roarke,
Go be wrathful Khan Noon Singh,
Somewhere else.
Now is not the time, or,
Let me rephrase that:
This narrative will not allow your meme here . . .)    

Whitehead pounds the armrest again.
“My point is this:  
None of JP Morgan’s decidedly,
un-nattering lesser nabobs of negativity . . .”
BAM!  Again, he pounded the leather . . .

(Back in your ******* hole, Spiro!
Do you realize just how far back,
Just how far back
Maryland’s reputation
Has been set back by your venality?
Not to mention any shot at ethnic assimilation,
The rest of us grease ball non-Wasps
Have in this country?
You ******* Greek!)

I stopped thinking
When I realized Stanford Stuyvesant Whitehead III
Was reading my mind.
“So that’s what it’s really all about,” he said,
Rank smugness in his voice.
“So, I’m just a nouveau riche upstart,
A socially inept parvenu,
Yet they still let me
Join their tony clubs.
It chaps your ***, Boyo, don’t it?
I’m still Scotch-Irish, and
A WASP, Laddie.
Something your skinny
Greaser-Guinea-****-Spaghetti-*** ***,
Ain’t ever gonna be.”
But I digress, again.

So I joined one of Uncle Sam’s
Lesser-known clandestine services,
An assignment appropriate to my ethnic identity,
Namely GLADIO in Italy,
A NATO stay-behind operation &
Cold-War comedy.
I infiltrated the Brigate Rosse.
I drove the Aldo Moro kidnap vehicle.
I cooked minestrone for General Dozier.
I sliced off J. Paul Getty’s ear in Calabria.
Ironically, I lost my hearing during
The Stazione Bologna bombing.
I am consequently pensioned off,
Off both the radar and the payroll.
Years later now,
I live in one of those gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55, sunny southern California
Lunatic asylums.

Most days I am drunk at 9 AM.
I fill Bukowski mornings,
Conjuring up Jane Fonda,
Jazzercised in camo spandex.
She is high atop a Vietcong tank in Hanoi.
Or Daniel Ellsberg
Enjoying a second act in American politics,
Praising Snowden & Assange,
& Bradley Manning,
I summon up the ghosts of
Julius & Ethel,
Benedict Arnold,
Rose of Tokyo & Mata Hari—
And Ezra exiled at Rapallo,
And John Walker Lindh,
A Yankee Doodle Dandy,
Born in Washington,
District of Columbia,
By way of Afghanistan,
Taliban Americano,
Kangaroo-courted,
Presently residing at the
Federal Correctional Institution
At Terre Haute, Indiana.
Spies.
Traitors.
Saboteurs.
And Poets?
No longer capable of keeping secrets.
Desperate now to tell
The truth.

so i have this lighter,
I love the thing
more than I love most people
It has a place of permanence in my pocket
so that I never leave home without it
the chrome box glints in varying lights
and it makes a cool click when you open it up
it's enough to feel like some sort of
John Travolta greaser wannabe
but it isn't a real zippo,
I had a real zippo once
which my grandfather gave me
it was from WW2 and it was gold
but time broke it to ****,
no now I'm stuck with the fake one
just a small sized bic
in metal casing
any bic would fit
not unique
but somehow distinguished
I think that's why
I like it so much

I gave you my soul
Wasn't that a costly toll?
You trace my scars
or are you drawing prison bars?

I tell you what i hate
Your friends i try to tolerate
I dont like this new nitch
Your not usually a *****

I love you
But it can be hard
You blame yourself for my crash
But then turn to conform with those I Bash

What does it take?
Just drive in the stake
Since Im such a life sucker
Atleast i could get away with my ******

Since im soulless
Since I hold you back
Since Im just a punk
Since I died to you

Rip my guts out and hang them like streamers
Run my skin in a grinder and have your confetti
Spike my blood with all your *****
Fry my fingers in the greaser

Throw my brain and heart in the trash
Burn my eyes and ears and lips and tongue
Use my bones to build a bed
Boil my nerves so i wont feel pain

But leave my feet
They are what i didnt use
I should walk, no run, away
But i already cut them off so it would be easier to end me

The perfect ******
My own death
Ill naught be caught
Ill finally get what i deserve

The ultimate gift of life?
Can i just skip it to hell?
I wish i had died that day
Why couldnt I have gone faster?

Let the white turn red
With what i have bled
Here is your christmas cheer
Feed my ashes to your ******* reindeer

Happy Holidays
Merry Christmas
Let me do this perfect ******
Then you can say your happy and merry a little cheerier

i.
***** blond hair and braces,
beanie and a sweatshirt,
you were the secondary third wheel
along with myself.
you put on all four hats and
nearly choked on your soda
at someone’s ***** joke.

ii.
hair parted sideways,
black-ringed blue eyes,
we vaguely remembered each other
and talked a bit before going back
to the ones who had originally brought us.
the blue was pretty and you had a bubbly laugh
and were dressed nicer than before.
we finally memorized each other’s names
and when it was time to go,
we hugged and I told you to
drop by again soon.

iii.
braces off and longer hair,
your board had a new paintjob.
we enthusiastically greeted each other
with a hug and an exchange of names
and we ended up sitting at the computer
for most of the afternoon and evening.
we talked without restraint and
had definitely become easy friends.

iv.
hair shaved off on the sides,
the rest slicked back like a new-age greaser,
you smelled slightly of stale cigarettes
when I tucked my face against your neck
for our routine hug.
I squeezed you tight and brushed my thumbs
across the leather of your jacket.
you were angry and stressed but didn’t really show it
and I wasn’t sure what to do with my still-new
feelings for you.
I held your hands outside that night
and asked you to quit again,
because people come and go and life’s too short
to make it even shorter
by ******* on a stick of chemicals and tobacco.
you said you’d quit soon and thanked me for being there.

v.
you stayed over
and we spent most of our time
swapping songs and playing video games
and snacking on poptarts and arizona.
I woke up the next morning to find that
you hadn’t slept
and wondered what you must have been thinking about
that could keep you up all those hours.

vi.
we saw a bad movie together tonight.
our heads bumped multiple times
and we both had to pull up our legs
since our heels barely touch the floor comfortably.
your forehead would wrinkle when you were looking up
and it gave you an air of maturity
that I didn’t know you could pull off.
I wanted to kiss you
but didn’t know what you thought of me
so I didn’t.

In one fell swoop
You made everything right
In one fell swoop
You drove every hurt out
With one deep look, with one light touch
You took down everyone else
I had ever built up
Now all that's left is us
And I cannot believe my luck
You're my effervescent light
Extinguishing every past plight
You are stronger, dance better
Last longer, fly further
Kiss sweeter, sing brighter
You're a better lover, yet no fallen feather
Your gaze is deeper, your soul is richer
You're an avid listener, a better pleaser
You're no miser, nor a greaser
You're a wider reader and a soulful strummer
You're a drug I cannot decipher
You're a drug and all I wanna do is take you in
You're a drug and all I wanna do is take you higher

They hang limply from the walls as
Old friend DECAY settles
Suburbia Mexicana neons and
Obscene jabs in raspberry
Demonizing the scalp of an 18th cake
The lipstick is not dark enough to
Carry a meaning here

No scent lingers as the calendar turns
Another year burnt to death as
We move further away from coincidence
And desperately memorize the lines of a
Modern work, every brushstroke an intellectual
Marvel so if we stare enough it will enfold on
Itself to glass

Guten morgen, Herr Schicksal!
Would you be so kind as to
Dissolve the peppermint stench
And leave the shower on?
I may see a reflection through the
Steam and like it more than yours
I never much liked chloroform or
Frosted roses

Settle on with
Delusions of Poland
And lazy eye tangos
With naked melodies re-vamped
By a 21st century greaser
Please don’t leave
Hail to Canon, brute of mine!

fled the sun in favour of treading moonlights path
shes become a carpet bagger of the
nights flourishing kingdoms of alleyways
and the treasured dumpsters like sodden jewels they contain

she reeks from the cast off of the popular masses
but it is sweet perfumes to the forsaken
hollow eyed wanderers lost in the maze
of concrete and steel
she lips a sacred song in her temple of night
and keeps a wary eye painted to the ever shut door
the unexpected is the road dogs creed
and she allways got a little something extra
stashed away for the hungry and quiet

ribbons decorate her torn dress
they are fine silk stained with coffee and beans thats our girl
the highest quality in the lowest company
shes a rough house princess with a heart of gold
she wanders me down to the tear-drop inn
rents me a bed to lay up with some pretty dreams

pulls out of her designer jeans a folded and creased copy
of nineteen fifty three complete with greaser kids and hot rods
left me there dreamin i was the tough guy
leather jacket and Indian motorcycle
and she was my betty boop candy sweet smile girl
in the quiet halls of the tear-drop inn
with a sadsack companion picking dreamers pockets
for the smiles to be found
thats our girl
thats our sweet sweet girl
covered in the romance of the hard road
trackmarks and ***** dustbins
the likes of her we may never see again

They say I look like a greaser,
Not sure that’s a good thing,
I dress nice, I guess,
I try to look clean,

But I slick my hair back,
It gets a Superman curl,
I smile and walk and talk,
Like I can get any girl.

You cannot own a human,
Even the most coolest.

London ON has it’s crazies,
the one, well… Well he was a good guy.
I was drunk and sad and waiting for the bus.
The old crazy comes out of the corner
like some ****** greaser.
He mumbles everything and looks sad as well.

We both got on the bus, and we talk, no…
Mostly he talks (mumbles),
and he shows me his buss pass.
It is from 1986, and for reasons unknown,
has not gotten a new one.

I don’t know how it still has its use,
and I don’t know why, it feels, they
always come and talk to me.
they just can’t leave me alone.

but again he was a good guy,
a wise old ****,
We both got off the same stop,
I give him three bucks for a drink,
and head off to the bar.

the bar was empty and so was I
and getting filled up on coke and wh
isky.

I wish I didn't have to go
So I could stop and say hello.
I miss you most when I forget
The way you look at me and yet
I miss you so when I remember
The reenactments of November
Because in that moment you were there
Hold my hand, stop and stare.
I saw you after such a time
you're still a greaser but in your prime
And I realised the clearest thing
For you I have a song to sing
And chance is quite a friend you see
That I'd see you and you not me
But I wish that I had said hello
I wish I didn't have to go.

i filled myself up
used holes in my skin, scratches from rumbles
to create dams that only held emotion

i ate away at the spare parts
let my hair fall to the ground
and rise like a phoenix, a different man/boy/beast than before

i was gone with the wind, right before you came
and tried to free me
from myself

i am so real, you should be scared
i am so alive, you should be scared
i am so close to being dead, you should look me in the eye

soc girls, look at them
and envy every madras sweater
or tuff corvette

i want the money, the heater
unloaded, the switch pressed
against my enemy

and this time, with a chance
of winning
i am possessed

and his spirit
is nothing for me
to interfere with

you think of me,
all i think about
is paul newman and a ride home

when i die, i want to be buried with
books, a pen and a piece of paper
because i want to write

every robert frost line,
and have it carved
into my own flesh

i am beautiful, no matter
how long the hair
or how short

they say i am a
hood, a greaser
but all i hear
is *stay gold

There's no worse news
than no news,
it's the news you want to hear,
despite all your hopes and fears,
but you have none.

You have only a wing and a prayer
when you feel like you're the only survivor.
You can fight,
and you can bleed,
this was the product,
of such a beautiful seed.

Alone in this desert,
exposed to the open air,
Alone I can only hope,
that no one else is there.

For this is not my land,
no friends here have I.
I must tread ever so carefully,
lest I be caught
and die.

Down to the waters,
which I can only hope is real,
and unto the bazaars,
to which I have to make my business deals.

But even so,
with a crowd full of people,
I am persecuted,
for I come from a land with a church and steeple.

So away I must run,
in hopes for better news,
but not before,
I stop to pay my  dues.

There's much to sacrifice,
as there is to gain,
unfortunately my hands are bleeding red,
covered in someone else's blood stains.

I wait here alone,
waiting for the news,
hoping I lost my pursuers,
but unfortunately this is their land,
and it's only covered with clues.

I hear nothing from the village,
indeed it's much too silent,
like the stones upon a grave,
perhaps it is fitting,
for the name of the village,
which the elders gave.

Death's Crossing.

There's no news yet,
as to where they maybe about,
but I'll find them, indeed I will,
I will without a doubt.

For my friends are out there,
and to them I must go,
where and how I shall find them,
I suppose only God the Devil knows.

So clean up that greaser,
and sharpen that blade,
keep safe that picture,
never to let their memories fade.

It's time to find them,
no more the time to wait,
the war has begun,
the enemy has breached the gate.

No more news shall be cast,
nor voices shall ring,
let the bullets fly and the blood rain down,
for there's no other time than now,
to finally start dying.

Unto the breach,
I travel once more,
braving danger and death,
staring at the door.

The worse news I remember,
from my instructor so old,
was the news that you couldn't hear,
the ones never told.

Vintage baby
With your 519 Levi's and high tops
Slicked hair, don't care
Soft eyes you risen angel
Vintage baby
You got me
Yeah, you got me
You got me good
I got it bad
Watching you against your '67 Camero  
Slowly ashing away your drag

You've always got some pretty little thing
Mid week comes and she has a new name
You're rugged baby
Made for heartache, a physical heart break
Modern day Greaser
The baddest in the school
I wonder about you as I sun bathe in my pool
Walking home or running from basic
Good girl I stay but watching you is toxic
Give me a chance baby, I promise you'd like it
Turn a good girl into a terrible classic babe
I promise you'd like it

through circumstance once
I ended up at a punk concert
where I saw a middle-aged
man dressed as a greaser
complete with a leather jacket
and spikes
and I felt under dressed for the occasion
and uncomfortable in my skin
until he punched some kid
with a mohawk in the face
and was asked to leave

Point of no return.

He had caught my eye with absurdity.
Carrying a coagulation of Red Apple, Marlboro, Capri, and Dunhill cigarettes.
All in one pack tucked up under his arm sleeve.
Like some ancient greaser lost from his own time.
Stuck fumbling with the fast paced problems of modern day reality.
Confused with utmost certainty that he had lost his way.
And found himself in this new era.
Error to his own brain cells.
Firing on all cylinders.
Trying to keep him awake.
Just to reach help by the time the sun went down.
But he had caught something else in his view.
A girl.
With a yellow and white striped shirt.
Tucked in to her pants that were up to her waist.
A medium sized pocket above her left breast where she kept her cigarettes.
All white converse with white socks.
Slightly curled mid neck length hair.
She carries herself with uncertainty.
But also with grace and passion.
She sees into him as if he is ghostly.
For he is ghostly.
Only a shimmer of a past presents.
That onced lived in a state of mind that had purpose.

Garrett Johnson.

Unseen enemy invades my body
with platoon of green berets air
rating, and enfilading immune system viz
Hib bully knock and sock kin me
courtesy roebuck seers sucker punches
mightier than stormy daniels wallop
from an indomitable
haversack being carrying
courtesy giant bully bear,
whereby cyclopean ogre

freighted hallucinatory dreams
popped up, dunkin noggin - donut ask
clouding ordinarily outlook clear
via this germane, foo fighting earthlinked,
googly eyed live prodigy
also smart **** derriere
(ha – at least sense of humor still intact),
when rest only respite against e’er
gang num of good n plenti
supreme warriors decimating

heralding, lobbing, pulsating fanfare
for this common man
ordinarily robust healthy Donald,
with Machiavellian bravado –
leaving said prince charged with impedance
unable to muster commando egg flu Jung
undermining capacity to brandish
barren grinchlike ******* prestige
self anointed reputation as grandpoobear
smacking dagnabbit fearlessness

sync king, limning, and feigning
to be among magnificent seven
donning follicles slicked
in imitation of greaser
coiffed swept back blond hair,
where (if one could zoom
and magnify manifold)
tom tom club melee
evincing, hammering and
juxtaposing sterling rods

bamboozling schlepper
with molecular size bots
trumpeting atomic bombs
leveling MineCraft concentration
with piercing arrow marks
intrepid invisible microscopic organisms,
attack in Cingular
hardened gear entity,
aggregate, blasting billingsgate, congregate,
gravitate as best buy,

capital one egghead, albeit flimsy
groupon heir inherited
courtesy Don Ask Jeeves throne –
as one BuzzFeed linkedin
uber twittering shutterfly on my Bing
viz, said lothario tumblr hotmail
happened tubby barren some fancy feast,
where gimlet eyes cling aspirin, Bufferin
with super acting non-glue tin,
NOR NON GMO guaranteeing LifeLock

on par with pinteresting illuminaire
hand crafted glittering gold earring
overlaid with anti-semitic,  
egotistic, and misogynistic veneer
invaders re: Avast itsy bitsy potpourri
of foreigners re: survivors
without remorse to fling
helter skelter infectious germs
flittering to and fro hither and yon
within mine corporeal

cerebral domed gummed hell
hounded integral kickstarter
i.e. complex edifice pell mell
twittering, SnapChatting, Ringling Brother  
Barnum, Banks, Bailey & Bittle
inherited deadly killjoy Bluetooth to quell
defensive IdentityGuard
courtesy from mothers -
little helpers – satisfaction generating
excellent skill casting a spell

binding heavenly gilt free,
progressively deteriorating conditions,
where William Tell
Overture played over,
and over incessantly within –
no let up waking in cold blood, sweat
and tears unwelcome viz zit
by archers in dark hoodies
wielding bowed slings and arrows well
aimed at apple of heart,

ratcheting up a notch,
this feeling feathery tarred,
and essentially un well,
where microbial infrastructure
bound me with fluted
strep throat drumming,
thus disallowing me
to imitate rebel yell.

A citizen can't *** (or micturate ) his way to the top (or apex), nor **** his way up (north) from the bottom (south) without making a mess. When your restaurant turns Mexican (or greaser) don't blame the Italians (or guineas, or greasers) as their bend (or perspicuity) is sound hedging what doesn't entail (or necessitate) curtailing the issuance of fiat (or devoid of intrinsic value) currency in crusades (or campaigns) financial (or economical).