The People's Steeple

Last night I said goodbye to Kim and Simon. We had a few people over for a mellow little get together at my place. The conversation was good, which caused me to stay up a bit too late, but I wouldn't trade today's fatigue for anything.

There was talk of founding a hippie artist commune somewhere, probably beside the ocean, where we could live sustainably doing the things we enjoy; making art, meeting new people, playing music and singing, yoga, working the land. No commune would be compete without a Jim Jones contingency plan, of course, so we would have to work out the logistics of the massacre, should something go south. These are minor technicalities though, not to be seen as serious impediments to the construction of my compound: The People's Steeple.

I will be the leader, obviously, and I will change my name to Slim Slones - because I'm sly like that - and buy up property in some remote, hot, jungle climate. All of the women will be mine, maybe some of the men, too. I'd create an abundance of babies, trying madly to dethrone Ghengis Khan as the most successful suitor in history. I'd rule ruthlessly and disallow members to leave the compound under any circumstances. Any and all dissent would be dealt with immediately and severely. I can see it now: delivering a lethal, cyanide elbow - The People's elbow - to the throats of any defectors. Can you smell what I'm cooking?

The Brian Jonestown Massacre would be the only music I'd play; all day, all night. I'd enslave the youth, boys and girls both - because I'm not a sexist - and force them to erect a giant erection, a statue, enormous in stature, to celebrate and commemorate my fabulous phallus. There would be weekly ceremonies, ritualistic dances performed at its base. There would be, hidden inside, a stairway by which I could ascend through the urethra and emerge as a golden god from the tip of the glans. At the climax of the ceremony I would leap from the height of the monument in a beautiful, crescent-moon arc, landing into a kidney-bean shaped pool of Goldschläger. Crazy, I know, especially because I can't swim, but fear not! I will have a harem of the finest female lifeguards - my glans clan - standing by, ready to plunge in to my rescue while the theme song to Baywatch is performed acapella by a small children's choir. Attendance will be mandatory. The punishment for absence: immediate interment inside the solitary, swollen testicle at the statue's base. This will be an honor, you see, to be re-assimilated into the life-force energy stored within the sacred sack and then reincarnated as one of my ejaculations.

While the life of a cult leader does have its allure - I mean, what is it if not the natural evolution of rock super-stardom - I think it would be too much stress for me. I'd rather be Dim Dones, an old, dim-witted man who'd done so much in his life that he was done doing. I could be a blind advisor or a pesky jester, a good food guru or a bored bard. Let's try a poem:

Stay away Senator,
Stay away from my Guyana

American

Dreams, life is but a
Merrily, merrily, Heraclitus' streams

Tasting of grapes
Of wrath
Of woe
Hard like bones

Crosses and skulls

Sleep, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep
Sleep