…And the Feathered Platypus replied, ‘Karl Marx?

Despite public misconception, platypi actually do not have

feathers, although one long glance with squashed eyeballs

should reasonably lead you to ask your respective creative

deities, “Well, why the hell not?” First, I suppose, they don’t

really talk, either, nor do they constantly muse on what the

late Mr. Marx might have to say on any given global topic

discussed, ad nauseum, in some of today’s left-handed

circles.

In actuality, flat-footed platypode, the only egg-laying

mammals, trick disbelieving predators into a complete

cerebral meltdown, defended by only that most classic of

animal world Halloween costumes, a Daffy Duck custom

Groucho mask taped to the ass-half of a hairless beaver.

The true wilderness pride of Australia exists blissfully

unaware of both danger and mirrors. The male of the

species releases venom from a secret pouch stashed behind

their webbed rear paw, for seemingly no particular reason

other than they want to. Anyone who has actually seen one

of these majestic creatures, once forcefully convinced that

Doctor Frankenstein has not turned to taxidermy, must

wonder why did evolutionary architects turn conservative at

the crazy idea of sticking a feather in a tidy bobby cap,

calling it no weirder than before, and crowning the breast-

stroking Platypus the heighth of all Darwinian musings? Why

does the progressive birthday parties all have to end with

pinning the feather on the platypus, the one final element to

make perfect this noble beast?

For a writer without the burdens of employment to occupy a

wandering mind, answering your own philosophical

questions can be a dangerous assignment to accept. If

offered a dangerous alternative option, say, to instead

infiltrate a lion’s den wearing only safari clothing selected

from Lady Gaga’s walk-in meat closet, you may just be wiser

to start Googling generous life insurance agents in your state

offering an ‘intentional pet death’ clause with every new

policy. Wrestling giant, man-eating felines, at least, is a

straightforward proposition—a sporting death match

between two ‘top of the food chain’ candidates leaves little

room for interpretation, as opposed, say, to one inebriated

and poorly educated man versus the swirling bottomless well

of esoteric-ish ideas churning in their first-class vortex-

within-a-cortex. If I don’t know what the hell I’m talking

about, how am I supposed to know what the hell to talk

about?

It is with sincere regret with which I inform you that an entire

factory of lucid-dream assembly workers were laid off over

the preceding mental gangbang. Don’t worry about me,

though, I sleep fine. Nightly forced marriages to Freddy

Kruger ain’t so bad, but his insistence on honeymoon night

fisting is starting to chaff the bum. Regardless, those union-

endorsed nap breaks were costing too much…mental

currency, you know? There’s a national deficit to worry

about, I’ve been told, and I am, if nothing else, a good

‘Merican.

***

Dumb looking critters aside, the actual question at hand has

for forty years consistently inspired wave after wave of

blowhard Democratic Party strategists to beach themselves

upon the misty Isle of Elections Lost, and the query is this:

Why is there such a lack of mass physical activism on behalf

of the left-leaning millennial youth? A star-crossed

community borne from a solar burst of social change so

profound that the flower-powered explorers consumed every

gaseous vapor in the Yellow Submarine’s tank, just so we

could glimpse the locked gates of Nutopia’s Supernova

Playground before the Summer of Love’s chemical vacation

adventure ended.

In honor of the aforementioned platypus, let us try and wave

away every needless feather that is so often mistakingly

associated to this otherwise perfect creature.

Some people will tell you that ‘dope’ is the feather!

They say this generation is too busy getting stoned and

laughing uncontrollably while Daniel Tosh brings back

‘America’s Stupidest Home Videos,’ one sad modern

superstar at a time. If this hazed hippie splinter group, so

inclusive yet so forgetful of events that don’t fall on Adolph

Hitler’s birthday, ever got the idea to protest the Man, en

masse, then just by keeping elections in November could

said Man trim their stems. You know what I call the leftover

stems? Hippie Chew.

Other feather chasers will point to the inter-webs.

According to these people, given the ‘whatever’ attitude

prevalent among the various youth cliques, no matter in

whom they trust, it’s just too easy to BBM your inner

Starchild to the world than to have to go out during primo

nude-Skyping hours and Draw Down the whole fucking Moon.

If outdoor social organizing can’t be multitasked around

staying up-to-the-now on celebrity Twitter threads and

Jenna_TX69’s multi-partner hermaphrodite live cam, then it

must be rsvp’d on Facebook as a polite ‘Maybe’.

Naturally, the Pagans are holders of the elusive chicken

coat! Or so I have heard.

True, no group so proudly displays the quirky genetic

inheritencies of trippy, hippie-dippie ancestry as those Earth

loving neo-‘s, who always have the inside info on your

county park’s permit by-laws regarding pet bats. They’re

open tolerance, nay, acceptance!, of alternative lifestyles in

the Goddessly name of highly vaginal deities has corroded

the divine ‘Merican belief system. A clear hierarchy where

one and only one big-phallused God is necessary; worth the

bloody Eucharistic sacrifice of all heathen crones and the

sweeping mythical traditions they rode in on. If the Yahweh

Bloc boycotts, then the Metaphysical Olympics is just a

bunch of Pentagram wearing outcasts competitively

meditating on the beach, each with a different silly name,

like Starhawk.

Some less tolerant friends may try and tell you that the

feather is all just the kind of self-absorbed, all-important

attitude that youngsters develop from Maw & Paw no longer

being able answer toddler Timmy’s annoying fucking

questions with the Enlightening end of a University of Texas-

sized belt buckle!

The lady liberals get all MAAD, NOW, when honest people

want to raise their children in the honest traditions of old-

fashioned America. The one where children were sent into

coal mines and factories for ‘character-building’ wages that

were still probably higher than what their immigrant

mothers’ earned at the ‘Super Flammable’ Clothing &

Keyless Lock factory in downtown No-one-gives-a-shit-

anymore. The sooner we get God back in this country, the

sooner the good men of the Lord will remember that female

sensibilities can not be trusted. The next big snake to come

sliding through the canyon may cause them to get all

emotional, forgetting which fruit is best for them, and which

that has been forbidden!

***

True as the trees that gave their life for this ink, we are

indeed getting nearer to the red-beating heart of the matter.

Believe it or not, I am working with a word-count limit, here,

people. I’m no Dickens, oh, how fair he was to the ladies.

Given the evidence presented and the race thoughts native

to my radical brain, it seems to me that the Spirit of ’68, a

time when the forces of ‘Old and Evil’ had erected their iron

levees over the grave of Bobby, Martin, and hundreds of

other peaceful protestors, inspired to action with an acid tab

under tongue and eyes of falling water focused on the public

execution of Nguyen Van Lem. August, 1968 was the

moment when those old, evil forces realized the approaching

storm was far greater than they could have imagined—

Katrina sized. And we all know how even the slithering

descendants of those socially ambivalent forces deal with

storms as bitchy as she.

Alas, Ostara’s perfect storm proved to be too pure, too fast

and too powerful for politics, and the movement died a slow

disco death in the double-hinged jaw of Richard M. Nixon,

former human reptile.

From a distant point of view, with the right kind of eyes, one

can still see the withered canopies of that beautiful savage

garden--soiled with mysticism, watered with psilocybin and

grown not by the Sun, but the Lunar energies of

photosynthetic femininism. A skyclad grove spiritually

inspired, yet, universally and fundamentally unbalanced.

Sadly, the highs and depths of that decade can never seem

to shake the sulfuric stench of cliché mixed with

condescending stereotype that haters and should-be

admirers wave away with gagging impunity. The roots of the

flower children are obvious within every individual sect

choosing to do its own thing, but those roots somehow can’t

figure out how to grow together. Instead of a mighty reborn

Oak grove with a million strong, mutual bonds, the Left

movement today is more like an endless field of dust, with

only patchy oasies of fertile grass to rest a weary, resilient

soul. Is the air of true solidarity really so foul, even to

sentimental nostrils? Where are all the Outlaw spirits willing

to rise above together? Maybe the whole idea is so far ahead

it cannot help being left behind. Still, I can’t help but think,

with The Beatles still being the best-selling act going, that

there are indeed plenty of folks out there forever willing to

cut free their noses and spite a crumbling, new-century

reality. If only our voices could all come together, what a

song that would be--the kind of harmonious tune

conspicuously absent from today’s corporately-tamed

Bluetooth ear buds.

***

The events in Chicago during late August of the fated year

turned out to be the climax of an era still five years from its

grave. America saw first hand and in full view not only the

awesome flowing energy present in the peace movement,

but the full evil brutality of those who would suppress it, by

any means available. From the deafening individual protest

of Cassius Clay, to the mass civilian carnage levied by the

draft, the feelings present on both sides churned violently

until the emerging maelstroms could no longer remain

stable. It was The End, my friends, of all their elaborate

plans.

Survivors named the messy afterbirth Gerald Ford, and no

one knew how to rebuild from that mess.

Except, of course, for those old, evil forces. Possessive

demons inhabiting the Oval Office throne itself have taught

their presidential servants to become more diabolically

strategic in their efforts. More subversive and villainously

clever, in order not to raise the tides of discontent once

again.

In lieu of 50,000 dead in Southeast Asia, we have a few

thousand in Iraq, a few more in Kosovo, a downed squadron

in Mogadishu. Small smatterings of American red here and

there, so that no one notices we are all drowning in heroes’

blood.

Without the option of a factual, bold and curious news

media, we instead are force-fed screeching infotainers

desperate to shill one more piece of worthless bounty to a

public desperate for hidden treasures. Events with

staggering global consequences are instantly polished,

packaged and sent down the 24-hour assembly line behind

the same shiny shit that cable news dishes out to a vampire

audience that is only now beginning to become conscious to

the subliminally advertised Golden Ruse.

Greedy tentacles will reach out from the financial galaxy’s

super-massive black hole as long as cowardly Congressmen

are all too willing to exchange the keys to the public’s safe

deposit box for two more years of maintenance free Cadillac

health care. While the price of the American Dream rises

with the artificially inflated stock market, the actual cost of

dreaming ironically only skyrockets when the market

crashes. Either way, we get left paying the check, plus tip--

for such fantastic customer service.

Make no mistake, the darkness is not confined to the edge of

town. It infects every side-walk and Main street. It is even

within our own inner-selves, filtering our will to resist,

intruding under the cover of noon while we daydream of

worlds perfect for one.

We can never defeat this black specter, much less fight it

head on. Without the presence of mass activism, subverted

by a coordinated effort to wean the public from the visual

flow of obvious atrocities, the darkness has become

stronger. To overcome we must begin to embrace not only

our own individual spirituality—a special brand of faith

entrenched in the belief that nothing more than energy itself

dominates the universe, no matter what form of deity it

takes—but create an active, shared repellant to nameless

forces that strive to see us glued to the You Tube.

We must recognize our ancestor’s faults, refrain from

binging on our pure singular causes, aware that another all-

or-nothing push will only create an equal-and-opposite

purge. That old darkness within is a part of our human

nature, with no further evidence than the integrity of

American electoral candidates needed to prove it.

There will always be inane greed and pointless bloodshed.

Banishing them forcibly from our community is a fool’s

errand. If we were to achieve Utopia now, I promise that the

generation next would inherit front row seats to the

Apocalypse.

This may seem to some a sobering, defeatist attitude, one

that may in fact dull our carnal thrust for justice, but

accepting that which is out of our control will prove to be the

strength we will ride to a true victory—a world in balance.

While we will rely on an interconnected community to stay

vigilant against the wrath of ancient darkness. We must rely

on ourselves to spread love and respect for the Earth and all

her guests, to keep that critical balance in our own lives.

And when the feelings of despair creep in unnoticed with

their chain saws and tractors, intending to deforest our

content spiritual grove, I hope the following parable will

provide you the path to changing those negative thoughts:

Everyone knows that a ton of gold and a ton of feathers

weigh exactly the same, and no one would have a tough

time deciding which one they’d rather haul back to the

homestead. A ton of gold is worth more coin than any of us

will see in this lifetime or the next, without getting elected to

something, anyway.

Feathers, on the other hand, only have value to plucked fowl

and misaligned spines.

But let us continue the idea of this grade school riddle one

imaginary step further. You’ve somehow managed to hold

on this long, careening all the way down to well bottom, so

why not have a little fun before the ride’s over?

Now, to ensure a fair deal, the gold would have to be

weighed, screw the feathers, but let’s bring them along for

posterity’s sake. Besides, if there isn’t an actual ton of

feathers, the whole story really goes to shit.

So you’re going to need to rent a monster truck but, screw it

—you’re about to be rich! Once on the nearest freight scale,

you see the quantities together for the first time, and

somehow you find that the thrill has gone on to better

stories. Why? The gold is still there, two thousand whole

pounds of it, but the luster has been overshadowed by a

mile-high pile of worthless fake platypus feathers. You can

no longer see the luster of your good fortune, so you begin

to forget how amazing this day has been!

Now to the rational eye, it would seem this grey world, too,

is out of balance. The sky is dark and cloudy and it is not

until your scientific mind remembers that the total mass of

all the good things in life, even if they seem too few or far

between, still greatly out values that foreboding pile of a

giant’s pillow stuffing teetering above you. When we can

dismiss all our fear of that weak monolith, our progressive

movement will get back on a common beam, ready to vault

forward into a balanced future, willing to accept the mighty

platypus for exactly what he is.