Boring old militant Marxist Farts
who blather on, in fits and starts
about class war and revolution
(demonstrably a failed solution)
rather than pitied should be scorned;
their websites tapped, subscribers warned.
Such talk begins as plodding fodder
dull as lead – yet even odder:
people read this wretched dreck!
History ought to hold in check
their pawn-shop plans to topple kings
they talk a good game – till it brings
armed madness, rage, the peasant wars
thugs and riff-raff looting stores,
death-camps, purges, civil chaos
union dues, returned to pay us
****** end to a treacherous story –
guns for butter and guts for glory.
Mao’s red flowers, Trotsky’s pick
Stalin’s bearhug – lies as thick
as honey dripping on a corpse.
Centralized control that warps
a free man’s mind. And yet they find
their audience loaded, pumped and primed.
In spite of numberless essays
the true believer bucks and brays
hee-hawing on, in Maoist jargon,
urging buyers to the bargain:
shining paths – that lead to graveyards
strewn with texts by Marxist blowhards.
Endless screeds by tenured traitors :
dialectic masturbators…
Marxist dullness has its edge.
Boring – yes, but forms a wedge
to split the status quo in factions
gaining time to plan their actions.
Arm in arms; so sad it tickles –
hammering plowshares into sickles
battering bewildered readers
(propagandized bottom-feeders).
Red conjecture never softens
pounded in like nails in coffins,
though their pipe-dreams burn away
when exposed by light of day.
Communist theory rings the blows
to forge the chains. The movement grows.
It’s lengthened, strengthened, link by link
ensnaring those who’re prone to think
they know what’s best for rank and file,
propagandizing all the while.
Agitating Marxist praxis
forms their struggle’s central axis.
Starry-eyed, they sing the anthem
plotting mayhem. Yes – I grant them
zeal, devotion, earnest madness…
but their ends begin in badness.
Brooding hate – their only god,
biding time to shoot their ***.
Nip their notions in the bud
before they blossom into blood.
Point them out for what they are:
faceless scribes of future war.
Worst of all: they’re as predictable
as their theories are inflictable.
Gaze into the hole of history
comprehend the tragic mystery…

I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.

Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?

He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.

All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.

So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?

The Rusted creaking lies,
whispered through putrid crooked teeth,
from underneath his ragged brim.

Time-worn top-hat sits tilted on his bony head,  
yakking jaw, spitting prostulations, intimidations,  
while swirling tattoos filled my eyes and propagandized, and hypnotized.

He is here, he is there,  
on mossy rock, on broken chair,  
floating phantom through foggy air,
to tear into my heart with his dark despair.

His words......his words, I can not trust
they haunt me as the moon.
His chilling breath fowl with death,
my skull becomes my tomb.

And then I hear a distant bell,
it breaks his grip on me.
I run and fall in gentle new snow
and am once again a child.

I close my eyes and drift to our place,  
away from his gaze and grumblings,  
to our mosaic covered Sacristy.

And you take my hand to bring me back.
You, with your Spring scented breath,
kissing away my hoary dreams.  
The bells clang pure as midnight snow,
and I am safe again in your arms.

Osama Bin Laden is alive and well
Oh yes, get that through your head
I had a drink with him last week

Yup

Him and his ***** beard and pouting lips
His turban ***** with sand and infidel's blood
He is alive
He will never die
He is the face of
Indestructible terror

He lives in our propagandized paranoia
In our over protective uncertainty
In The White house
In The House of Representatives
Kicking back on Capital Hill
And on television

Telling us to be scared, to watch our backs
And take our knuckle dragging redneck ***** out of here
And we're afraid
Afraid of another attack
Of the economy failing
Of unemployment
Of new ideas

We must progress
**** it up, bury our losses
Go forward and actually care to carry on
Or face an eternity of being frightened by our own shadows

Osama Bin Laden is alive and well

Humans are caught in a cultural duality at the moment. We - because I am human also - have a want in adventure in life as well as a want for egalitarian progress. Yet, both these options become limited while human population grows exponentially. As we take up more land and resources, and jobs increasingly become automated, many humans will find their lives unfulfilling compared to the possibilities offered by their media, as well as their past.

I truly believe now is the most exciting time to be alive; all the years of the neutral internet till its demise (c. January 2014), and nearly all the world’s likewise connected physically, by fast travel.

Yet, the excitement’s starting to wane. The internet’s becoming censored, and the world is turning monolithically mundane, with no promise of risk and new frontiers. Most people are fed up with growing inequality, including an uneven possibility of an adventurous life.

85 people control half the wealth of the world, but we are polarized toward smaller blame. So most the world doesn't live like I do, estadounidense. They don’t have the possibility of modest adventures. But only a devil’s pawful of people are living the grandest travels we watch in stories and film, and they have enough cash left over to live a life of those adventures a thousand times over.

Those living in real poverty are too concerned with the survival of themselves and their own families to gain progress against this prickly bat, who grows fatter from red blood since Babylon’s past. Now her global shadow casts a toxic plan, either too comforted, propagandized, or terrified - to shrug off some bullies.

The hope is – in this the waning time of the most exciting time to be alive – is that we unite, but keep local pride. Everywhere in the world wants a new comer over for some distinct thing.

In a world of wage servants
we are drugged, propagandized.
That's how the keep us
docile, in line.
Sometimes a servant refuses
to take his meds.
His spoken truth burns down
the facade, for a brief moment,
until he is silenced.

There is nothing left to write
Nothing left to say
Nothing left to hear that we haven't already heard
Every word propagandized

We know
As well as they know
that black boys deserve to grow up too
that a black girls life is precious too
with natural hair and melanin glow
beauty able to stop a show..
that the sound of gunshots and police sirens aren't so cool anymore
that we're not proud to wear red, white, and blue anymore
because the only times they ever give us credit for displaying the colors of patriotism is when they show another one of us dead or in handcuffs with police lights painted on our skin
They insult our pride and attack our good virtue..
since when has dark skin resembled a shot target?
I'm a human being, not the brute you define me as
I'm tired of being caged behind crime scene tape and metal bars..

that police aren't our friends anymore
that money is not just nothing but a thang 'round here
Because they put us in prisons to feel a little richer
A black life is priceless but nobody knows because we're still being sold to put on a show
That we're unheard
Nobody seems to care about us anymore
Tell us again that we ain't ever gonna fly
As our wings dangle from your fingers
That we're living in a world that serves the opposite
of justice and liberty for all

Clocks like feral vultures open wounds with fatal, ticking beaks. Their hands take you by the throat, choking off thought. Clocks tell many lies: no time to lose, time heals all, time will tell and, most despicable, time is money. Time isn't money. Time is your soul bleeding out onto your socks. Money is just an inferior brand of toilet paper. Use it for what it's worth. Middle-class zombies buy these lies, confusing time with tempo. The measure it out like expensive coffee: four years of college, forty hours a week, thirty years of mortgage, five years of car loan. They buy their lives on time. The usurers have propagandized them to equate payments with ownership, success with things. This keeps them too busy to ask questions. When time runs out they die, ignorant of having lived a lie. Time laughs last. Always.
  - mce