A night at the Museum,
and we're dressed to ****.
The mood is gleeful–
and the people, chill.
All court the kings and queens of shill.

Our ****** deeds are whitewashed clean.
Our grievous crimes are left unseen–
sanitized versions on the tv screen.

But our steps were tracked with care
by one who could no longer bear
the growing horror, the scenes from there.
The cry of anguish, the dead-eyed stare.

Now the blood drips on our shoes.
Our deaths headline the evening news.
Yet still, the truth has only views
on internet sites with volunteer crews.

When there is no other way
Desperation will have its day

No one
Silence has a favor to ask
Move the might, adored withheld
Are, the voice of lies, and the act

***
In one misery, to embarrass
Signs to defer, elaborate hosts vex
A callous waste, of decided pasts

Long spoken treacle
Superiority has the moment
Fear, despair; married an oracle
Save your childhood first, the tickle relented:

Poison to youth...
Prestige came by paper and honey
Sweet nothings, that promise to tow aloof
Until presence is a form to money

Money already spent
On have and Eden?
Where has a liberty, been meant?
Somehow the miserable wind, has cried for a reason...

Where have all the assassins gone,
I'm just asking,
Where have all the hit-men gone,
It wasn't long ago.
Where have all the psychos gone,
Ones like Sirhan Sirhan,
Or a crazy red Russian,
Lining crosshairs for Vlad Putin.

Where have all the agencies gone,
I'm just asking,
The MI5, the CIA,
KGB, Mossad;
Where have covert actions gone,
When there's guys like crazed Kim Jong;
Or a crazed Red Russian,
A narcissistic Vlad Putin.

Where have all our heroes gone,
I'm just asking;
Where have all our leaders gone,
Not so long ago.
Where have all fine Russians gone;
Boris was their last good one;
When will we ever learn,
Ego-maniacs can't govern.

Lincoln died today
He hustled to an early grave
After patience bore the pain of hell
One final bullet to his dismay
Robbed him of the end he craved
Not of time or the sullen knell
But the kiss of a dagger in his worn hand
A battle lost and a battle won
A perdition purged a new ring rung
He's left this hollowed land
Consecrated by blood and gun
And travels now to songs unsung

Dallas, November 1963
Fifty-seven years since they shot Kennedy
Everyone saw then live on T.V.
what happens when you challenge
secret society

Some say the mob or the CIA
Either black or white, but the truth is gray
and long since buried 'neath Texas clay
right next to good ol' LBJ

I ask not what my country can do for me
Blood on her hands, Lady Liberty
Let sleeping dogs lie, leave history be
The truth died in Dallas, 1963

I was sound asleep. Work tomorrow

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 6:30 A.M.

Alarm on. Out and into shower.
Shave. Can't hear radio.
Getting dressed, and in the background's playing, Imagine.
Then Wheels, Beautiful Boy, Help, I Should Have Known Better.
Why?
And the news sinks in. And I have to go teach Grade 6 English
and read Curious ******* George to four classes of Kindergartens and Grade ones.
And, I'm alone in my new house, in a small town called Aylmer (population 5,000).
My wife is away during the week at University, and I hate my job,
and he's decaying on some slab as I read to twenty-five five year olds. Some of these kids will get to know and love his work. So will their kids and grandkids. I know. Like Mozart.

Tuesday, December 9, 1980. 10:00 P.M.

Me, Johnny Walker, and the turntable going round and round, like his wheels.

Shell casings strewn
On a rooftop
A grassy knoll
An underground garage
This is what ensues
When you hate the man
In front of you in line
And he happens
To step into Texas

Brian liked to get drunk to the maxes
He killed 40 innocent people with axes
When it was his time to die
With a twinkle in his eye
Brian yelled, "Death to those who don't pay their taxes!"