Not a poem but in protest of flagging truth about racism in Traverse City, Michigan


Traverse City, Michigan: Racism is still alive and well in our area.

We weren't always welcoming
Cross burning's (City of Traverse City, MI)
I'm born and raised in Traverse City, Michigan and still living in the same neighborhood where I grew up. I can remember when blacks were not welcome in most parts of town and the one or two around were military visitors.

We had two known cross burning incidents. One back in the late 80's or early 90's the other was around 1924, ******* groups like Ku Klux **** was behind both cross burning incidents. I found old articles on the earlier one but someone is trying hard to white wash history of Traverse City by hiding evidence of the most resent one. Ones like me who were there remember those dark days like it was yesterday. It don't bode well for tourism or the Cherry Festival if there's a record of racism in our city.

Copy pasting one two different retelling of story reported by our sometimes biased Record Eagle articles regarding the first and and will continue to dig for the other one.

January 31, 2009
KKK was active in early '20s

The 1924 bombings and cross burnings in downtown Traverse City were not the first **** activity in northern Michigan.

The Record-Eagle reported flaming crosses in the Mancelona area on Aug. 1, 1923, a full year before. Six weeks later, Traverse City commissioners refused the **** permission to hold a Sept. 17 open-air meeting at the corner of Front and Cass.

About 300 people showed up anyway and marched to a vacant lot west of Front and Union after the unidentified property owner gave permission, carefully noting that it "did not commit him to any relationship with the organization," the newspaper said.

The Record-Eagle also passed on information from an identified **** source in its Sept. 17 report:

Two, maybe three organizers had worked for weeks in Traverse City. About 150 Traverse City men from "among the leading citizens" had joined. An open-air ritual with the traditional fiery cross burning on a hillside would be held "sometime but not yet" in or near Traverse City, and it would be "merely a part of the **** ceremonies and have no special significance."

People who expected to see hooded men in white robes performing rites at the Sept. 17 rally were bound to be disappointed, the paper said. A new state law banned wearing masks in public. It also would be difficult to tell how many in the audience were KKK members because "every person who has signed the Ku Klux card has pledged to keep his membership an absolute secret."


Traverse City, Michigan wasn't always welcoming to people of color.


Traverse City Record-Eagle

February 1, 2009
Ku Klux **** terrorizes TC in 1924

KKK cross burnings, explosions rock city

By LORAINE ANDERSON
Black History Month has special significance, since it begins fewer than two weeks after the nation's historic inauguration of its first black president, Barack Obama.

But there are parts of that history that Traverse City, like the rest of the nation, would rather forget. The city never had a large black population, but it did not escape a visit from the Ku Klux **** during a frightening night of downtown explosions and cross burnings on Aug. 9, 1924.

Traverse City has never seen anything like that night of terror. Buildings shook. Store windows cracked and shattered. Houses as far away as 16th Street quaked, the Record-Eagle reported.

And though outside agitators were blamed, some local people may have been involved.

It started about 8 p.m. after three explosions went off across the river from the Lyric Theatre, where the State is today.

The crowd at the Lyric all but stampeded toward the door as women and children screamed. Panicked shoppers spilled out of downtown stores. City police phones jangled with alarm.

A large cross burned on the north side of the Boardman River near Cass Street. About 50 smaller burning crosses appeared almost simultaneously at the centers of intersections across the city. Each was crudely nailed together and swathed in oil-soaked rags. Sparks flew when several cars struck them. A city fire truck raced through town to douse flames.

Then, a "touring car" with four men, robed and hooded, though not masked, slowly trolled down Front Street carrying a sign surrounded by red flares blazing three letters: KKK.

Copies of the Ku Klux **** newspaper, "The Fiery Cross," later were found downtown, and police determined that at least two cars were involved in planting and lighting the crosses.

**** leaders called the explosions and flaming crosses a recruiting gimmick, but it was more than that. The 1920s was a reactionary time in the United States. The **** had risen again, starting in 1915, widening its anti-black focus to Jews, Catholics and immigrants, particularly those from southeastern Europe. Its membership was strongest in Illinois, Indiana and Ohio.

The ****'s most powerful year was 1924, when it reached an all-time high of 5 million members nationwide and virtually controlled the government of Indiana. Its most popular slogan was "100 percent pure American."

The **** had a solid base of support in Michigan. The **** fielded two candidates in the Republican gubernatorial primary in 1924 and a ****-backed candidate was elected mayor of Flint. A write-in **** candidate even made a strong showing in a Detroit mayoral race.

In June 1924, 1,000 men joined the KKK in an Oakland County cross burning attended by about 8,000 people. Traverse City's demonstration took place just two months later. But who was really behind it?

"There is some doubt among the authorities as to whether the offenses were actually committed by local people or men from outside. They believe that local people were associated in the affair," the Record-Eagle reported.

An unidentified spokesman for the local **** denied responsibility, speculating that it was the work of **** enemies or rogue Klansmen. He told the Record-Eagle that the **** repudiated terror tactics and burning of "unwatched crosses."

Two weeks after the bombing, city police obtained felony and misdemeanor arrest warrants accusing Ku Klux **** organizer Basil Carleton of Richmond, Ind., of setting off explosives. Indiana police arrested him on Aug. 29.

Witnesses testified in two trials in December and January that Carleton had purchased 25 pounds of dynamite, fuses and three caps from Hannah & Lay Mercantile Co. about two hours before the explosions. A Park Place Hotel clerk said he saw Carleton hurrying away from the direction of the explosions about 10 minutes later. Two **** members testified that Carleton was not at the scene.

Yet he was never convicted. Juries acquitted him in both cases because the prosecutor could not prove to their satisfaction that he was at the scene of the explosion or that he personally set off the dynamite.

The bomber escaped justice. But the good news was that in Traverse City, no night of terror like that happened again.

It was this event that sparked the cross burning in Traverse City. We had only one black family in our city, when Betty Ponder and her family left Traverse City for the first time due to no one wanting to rent to them, population of blacks in our predominately white city drop to zero.


******* Movement Targets Northern Michigan

by Robert Downes

National Alliance advocates the creation of "two Americas"

Traverse City, Mich., noted primarily for its beaches, tourists and cherry pie values, appears to be erupting as a national battleground of opinion over the ******* movement, with forces on both sides of the issue coming out of the woodwork to vent their outrage over racial issues.
On Thursday, June 5, residents along stretches of Washington and Front streets in town came home to find a slick package of information from the National Alliance hanging from their doorknobs. An outgrowth of the American **** Party, the National Alliance is a ******* group which advocates the creation of "two Americas," one of which would be "White Space only with no Jews or blacks." The Alliance, advocates genocidal practices if need be to achieve its goals, and plans to distribute 1,000 information packets in Northern Michigan.

Protest organized to oppose July "NordicFest"
The incident arose only a day after more than 150 people from throughout Northern Michigan gathered at a "Hate-Free TC" meeting to oppose the NordicFest, a skinhead rock festival sponsored by the Ku Klux ****, to be held at a secret location 20 miles south of town, July 3-6.
The NordicFest is being advertised on the Internet and will feature at least six skinhead bands featured on Stormfront Records and Resistance Records -- both of which are purveyors of neo-**** hate music. It will also reportedly feature speakers from the Ku Klux **** and Aryan Nations.

Thus far, the NordicFest's location has been a closely-kept secret by David Neumann of Bloodbond Enterprizes, the concert organizer and a former director of the Michigan Knights of the Ku Klux ****. Neumann has told local media that 300 tickets have been sold for the concert -- about half the number he expects to sell. Reportedly, concertgoers will be provided with maps to the secret location at a checkpoint.

Bands expected to play at the NordicFest include Intimidation One, Aggravated Assault, Blue Eyed Devils, Max Resist and the Hooligans, and No Alibi.

Local churches offering seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity
GATHERING STORM

Journalists have made inquiries on the NordicFest from as far away as London, New York and Colorado as a result of the Northern Express story circulating on the Internet. A segment for National Public Radio is expected to take the issue nationwide, possibly focusing the world's attention on Traverse City on the eve of the National Cherry Festival -- an event which draws more than half a million visitors, many of them from ethnic minorities.
"We're creating a rainbow ribbon that we hope everyone will wear in rejection of skinheads and the ****," said Rabbi Stacey Fine of Hate-Free TC. "We hope to have hundreds of ribbons during the time the **** is here, available from downtown merchants."

Fine says the group also hopes to march in the National Cherry Royale Parade with a three-by-eight-foot banner covered with thousands of signatures in a show of support for racial and cultural diversity. Thus far, Cherry Festival officials say they have received no applications from Hate-Free T.C., but will consider the request if approached.

Dottie Kye of Hate-Free TC says the group doesn't plan to try stopping the NordicFest despite their opposition ot the concert. "We're ignoring it," Kye says. "We celebrate anyone's right to organize and free speech. But our thing is unity and celebrating diversity." In addition to several church seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity, Hate-Free TC is organizing a three-day "Unity Festival" which will feature dozens of musicians, artists, poets, actors and peace activists at the Traverse City Opera House, July 3-6.

Concert organizers Tim Hall and Tom Emmott say that more than 40 musical acts will send a pro-diversity message to area teens, with performers including Willie Kye, Alright Already, John Greilick, Samantha Moore, the Motor Town Juke Boys, Bentley Filmore, the Sisters Grimm, and Lack of Afro, among many others. A concert with Fishbone is planned for later in the month.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence"
THE TEEN CONNECTION

The Unity Fest counter-concert is seen as a vital tool in fighting the influence of the ******* movement on teens in the area. After the initial story broke, the buzz in local high schools was that the NordicFest would be offering free beer to minors. Although that notion is clearly erroneous, a small number of teens in the area still cling to the idea and have also been attracted by the rebellious nature of the skinhead rock scene.
Tim Hall believes that his Unity Fest concert will help turn that tide. The three-day concert will be located in the heart of Traverse City in the old City Opera House, with easy access for the hundreds of teens who hang out downtown, often with little to do. "Our message is going to be one that values racial and cultural diversity," Hall said. "And we've had a great response so far. We had to put a lid on the performers when we reached 40 acts, because everyone wants to play at this event."

The Unity Fest will also coincide with the Annual Reggie Box Memorial Blues Blast, which was created five years ago to bring the heritage of black music to Northern Michigan for the overwhelmingly white Cherry Festival. This year's Blues Blast will feature John Mayall, Marcia Ball and the Bihlman Bros. in a free concert downtown on July 6. The concert will also feature a strong message promoting diversity.

The law enforcement view Traverse City Police Chief Ralph Soffredine says members of the law enforcement community, including the State Police and sheriffs from Grand Traverse and Wexford counties, are taking a wait-and-see approach as to whether the NordicFest will even be held.

"People ask what we would do if the skinheads wanted to march, and it's our position that they have the same rights under the First Amendment as anyone as long as they're obeying the law," Soffredine said. "It's a neutral situation for us. We just want to maintain the peace."

He added that skinheads coming to Traverse City would be treated "no different than if longhairs come into town, or square dancers. We'd certainly observe them and respond if there's trouble."

The chief noted that a similar event occurred in the Buckley area several years ago when several motorcycle gangs gathered for a rally. While the event was monitored by local police agencies, few people in the area knew that it occurred.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence, which has become a serious problem in our community and our schools," he concluded. "The unfortunate thing is that it sometimes takes a ******* or a racial issue for people to get active."

"Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."
ANGER FROM ACTIVISTS

Not everyone is happy with the neutral attitude of law enforcement. Judy Lowenzahn of Traverse City thinks that local police agencies should get tough on the **** concert, which has no legally-required bond or liquor license.
"These hateful groups are using skinhead music to recruit soldiers for their facist movement," Lowenzahn said. "If they are allowed to hold this event, in violation of local, state and federal laws and in violation of common decency, we will be capitve audience to their deranged homophobic, anti-semitic, racist, sexist ideology. Those who protest this message, along with those who are their scapegoats will be targets for hate crimes."

Lowenzahn upbraided Grand Traverse County Sheriff Barr after he made comments in a local paper that "I'd just as soon personally let them have their little event and be on their way." Barr added that if there was a confrontation between the skinheads and protestors, "there's going to be someone in jail."

"Does Sheriff Barr suggest that people of color and others who don't fit the aryan model hide inside their homes for the holiday weekend?" Lowenzhan responded. "Rather than offer a plan to protect the community from the violence that grows whenever white supremecists do outreach, Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."

Northern Michigan targeted because of the predominantly white population
KLUELESS

Up to now, the vast majority of Northern Michigan residents have been klueless on the **** and the ******* movement. Many, for instance, had no idea that there even was a Ku Klux **** operating in the region until Neumann revealed that there are about 60 members operating mostly as "a fraternal organization" between ******* and the Mackinac Bridge.
Similarly, the existence and agenda of the National Alliance is all-ne

CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l

Hi;

This is not a poem.

But given the infernal catastrophe that has befallen, I just think it is time for you Americans to listen to us people living 'out there'.

Here are my thoghts, that I submit to you with respect;


HAITIAN EARTHQUAKE: A HISTORIC MOMENT FOR AMERICA TO CHANGE ITS MISSION

Ayad Gharbawi

January 19, 2010 – Damascus, Syria


The recent Haitian earthquake is unusual in that it has destroyed the entire meagre ‘infrastructure’ of a so-called nation.
In fact, this 2010 earthquake succeeded in showing the world that the so-called ‘country’ of Haiti is nothing more than another piece of estate/land/property for a select, few oligarchs.
Anyway, the US response to this ecological/environmental holocaust that has befallen upon Haiti has been unprecedented.
America, under President Barack Hussein Obama, has behaved impeccably in Haiti.
The brilliance in Obama’s aid for Haiti is successful precisely because he has avoided previous attempts by the US to help on the basis of ‘humanitarian’ grounds, when those grounds happened to also include conflicts raging within them.
Obama avoided the mistake of getting America involved in a humanitarian crises that existed within a civil war – like what happened in Lebanon (1982-83), Somalia (1991-3), Bosnia (1995), Kosovo (1999).
I write this article because I, as an outsider, wish ardently, to speak to you Americans.
Today, you Americans have the choice: either to follow the militaristic, expansionist policies of the US President, Theodore Roosevelt, or you may follow the path of the first morally-guided President of the US - Woodrow Wilson.
I urge you Americans to leave all countries where there are civil wars – such as in Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen and so on.
Let these countries do whatever their people wish to do against each other.
Instead, allow your great arsenal of democracy to help and intervene on humanitarian missions – in countries wherein there are no civil wars – such as you have been doing so magnificently in Haiti.
Use your power, your wealth, your US Army, Air Force, and Navy to help humans who need the helping hand of succour.
I tell you, that you Americans, once you adopt this peaceful, moral foreign; policy, you shall see that your enemies will fade.
Taleban have told you repeatedly, and have repeatedly contacted to you, telling you that they are engaged in an Afghani civil war. So why do you intrude?
Al Qaeda have told you repeatedly if you leave the Middle East, then they have no quarrel with you.
Why can you Americans not accept or understand that so long as you do not invade, occupy or create military bases in foreign lands, no one, and no organization and no party and no country will see you as an enemy?
This is a moment for you Americans do finally break off from the Theodore Roosevelt Principle (TRP) which is to attack, ****, slaughter and occupy any country you think is ‘worth it’.
And, at the same time, it is also a moment in history, when you can fully embrace the Woodrow Wilson Principle (WWP) of a foreign policy that is based on morality.
What you have done and what you are doing in Haiti is a pure act of WWP.
I believe the entire Third World applauds you and loves you for what your men and women are doing for the innocent victims of Haiti.
But, then, when other men and women, scream and shriek, saying: “Look at what these Americans are doing! They ****, butcher and ****** Afghans in order to support corrupt, drug dealing gangsters such as Hamid Karzai who, themselves, cannot control and, in any case, are not interested in ‘controlling’ their own country! So what else can you think of America’s real intentions?”
And what a good emotion-fuelled question, indeed.
What are you Americans doing fighting, losing American and Afghani blood in order to basically prop up and support criminal regimes such as the Karzai regime, whose only raison d’etre is to make profits through their various ‘business’ activities?
The more you Americans fight what are perceived as unjust, colonialist wars, the more you will create terrorists. It is a never ending cycle!
I argue and I passionately believe, that you Americans can do this. If only you US statesmen and stateswomen finally decide to adopt the beautiful, clean mantle of morality in your foreign policy.
Obviously, I do not have enough space to express my ideas and reasons. So, let me be clear: I am not advocating a slavish enactment of Wilsonian principles.
For, as an example, when Iraq invaded Kuwait in 1990, the US had to make a military move, because no country can allow a sick dictator to control so much of the world’s oil. There are clear instances when aggression abroad can seriously threaten US interests. But, in truth, the vast majority of the wars you Americans entered, were unnecessary: you did not need to go beyond the Yalu in 1950 in Korea; you did not need to enter the North-South Vietnamese Civil War.
Take Kosovo: yes massacres were committed on all sides. But you did not need to bomb Serbia. First and foremost, that should and must have been a problem for European powers to solve. Secondly, Kosovo was never vital for US interests. And the fact is, Kosovo could never be a so-called ‘state’. Today, it is nothing more than a geographical area run by warlords, drug dealers and other gangsters who each carve out their own territory. Was that piece of gangster-run land worthy of killing Serbians? No!
Take North Korea: let Russian, South Korea and Japan deal with that abnormal so-called state. Why do you spend money on your troops and camps there? It is not in your interests and yes, North Korea does not threaten you Americans!
The same goes for Iraq in 2003 – you did not need to invade that country for the simple reason that Baghdad posed no threat to its neighbours, and certainly no threat to Europe or to the US.  Again, you should have let the Iraqis themselves solve whatever problems they have on their fragmented plate.
You must see and feel that US lives are not expendable for pointless and futile foreign adventures.
America should help those who have suffered environmental catastrophes and who are in a war-free zone.
America should help stable, developing nations where accountability starts from Washington and right back in – Washington.
And yes, of course, America should only use its military might if it is directly threatened by any person, nation or organization.
And to reduce this hatred that has spawned against you: I tell you, a voice from a wilderness, one mute krill from amongst billions yearning for exactly what I yearn for, I tell you: remove your military bases from Europe, Japan, South America, the Gulf, and anywhere else. These military bases are seen by people as ‘evidence’ of occupation. You do not need to keep these costly outposts. Remove them. Reduce your military presence that, in any way, has no effect, except to increase fanaticism and anger amongst your people. This is especially so in the Gulf, where your presence angers the people – leave those countries and yes, you will then reduce your costs, which is obviously beneficial to you Americans.
Instead of military compounds and bases, why not enthusiastically create consortiums of companies to build American schools, universities, hospitals, housing projects and get involved in building infrastructure projects in nations that have good accountability, so no money is wasted and so can never go, instead, straight to the pockets of the leaders.
Build the world; use your superpower might to create hope in broken nations, and that effort will, in turn, build love and you shall see, your enemies shall decrease and your military costs will decrease and your building projects will bring you greater revenues.
The choice is yours: follow a Wilsonian foreign policy or a Theodore Roosevelt foreign policy.
I hope the Haitian earthquake catastrophe has shed some light on which path US foreign policy should take.

Ayad Gharbawi

Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Is the Way
The Truth and The Life

Despite Francis’ and his world church
Despite the efforts of the antichrist Obama
Satan will fail
As he always has failed

The coming world church
Seeks to change the gospel
Of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth

No, it is not acceptable
To love and dwell in sin
Repent unto Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
The Kingdom of Yahweh God is at hand

Buddhists you will not save yourself
Through meditation
Hindus, Muslims, etc
You cannot save yourself

You are guilty
Yes u are a sinner
You have lied
Taken the name
Of Lord Jesus Christ in vain
You have cursed your neighbor
With your vile tongue
You have defiled yourself
Through your ****** immorality

We are all sinners
In need of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Repent unto the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
For The Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth hath shed
His holy and perfect blood to pay the penalty for your sins
Believe in the truth that Jesus Christ of Nazareth resurrected
Himself on the third day
Through the power of Lord God Almighty Yahweh
Defeating Satan, death, and the grave once and for all

Yes the tribulation will begin shortly
First will come a series of judgements
Against America
The ***** of Babylon
A nation that has aborted 60 million children
A nation that has legalized gay marriage
A nation that has murdered and destroyed
The lives of millions all over the world for decades

CERN has opened up the bottomless pit
So it was in the days of Noah
So it shall be at the coming of the Son of Man

The coming RFID chip will use
Block chain technology
To alter human DNA
A nephilim/hybrid strand
Will infect the human genome
Forever changing those who take the mark of the beast

Do not take the mark of the beast or bow down
To the image of the beast
Those who do so
Will spend an eternity
In the lake of fire
With Barack Obama, the nephilim and rephaim,
And unrepentant souls
Who have not accepted the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
As their Lord and Savior

To Barack Obama and his father Satan
Human beings are just objects
To be controlled and used
They wish to take as many souls
Into the lake of fire as they can

The faithful servants of the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Are laughing at Barack Obama the antichrist,
At Satan, the nephilim, and the rephaim
It is oh so entertaining that you think you can overcome
The Lord and Master of the Universe Jesus Christ of Nazareth
What a bunch of losers you are!

Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
The Holy One of Israel
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Is the eternal victor
He cannot be defeated

Christians trounce and stomp all over you
We push you down into the mud
The Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth who owns
My soul, spirit, body, heart, and mind
Will use me during the tribulation
To help people to repent
And accept the Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
As their Lord, Master, and Savior

The Spirit and the Bride say Come
The Holy Spirit of the Most High God Yahweh
The Ruachakodesh that Is
Praise His holy name

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
I will bow down before you
When I first see you after I am raptured
I willing kiss your feet as a Mary Magdalene did
I belong to you forever Master Jesus of Nazareth
For you delivered me from the lake of fire
With your holy and perfect blood

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
I am your sweetheart bride
You protect me and nurture me
I am like a small baby
I am your precious sheep
I can only comprehend a very small percentage
Of your great love and mercy

I am slow to learn your ways
Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
But you are patient with me
You are my bridegroom
Master Jesus of Nazareth
I am your precious Bride

The Marrige Supper of the Lamb
Will be so delightful
To be in Your presence
Is such a privilege

And then to the bridal suite
You will whisk me away
To our secret place
We will share the desires of our hearts
Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
How can I not be nervous
Writing this?

I am a nervous bride
For you Jesus of Nazareth
My bridegroom are perfect in every way
And I am a continuing work
I must continue to read your Holy Bible
And pray for my friends and family

You would have me be perfect
As my Father Yahweh
And You are perfect
Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth
But that will be a very long process
Thankfully I will have eternity
To become perfect
I definitely need plenty of time, heh

Oh Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
You raised brother Lazarus after He had been
I need the tomb four days
You are so powerful and mighty

Wrap your loving arms around me
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Comfort me
For I am weak and weary
I am suffering
But I must endure
And continue to carry my cross for you

Continue to create in me a more
Loving and forgiving heart
Oh Divine Master
Jesus Christ of Nazareth

For you Master Jesus of Nazareth
Have created me for your pleasure
Oh Lord of Hosts Master Jesus

I am just learning about your perfect love
Master Jesus of Nazareth
Oh how I stumble and fall
Please steady my feeble knees

For You are the King of Glory
The bright and morning star
The Lion of the tribe of Judah
All is known to you
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

And I belong to you
Master Jesus of Nazareth
You delivered me and restored me
Master Jesus of Nazareth

I will kiss your perfect feet
Oh yes I will
When the time is right
I grow weary
Fill me with your Holy Spirit
Penetrate me with your Ruachakodesh
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth
Make love to me

I am vulnerable
And I must tell you the deepest desires of my heart
We are courting now
But soon I will attend the Marriage Supper of the Lamb
And then the consummation of our marriage
How I look forward to submitting to you fully

I must admit I am a bit of a nervous bride
You are all knowing and all powerful
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
You pour out your tender mercies to me each day
I sin but you are so quick to forgive me

I am so beautiful
Because you made me that way
I put all my hope
And all my trust and faith
In You
Master Jesus of Nazareth
My Messiah, restorer, redeemer, and Savior
Lord Jesus of Nazareth

How do you wish to make love to me
Master Jesus of Nazareth?
Make love to me
In a way that brings you the most pleasure
I am a bit nervous
But I trust you completely
I want you to be so totally satisfied
For you created me so You could make love to me
Master and Lord Jesus Christ of Nazareth

Our wedding day
Will be the most wonderful day
Of my eternal existence

I lie on our beautiful marriage bed
You are such a good friend Master Jesus of Nazareth
We must move slowly
Total and complete submission to you
Still frightens me somewhat
But I know it is what you desire...

Oh Master Jesus of Nazareth
My Lord, Savior, redeemer, and restorer
How do you wish to make love to me?

I love you always and forever
My King and Savior Jesus Christ of Nazareth
I know you will help me to learn how to love more deeply

For you are such a faithful, patient, forgiving, loving,
And perfect bridegroom!
All honor and power and might and glory
And strength and majesty belongs to you
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

For you are Lord of Lords and King of Kings
You are Lord of heaven and Lord of earth
You are Lord of the new heaven and Lord of the new earth

And I belong to you
My Lord and Savior
My King and Restorer
Master Jesus Christ of Nazareth

Guns and more guns need to be put down
Bullets should be replaced with education being the sound
It’s time to become a success
Yet it’s up to our young people to put that to the test
Their testimony surrounding confess
Everyone has capabilities to learn
However, one must adapt to theories forming concepts
Imagine having a college degree for all to see
Having confident being your own decree
The movement of action in making education what it should be
A mind is a terrible thing to waste
But the key is to make education your base
Former President Barack Obama had the right idea, “You Can”
But the new continued motto, “You shall Until”
A young man at a United ***** College Fund Raiser said this vital point, “Blacker the college Sweeter the education”
Education being the unity, but bring back to the community
Determination in step out and explore
Seeing one’s horizon but beyond the shore
A college education is an opportunity being a chance
Knowing the theories is how one will advance
Higher Education means being one step ahead
But the opposition wants minds to be misled
Prove to yourself what education can do for you
It’s a journey being a must to go through
Achievers such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Medgar Evers, Dr. Maya Angelou and scores of others
They instilled the passion in how to achieve, and determined education was what they were going to receive
They were ready no matter what
Fasten your educational seat belt as you will be taking off into Higher Learning Institutions in education beyond measure
Education is, but hold tight to the learning saddle
It might seem like a battle
But the end rewards is succeed
Slavery that was while be came destined for education now
One word leads to a complete sentence
One’s thoughts illustrates the understanding
Adaptability of the concepts gained
Long lasting knowledge is what will remain
UNCF philosophy, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste”
But the mind must be ready to spiral and absorb
But education and knowledge work all accord.

Barack Obama
Is a fork tongued devil
Who supports abortions
And homosexual marriage

The Lord said
His hand of judgement will come
Against the U.S.

The first devastation will hit
There will be another right on its heels
A series of devastating events

Look to the skies---- (nuke)
Look to the seas---(tsunami)
Look to the earth---(earthquake)

People being killed with guns
Marshall Law

The United States will fall
Because of its wickedness

The U.S. will decrease
And Israel will increase
It will happen

These things will happen before
His return

The sword will be the nuclear war
Drought from no rains
Pestilence new strain of disease

5 year war
Then famine

Fill up storehouses

Landscape of America will change

Waterways will become poisonous
Sun will emit flashes of radiation
His hand is on the weather

(Hand of the Lord)

Ocean will come as far as the Rockies
Geological plates will shift

Russians will attack infrastructure
Of the nation

A nation of lies
Darkness will overcome

A deep darkness will cover
The people
Because they love the lies

The Lord said to her,
"Do not despair my children
Out of the darkness
Comes the glorious light."

There will be
Cities of refuge

For those who know Him
Intimately
There will be a city of refuge

Stay close and He will instruct you

The root
Of ambition
Is ambivalent

There's no “one cause”
No one causes
A man
To make life decisions
In a day

It takes
Much more
For
A man to be successful
And real
With his inner-self
Accepting
The cards dealt
With the stamina
To play through
Exercising his will
With the feel
Lingering in every pore

Unsure
Of obstacles ahead
Headstrong
Through barricades
Bearing the bruises
Trampling
Over your own
Feet
Defeat
Seen in battle
But the war’s on

And the war zone
Isn’t limited
To a few
Years
Like ages 19-22
Whose to do
Worse
Who has more

Money
CARS
Clothes
And hoes

And whose vision
Is so small
To tack them
with success
All in all

And attack those
Who lack the
Wills
To move forward
And ignorantly
Attach it
With a phenomena
Of
Your unknowing

Root of ambition
Can spread
Like weeds

And weeds
Can **** ambition
Or spread
Like seeds

How many men
Dive
Head first under the influence
Or rise above
High
From the same drug

Barack Obama
Michael Phelps
William Shakespeare
Bill Clinton
Lebron James
Pablo Picasso
The Beatles
Jay-Z
Bob Marley
Conan O’Brien
Dr Francis Crick. (Nobel Prize Winner)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Salvador Dali
Victor Hugo
Kareem Abdul-Jabar
Snoop Dogg
Dr. Dre
Stephen King

Just to name a few
Maybe
Just maybe
It has nothing to do
With success

Or you.

.                                                     For V.                                                       .

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Color is the color of blood less şırıştığı colors.
some of the files. Thank you so much. How beautiful
is this girl. How do you do? However, true? [A ... take it.] (N),
ring (500) XXXVIII losses (s). Examples of these
glasses Hanaw Developer ACTION Ink lamp. (Signature)
1 1. Leah, which is luminous; He conceived it and reasoned,
'there is no doubt on the matter'. 1 do not know what its
"resolution" is. When they V., recommendation for a picnic,
Fraser (change)   or      1. deleted do not fall into one object;
And without further explanation. policy there is no truth
in their mouth was her flesh potentially be prey to Autumn
has not diminished. He left behind him; Pain in your back
or do you die? Anger and peace, all my privileges,
the council. "This is a very delicate tablet" Khmara rwjiniñ;
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described above to and to prevent it; This powder (text)
and lost. There is ~ removed; "Desorptions" are excluded ||
from the dinosaur and died ~ ~ (Name) to the surface. V. |
(reception) 2. lost? invisible invisible deleted. The reason
for having lost the power he had, When on July 1 the
dematerialization office does not matter. Granddaughter.
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sense. "Brown nasal White; The capillary 'rights' and the rights
of the completion tösekmen others, "Cabaret Bush's inheritance"
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lost or damaged. "Local History has been removed
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"the right to a mass Pianissimo" (after the change) 4. It is apparent
that the cost is as follows: Gradually There is one
not easily
on dry land. "The change in the art'' This is what
the cult hopes after waiting for a few years.
* Sick and vulnerable.
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will give the "disappeared" in Las Vegas, are lying Men
lying privately in wait with her, so it fell out in the course
of the ages, little by little the other one after another.
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evaporation.   "Money" which is good; in Las Vegas
like smoke Until the end of the semester,"
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of 100 pounds' run by flying "This is the time to run
for five years. "R R R R 1 Რ translation. AAcid and said:
The Good and a woman.| ||
|
Just as she is accustomed to himself. In Arabic -
DjDarag I think this is a culture. 1 1 am.
Botswana: 11 hours; President of Europe. topic:
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\ N = 1? But the developer delays; a box? 11.11 | market
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N = 1
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11.11 (|). air conditioning to listen to Hillary.
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Georgian running. transform your life.
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options; However, help is located; a 13-year-old man.
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Africa and vitamin B-1 (13) 1/1 (1), but the woman's
family. "The first night on the subway," 1 of the European
left | (10) | - - 1 - - - - - For example, 11 types of vitamins
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1 Philip 11.13. || Color and color are about "50 colors".
There is no blood. Part of the file.
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for 5 years to buy this Rolls-Royce.
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things are there; Developer. Things
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| Day and night, night time, 11 - 13.
Africa, Europe, do you want to change now?
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"Crisis" Section N = 1]. (10) is written in Europe
Internet security ... message 11.11 \ 1 = 1
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conditioner. I do not know what I will write. |
Use of women in Medium research. GOD's
answers are consistent. Your life will change.
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Please help me, I am 13 years old,
And 11 years old. South Africa, Europe,
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female And that family. "First Metro" 1 - 1
Signature Night (10) Europe - - - - - - For example,
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protection. This is approved. What are the children
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are about 50 colors. There is no blood.
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really, That is bad. I worked in Tohoku for 5 years.
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to the lady. The degree of men burned and died.
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Europe. topic: What would you do if you had
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what should I do? \ N = 1? The reason is in the box,
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****** of chromosomes 11 | 1 | 1 || | | | (Arizona)
||
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message 11.11
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through the air conditioner. I do not know
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research. God's answer is consistent. Your
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issue. option: Please help me, I am 13
years old, And I am 11 years old. South
Africa, Europe, Africa, 1/1 Spirit, vitamin
B-12 13.000 (1), female And that family.
"First Metro" 1 - 1 Signature | |                 |                  | |      ||
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sections | 11 "= 1 || 11 (|) Arab music protection. || |||
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and thought, there was no doubt This is a question.
1 I do not know what that is "Permission."
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1. does not fall into one damaged object;  And without further explanation.
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apart not decreased. He was behind; You sick or do you
die, all my privileges, Sov. "This Hmara rwizhin
is a very delicate pill" 1 I do not want to pay attention
to leaving From the Republic of Kazakhstan - the US Park
Sensors. "At the end of the disease" "Flowers will disappear".
||| | | And what is it? not dependent on the declaration
as described above and avoid it; This powder (text)
and lost. ~ Deleted; Desorption is removed; he left
the dinosaur and died in the horizon (At). V. (acceptance)
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history has disappeared As usual, footwear
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are wild, "Pianist mass law" (after change) 4.
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light dry ground. "Art of Change" is the Hope of Worship
* Popular
vulnerabilities.
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(1) 7 Lost Saturn Park. "Now we have
to run around the plane  
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to the lost; he waited
for him to destroy it
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pound "flying" It works for five years.
"Translation R R 1 AAcid and said: Good and Woman. In Arabic -
DjDarag This culture. 1 hour from Botswana: 11 hours; President
of Europe. Topic: Do you have questions
if you have questions? any question? I'm sorry,
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(1) there is a security issue. What to do? \ N = 1?
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from 11 to 13, Africa, 1 Europe and change?
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1 Do not know or write. Women's Central-Caucasian Research Center
for Security. You can change your life. And for a long |
time this is a very important question. options; However,
assistance will be provided; 13 years old man. 11 year
old man. South Africa, Europe, Africa and vitamin B1
(13) 1/1 (1), but the women 's family "night first night
in Europe" left (10) | For example, 11 types of vitamins = 1
|| 11 (|) Arab Music, Testing the Peon of the Pooh, Philip 11.13.|

he loves but does not want The colors are bright.
some files. Thank you so  much. How beautiful
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of Hanava. Developer Engineering shine. (Signed)
1. Leah, sparkling; She thought and he had no doubt.
1 don't know what is this permission.
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1. Not connected, one damaged object;
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all my privileges, Sov. "Rarely, a very thin
pill." I do not want to pay цлосе аттентион
From the Republic of Kazakhstan -
USA Парк Sensor.
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of the disease. ||| | and it does not депенд on
ним declaration and warning as described above;
This powder (text) and lost. ~ Removed;
десорптион will be deleted; he left behind dinosaurs
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invisible. July 1,
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bright dry place. "The Art of Change" иs the hope
of воршип vulnerabilities. Article on the "loyalty"
of детаинеес (1) 7 Lost Saturn Park. "We need
to run нов plane "It allows a girl to quickly лосе
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years ago for centuries. "Money", "it's good;
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in the Netherlands 1.1 (1) There is a security issue.
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box 11.11 | маркет 1 | 1 || (Arizona) || Night,
day and night, from 11 to 13, Africa, Europe
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1.1.1, N = 1 Section "Work". (10) 11 Internet
security in Europe = 1 ... 11.11 (|).
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or write. Women. Central Caucasian Studies
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options; However, assistance иs provided;  13 years
олд person. 11 years South Africa, Europe, Африка
and vitamin B-1 (13) 1/1 (1), but not for women
of the фамилий "Night in Europe at night" (10)
For example, 11 types of vitamins = 1 | | 11 (|) Arabic
music, Peon Test, Philip 11.13.|||
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sparkling; She thought, and he had no doubt.
1 I don't know what kind permissions.
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(change) 1. Not connected, one damaged
object; And without further explanation.
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disappeared." Advantage for digital THEN -
the blast. Blue capillary also available.
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number. Metaphor or space. See "Bronx"
for "Human Rights" and the possibility of "Wild",
“Mass Law of Pianists”, (after the change) 4.
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dry place. The Art of Change and Hope
for Vulnerability worship Article on the "loyalty"
of parts (1) 7 Lost Saturn Park. "We need to run
new aircraft "Los, Los Vegas Lost, he expected
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transmission 1 "Acid and said:" Well, a woman.
"In Arabic - DjDarag This is a culture. 1 hour
in Botswana: 11 o'clock; President of Europe.
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any question? Sorry, 1000 years ago! Obama
located in the Netherlands 1.1 (1) There
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in Europe = 1 ... 11.11 (|). Hillary is listening to the air
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options; anyway help and provision;
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on the meeting (AT). V. (Adoption) 2. lost?
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for Today's TIME - give birth. Blue capillary
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for Vulnerability worship Section on "loyalty"
of parts (1) 7 Slots Saturn Park lost.
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expected three years ago for the past few years.
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"The question should not be in what ways writing and utterance trope each other, but how both are involved with number. Without relating the technology of writing to number (as opposed to sound or drawing), it is impossible to discuss it meaningfully as an aspect of versecraft."

          Courage to write and courage to not write. Read
          The great poets and highly accomplished letters
          Of leaders. Yet the war and the book have lives
          Of their own. Vacuum house, analyze mankind.
          His idea of himself. Ideas subsumed by
          Better ones unite people in melting pots.
          I watch from my little bowl of nuts. Watch
          The one red squirrel and the many gray.
          Watch the nuthatch pair, platoon of chickadees.
          Here is what I say: When we can go
          From planet to planet on nothing but air,
          Leaving behind a drop of water,
          No burger bags blowin’ in the sun,
          I’ll love my sons, and my dogs will be happy.

"What is needed is a way to pry apart the polar, mimetic fiction that undergirds discussions (even sympathetic ones) of writing and versification, and see how we can relate writing to measure. Roy Harris’ investigations into the origin of writing make this connection possible."

          Electronic millennium. A long silence
          Wouldn’t hurt. Not that the national debate
          Should cease, it should proceed, passionate
          And furious. Those who have studied the matter
          And have something to say should write cogent
          Opinion pieces on the totalitarian
          Tendencies of minaret Islamists,
          The terminal contradiction of advancing
          Democracy with the unitary military.
          George Washington would not have approved
          And even Lincoln vacillated between
          The practicalities of preserving union
          And the ideal of freeing slaves. The president
          Carries his burden of matter, the physics
          Of existence cannot change our aloneness
          Or the butterfly’s importance, the very
          Last insects at the screens of August.
          It is life we face and death we meet.

"He argues that the origin of writing did not lie in the drawing of figures, or attempts to imitate speech, but in the recording of number. According to Harris, the oldest ‘writing’ that we have, like that on the 11, 000-year-old Ishango bone, is in ‘lines.’ The surface is scored with rows of short, parallel strokes, which probably served a numerical function. We still use such scoring systems today on occasion."

          OK, different strokes. But reading North’s poems
          And his predecessors’ in which noun and verb
          Are so far separated by modifiers,
          Post-positioned prepositions, diversions
          Into ditches, gardens, heavens, I don’t know
          What to do laugh or put the book down and eat
          Several cookies. In other words, anything goes,
          There truth resides. 1/3 life in suburbs,
          1/3 on the subway, and the last third
          On the mountain. A fourth hallucinating
          In heaven. That’s how it goes. You get what you believe.
          Bones in mud. It’s always possible I suppose
          That for nine months analogous or symmetrical
          With gestation our souls wander call it limbo,
          Doing the limbo and harassing the living
          With unanswerable questions, finally accepting
          Free molecular rent in a cubic meter
          Of interstellar space, a rose hip.
         
"Harris speculates about counting by scoring:"
'What is relevant for our present purposes is the fact that counting is associated in many cultures with primitive forms of recording which have a graphically isomorphic basis... The iconic origin of such recording systems is hardly open to doubt: the notch or stroke corresponds to the human finger...'

          Partridgeberry, mugwort, mats of raspberry,
          Cranberry, bearberry, autumn eleagnus,
          Autumn Nocturne, Autumn Leaves, the changes
          To the tunes and the scientific names.
          When it doesn’t matter what you do
          You’re probably doing something new.
          That’s a woodpecker. That’s a moth. I’m bounded
          By my surroundings, I feel at home.
          Could be Schenectady. Could be Troy.
          One of many small cities in which to
          Await my anonymity. Be specific.
          Not asphalt but impermeable surface.
          Not trees but mature stems. Quercus rubrus—
          Quality veneer. Into such a garden
          Have a victor and a fool penetrated.

'In short, the rows of strokes are graphically isomorphic with just that subpart of the recorder’s oral language which comprises the corresponding words used for counting. It makes no difference whether we ‘read’ the sign pictorially as standing for so many fingers held up, or scriptorially as standing for a certain numeral.'

          In a crowded world every action results
          In an equal and overwrought reaction.
          Yet, all the energy recycles
          And there is not one thermal unit more or less
          When all is said and won. Even when the tribes
          Were isolated behind mountain ranges
          And rushing rivers, they sought each other out
          For trading and for taking. Humanity
          Is lonely. Humor is the only remedy
          And going to your daily discipline
          The only way past Monday. Join the torrential
          Flow of words, emotion, wit and erudition.
          It is embarrassing to see a good writer
          Work himself into a lather, having
          Something to say. A system of beliefs
          To illustrate, characters dressed accordingly.
          Gardens and wilderness in which to wander.
          A cave with a view. The plumbing problem never
          Resolves. But we will do what we can and
          Some things we shouldn't because that is human.

"Along with other evidence, this leads him to argue that the invention of writing–or the division of writing and drawing into separate functions–occurred when the graphic representation of number shifted from the token-iterative system that appears on the Ishango bone, to type-slotting."

          Electricity is occult enough for me.
          Excessive classifying could be fascist!
          Yet how else can one organize people
          Into contexts. By their associations.
          Family, work, habits, each assigned
          A day of the week, moon of the month.
          Poets rhyme, jazz musicians count time.
          There is more than one way to make war. By
          Declaration, by punishing offenses
          Against the law of nations, by granting letters
          Of mark and reprisal, by making rules
          Concerning captures on land and water, by
          Suppressing insurrections and repelling invasions,
          Erecting forts, magazines, arsenals,
          Dock yards and other needful buildings. Today
          I face the blank page between the finished pages.

"Harris gives the following example of what he means:"
'The progression from recording sixty sheep by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by sixty strokes to recording the same information by means of one ‘sheep’ sign followed by a second sign indicating ‘sixty’ is a progression which has already crossed the boundary between pictorial and scriptorial signs.'

          When my grandmother considered it favorable
          That I would be a writer, she had in mind
          Clear commentary from which many people
          Would derive meaning. No such luck. My writings
          Are like the flicking tail of that flycatcher,
          And I am the flycatcher, weighing but an ounce.
          My grandfather’s rough-hewn peasant chairs
          Are well known by my sons though they never knew him
          And the chairs were not hewn, just owned by him.
          One is in a corner of the room and two
          Are scrimmaged around a computer screen.
          Computers post-date him and cars post-date
          His father and so on. If the grid collapses,
          The crops fail and the roads close, some will be forced
          Across boundaries among boulders, naming snakes
          And stars according to memory.
          They will be hungry, mortal and strong.

'A token-iterative sign-system is in effect equivalent to a verbal sublanguage which is restricted to messages of the form ‘sheep, sheep, sheep, sheep...’, or ‘sheep, another, another, another...’, whereas an emblem-slotting system is equivalent to a sublanguage which can handle messages of the form ‘sheep, sixty’.Token-iterative lists are, in principle, lists as long as the number of individual items recorded. With a slot list, on the other hand, we get no information simply by counting the number of marks it contains.'
"When this change occurred it opened ‘a gap between the pictorial and scriptorial function of the emblematic sign’, which had been previously inseparable in the counting represented by rows of slashes."

          No book I know tells if blue cohosh
          Caulophyllum thalictroides—a barberry—
          Is edible. Other barberries are
          But that blue berry looks risky to me.
          And May-apple—Podophyllum—other
          Than the fruit itself which is definitely
          Sweet. So I read, not sure of myself.
          There is a patience with which to wait out anger,
          And a patience with which to endure ignorance.
          The job is everything. It is freedom
          And purpose and religion. It is acceptance
          And shelter and sustenance. Last night
          We were watching Tweet’s show: groveling before
          The rich pharisee’s judgements. I said no
          Amount of money could make me grovel
          Before that guy. His toupe’s gayer than his lisp.
          But who am I? You think bullets won’t ****?
          I’m the guy they put before a wall and shoot
          Then eat lunch. But that feeling passed quickly.

"This semiological gap, made writing possible because it meant that signs could be manipulated to ‘slot’, or identify, anything whatsoever. The open-ended quality of the scriptorial sign was a necessary precondition for the development of writing systems."

          Lately I’ve been copying wholesale
          From the great poems, lines and ideas not my own
          Or owned by all? It’s ok, I can be ignored
          Or appreciated in a future city,
          By a future shore. The honest man can
          Only recognize what he loves and point to it.
          That Borges poem called In Praise of Darkness.
          Emerson and snow. A meditation
          That bumps serenely, with acceptance,
          Between things and thoughts. It is said one should
          Know for whom, to whom one is writing.
          These are letters to those who love letter writing.

"As Harris points out, no writing system is accurately phonetic. Even the alphabet only highlights certain phenomena in the speech stream. The reason for this is that alphabetic writing did not begin as a simpler or more accurate way to record speech than other writing systems, but as an easier way to write."

          A possible cancer had taken me
          To the edge of my endurance. Pokeweed,
          Poisonous, became attractive. Red stems
          And juicy black berries. I had packed warm clothes
          And pain killers. Why the warm clothes if this
          Was to be my last walk? To die in comfort
          Without a fly’s buzz. Overlooking a ravine,
          Sea of mountains, dawn. But it proved a false alarm.
          Now Sunday will be a holy day of plant
          Identification. Nothing better
          Than lying in leaf litter, skin drying
          To a taut drum. Ravens stay away!
          Until cougar’s had his fill! Instead
          I showed the boys pokeweed growing among blackberries
          And taught them the differences and uses.

"Through a radical reduction in the number of signs, the alphabet simplified the scriptorial system in and of itself. The evolution of writing therefore may look like this: simple forms of counting preceded the complications of pictorial representation, which in turn led to simplification of the writing system in cultures that adopted the alphabet."

          I was running uphill, parallel to
          The Taconics extending northward into
          Vermont (I find Vermonters in their jalopies
          Annoying but admire them for planning
          To arrest the president for war crimes) when
          I happened upon a flock of cedar waxwings—
          Said to be a gentle and politic bird—
          Sharing—very orderly—dried frozen grapes
          On the vine. (Rose hips, buckthorn, ash, pokeweed.)
          I tried one, too, the two seeds in my mouth
          Keeping me company down the mountain.
          I see no downside whatsoever
          To compensating for global warming,
          Constructing the green energy economy.
          New inventions may facilitate
          Our transportation to other planets.
          Yesterday a young man, Barack Obama,
          Won Iowa. I’m hopeful he will
          Articulate an international vision,
          A world order in which each neighborhood’s
          Good as another. I have no particular
          Love for writers; they’re a dime a dozen.
          But so are chickadees and I love them!

"Discussing the power of inscriptions of number, Harris points out:"
'Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice at all is. For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched. Yet somehow they exist, and their existence can be confirmed in quite everyday terms by all kinds of humdrum procedures which allow mere mortals to agree beyond any shadow of a doubt as to ‘how many’ eggs there are in a basket or ‘how many’ loaves of bread on the table.'

          True, nature would be a stern, unforgiving
          Mistress too, and man is but her right hand
          Acting on her command. How cold! How hot!
          The individual doing what he loves or not.
          Trees and cities. Herons, hawks. What we fail
          To govern in ourselves, nature will.
          We caught the killer and his gorillas,
          Now let’s go home, let the “innocent” choose
          Up sides. A good thing was done but the tyrant
          Should’ve been undone through global governance.
          Writing is divination using rhymes
          And estimations. Words like mammals
          Come near your sleeping head. Last night I emerged
          From the hum of our refrigerator
          Under a hazy, phaseless moon. The peepers
          Were an exact expression of my happiness.

"Or, one might add, for how many stanzas there are in a poem, or lines in a stanza, or stresses, feet, or syllables in a line, or occurrences of particular syntactical or grammatical patterns, and so on. As every serious student of versification has always understood, versification is about counting language."

          5:30-6 write poetry,
          6-7 ****, shave and shower, stretch
          Then get dressed, 7-7:30
          Clean house, 7:30-8 drive to work
          8-6 work (except Monday and Friday
          Work 8-4, basketball 4-6)
          6-7 drive home, shop, help make dinner
          7-8 eat dinner, read paper,
          Watch McNeil-Lehrer News Hour,
          8-9 play trumpet, study plants, type poems
          9-10 watch TV Mon: Murphy, Cybil,
          Tues: Frazier, Grace, Wed: Roseanne, Ellen,
          Thurs: Seinfeld, Friends, Fri: go out to dinner,
          10-11 read, except Tues watch
          NYPD Blue, Fri: Friday Night Lights,
          11 sleep. I could send this to the networks,
          Get a gizmo in my box. I hope my
          Schedule won't be interrupted for war.
          My dentist asked had I seen this morning’s
          Press conference, didn’t it just scare the ****
          Out of you. I said your bill is what scares
          The **** out of me. But here I am, writing
          And the sphere’s still turning. Or should I say
          Burning. As long as you write one poem per day
          You’ve left a little litter in the world.

"The reason to write verse is less to score the voice than to imbue words with the magical quality of counting. That is why meter, or measure, is at the heart of debates over all verse forms, including free verse."

          Vigorous wind, voracious ocean,
          Many merciless hard frosts, hurricanes.
          The bed of a human, its smell and warmth
          36 teeth, 46 chromosomes, 2 feet, a loose dime,
          61 summers, some soot, some sand,
          Thunderstorms. I wake up to a lightning strike
          And my dream incinerates. When they say
          Life is but a dream, that’s what they mean.
          The writer working hard, telling the story
          Of what happened yesterday or yesteryear,
          A man’s born to a country not his choosing,
          Let labor flow like capital, of mere being!
          Pomegranate juice, broccoli, arugula,
          Brussel sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower,
          Collard greens, kale, radishes, turnips,
          Garlic, leeks, scallions, onions, 2 lbs
          Swordfish, tomatoes (8 medium),
          3 cups almonds, carrots, a sweet potato,
          Winter squash, cantaloupe, mangoes, watermelon.
          2 daily writing exercises,
          50 words on any subject: complaint, headache.
          The imagination applies a
          Countervailing pressure to reality.
          Writing badly is the best revenge.

"Number is one of the creative grounds of poetry, and the idea that writing grew out of counting is the missing link in studies of the graphic in versification. It is almost uncanny that lines of verse look exactly like the most primitive ways of counting–parallel scorings that can be numbered."

          What you do to one side of the equation
          You gotta do to the other. Isolate
          The variable. Combine like terms. Metaphors
          And analogs are reduced to least common
          Denominators. Multiply through (parentheses).
          Write a new equation after each operation.
          Inscribe neatly. Check your work. Imagine
          That if you’re wrong, the astronauts burn.
          Change the signs which will avoid going
          The wrong way down the number line. Zero
          Is the middle of your universe.
          There it is, calm, comfortable as an egg
          On a spoon. That is, before possibilities
          Become probabilities. This is just
          Another equation manipulated
          With opposable digits. For at the ends
          Of your guns is the earliest calculator
          A magical machine which converts
          Numbers to words and words to numbers,
          Measures the mists, frequency and wavelength,
          Of the material penumbra.

"Verses are countable in exactly the way that token-iterative digits are countable, from either end of the sequence. Each one indicates only its singularity, not a number. Every poem in lines effaces, or predates, the distinction between writing and drawing in the same way as the lines on the Ishango bone."

IT’S COOL TO BE BLACK

I can use the word ***** even,
When I’m talking about a TV character
It is fun saying it’s because I’m black huh
And no matter what race they’re they start laughing
I like hearing the saying once you go black you never go back
Because it’s usually true

I like President Barack Obama because he goes
Against the grain of those negative black stereotypes
It’s tight how even though people hate on black folks
They listen to our music, copy the way we dress, talk,
Slang terms and the way we walk
They pay a lot of money to watch us play sports
I love how when people want get a good laugh out of life they:
Watch our movies, comedy shows, plays and poetry

I love walking up to my homeboys, home girls, family etc.
Saying: What’s up, giving daps, hi fives, making crazy handshakes,
And sometimes nodding your head as a sign of respect
I love being black because we are a beautiful race.

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.

Dear Self,

For you it is November 9th, 2016. Despite all odds, Donald Trump is president. Mike Pence, governor of your home state of Indiana, is his VP.

You are 17 right now. You were born into a world run by George W. Bush. You spent your whole childhood hearing your parents yelling at the tv, angry at the Texas governor in the White House.

You grew up in Obamanation. You saw months of “YES WE CAN” and “CHANGE” stickers going up, and a magnet your family still has get put onto your refrigerator. You heard your mother’s sigh of relief when Barack Obama was announced the 44th president. That was half your lifetime ago.

You spent the last year following the campaigns. You were not surprised by Hillary Clinton running again. You “felt the Bern” of the somewhat radical Independent candidate previously unknown to you, Bernie Sanders. You laughed off the wild reality tv star Donald Trump’s campaign.

Months went by. Bernie and Hillary were fighting hard leading up to the primaries. Republicans slowly started to drop out. Big names like Jeb Bush, Mike Huckabee, and Chris Christie left the race. Bernie didn’t do good enough in the primaries, which was upsetting to most of your friends, your older brother, and your mom, who all voted for him. Ted Cruz fell off, defeated, in May.

It was down to Hillary and Trump.

You followed the comments made at their rallies. On their social media. You heard a lecture about the election from Josh Gillin of Politifact at Indiana University over the summer. You won an award for an opinion piece you wrote on Trump. As the election day grew closer, you watched every presidential debate. You analyzed them in class.

Last night, you stayed up until 4 A.M. to see the results of this election. You sat through excruciatingly slow interviews, political analysis, and different predictions. You couldn’t turn away from the blue and red maps, the aggressively American backgrounds, the anxious masses.

The tired tv hosts were right, it was a nail-biter.

As Trump gave his victory speech, you wept.

You wept for the months you spent wishing this wouldn’t happen. You wept for the 1920’s suffragettes, for the descendents of MLK and Cesar Chavez, for the Orlando victims. You wept for me. The people I joined. The people who will join me.

I am dead.

You learned in your final moments that homophobes look like normal people. They are not all rednecks with beer guts wearing ten-gallon hats. They are more elusive than that. They can be dressed smart. They can have friendly voices. Familiar names and faces.

A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend killed you. Someone you live near. You might have passed them in a car. In the mall. In the school hallways. It was someone that people you knew,  knew. You probably could’ve gotten their Twitter handle if you had heard their name before.

You were killed in a city that VP Pence had once stood in.

People tried to learn about your killer. Were they someone you knew? Someone who just went crazy? Someone who couldn’t handle who you held hands with?

You were too young, the local news anchors said. Your school administration said. Your mom said.

Mike Pence didn’t say anything at all.

Your friends didn’t say much. They cried. They withdrew. They wore baggier clothes. They bought switchblades. They washed “*****” and “ladyboy” off of your tombstone. They wondered about joining you, voluntarily and not.

The school newspaper’s headline: DEAD AT 17.

No one thought it would happen to you, except you. You stayed up late at night, imagining your funeral. The first thing you did in the morning was practice for your wake. Every time you left your house, you were a dead man walking.

No one  believed this more than you did.

The news anchors said it was just one of a string of murders. People said it was an isolated incident. Your friends said it was a hate crime. Your mom said it was the worst thing that  ever  happened to her.

There was no question that you were gone, even when they found you- chest jumping. There was only one thing to wonder: who was next?

Not an if, but a when.

I hope the when is  never.

All my love- to you and everyone else,

Yourself

Obama was the nicest guy - Intelligent and cool.
Comparatively speaking, his successor plays the fool.
Ridiculous and baseless tweets, The Donald can't avoid.
His recent missives indicate he's turning paranoid.

Barack Obama seems to be Trump's ongoing obsession.
Obama saved the U.S.A. from Bush-induced recession.
The Donald hates Barack's success and can't leave it alone,
and Trump, now "off the rails", claims Obama bugged his phone!

Trump's offered no supporting facts for his emphatic claim.
No warrants from the F.B.I. or C.I.A. to blame.
Perhaps he thinks Barack Obama has a super-power
that lets him fly high in the sky to break into Trump Tower.

So, do you wonder, Donald Trump, just where Barack is now?
Is he there behind the curtains? Is he in the walls somehow?
Is he watching from the ceiling? Is he in the chandelier?
Is he in your 15th closet? Do these thoughts fill you with fear?

Is he down at Mar-a-Lago, in the old groundskeeper's shed?
Is he disguised just like Melania, right there in your bed?
The truth may be much worse than that! Does it fill you with dread,
to realize Barack is living... deep inside your head?

President Elizabeth Warren
Vice-President Dwayne Johnson
Treasury Secretary Bernie Sanders
Chief of Staff Hillary Clinton
Michelle Obama Secretary of State
White House Spokesman Joe Biden
Supreme Ct Nomine Barack Obama

Why not run a champion ticket by joining together to win?

-                                       It's simple, Life Isn't fair. You grow
                                        Believing
              ­                          It Is
                                        Until the world Releases
                                         It's
                                         Wrath.
                                         Equality
                                         Doesn't
                                           Come                                                     
                ­                           Easily

                                               It most definitely won't
                                                            come­
                                                           without
                                                         ­  a Fight.
                                                          ­ Every
                                                            Figh­t
                                                          Comes
­                                                           With
                                         a consequence. It may seem hard
                                                    
                                                             However                
                                         ­             It's worth It
                                               Barack Obama
                                         Ridiculed                              
                                    So I can
                                   become a
                                     president  
                                         Rosa Parks          Imprisoned
                                       ­        So I can                    sit  
                                    ­               wherever               I                      
                                         ­                       choose

                                  ­       Martin              Luther
                                      ­    King              Assassinated
                                        So I can          befriend
                                        anyone I          choose
                                         Malcolm   X   Murdered          
                                         So I can    be   accepted
                                      Freedom           ­  Riders
                                      Arrested So        I can eat
                                       wherever           I choose
                                          Black             Panthers        
                                         Abused            So I can be      
                                          treated       ­         fairly


                                These fighters died, On the front line, On the battle field
                                                         So I wouldn't have
                                                      To. And yet, Where am I
                                                      Fighting,­ On the front line
                                                            Of the battle field
                                                           So what ever young  
                                                      asp­iring African American
                                                           won't be deprived
                                                            of their education
                                                       ­       Of their History
                                                          Of their right to vote;
                                                           ­  For standing up
                                                         For what they believe In
                                                                ­ It's simple
                                                          ­      Life Isn't fair
                                                               However you
                                                                ­ don't know
                                                                ­  Until life
                                                                ­ unleashes It's
                                                            ­         wrath
                                                           ­        On You

What are you conserving, I asked my unread conservative friend.
The American Way

he said.
Like
in the songs, like back when Superman
was black and white, but

we knew,
his kryptonic heart
was read pure white and blue

and we still know,
green greed and
black time and chance, if those were never re-
al-ified, he could be,
he could be but,
for that militarial industrial mental complex
which made
Daddy Warbucks
money-ify Kryptonite,

other wise Superman would save us, so
we conserve the idea of America, as a spirit,
Drums and fifes and shots fired round the world

we stand, for the American way. Superman would.
--------

With what deeds are you judged liberal,

I asked my friend whose hero was Fidel,
when he was ten.

My friend, swift to answer, ready, with a bullhorn:

my writing and my speaking and my teaching are liberal.

Those lable you? what is deemed liberality for which
ye are judged?

Oh, I am not judged, I am in the adminstrative side,
I administer social justice by allowing critical
appreciation of the sense under lying
dadaistic community
gardens. which produce liberal reasons for
deeming faith a very low class
exercise in sapient sapience.

Whom teach ye?
Those who are sent to be taught by selection committees,
who sort tests, based on statiscal
weights and measures pre
dicted apriori for the best
social cultural
outcome.

Who pays you? Each of you.
con-server, liberal,
Who weighed your worth
in this fifty-fifty polictic project,

organical and all,

who runs the show? Is it spiracy?

Are elections pre ordained?

Was W. called by Oil and Trump oracled by Konami?
Was Barack Husein simply gas?
A UFO illusion?

Some thing the gut biome of the nation
burped or expelled from other orficees?

How did the assets of the fed expand
4.5 times since 2008,

when all I had conserved melted
with deflation of

the noise, zeitgeistiical,
humm, hear it? Do you?
Brainless axiomatic synaptic static?

Manifest destiny? Google it.

No. I checked. Not preordained. Things change.

This is the way.

Good went, thataway... and william tell
was told that apple held meaning...

cue the overture...
butadump butadump butadumpdumpdump
boomer audio meme keys
the
dream, with wikipedia and etymonline links.

aha, meaning...
the arrow never held, the message vibrated in the oak
at a point
in time. Okay, dress rehearse, masks on.

The point of the story is, good news.
it is finished.  Spaceship earth, nothing broken, nothing missing,

We have crews seeking survivors.

one day at a time. Share the road, share the load,
pay the piper, rule your realm,

make peace the leisure you worked for,
call enough enough

Remind them of the flight they all recall,
ask them if they ever dream
unknown
realisms in the realms of reasons re
cognized
in poetseerprophessor metaphors, in which

no warrior could act

as a liberal conserver re
pairing wind blown circuits.

Our peacemade hero inquisitor
of truth,

the wise king, retires on the dragon's hoard and
laughs at how easy it all became,

after imagining how Poke' mon really works,
in an open state of mind.

"A republic, if you can keep it." that was the dream.
The dream Plato imagined could work,

if we could get past that
neccessary fiction war insisted was traditional.

So they hacked some computers.
"No big deal" you may say,
"Since their influence steered things
toward the right way"

"They just didn't respect us,
that's why the attack.
So I place all the blame
on the Dems and Barack"

"So we'll get nice and cozy,
Vladimir and me,
since there is just so much
upon which we agree"

"We want to be strongmen
who'll shape history
and we're both such examples
of virility"

"And we'll handle the media
through fear and attack
to ensure truth and balance
shall never come back"

"Admiration and power
is what we adore,
it's the one greatest cause
that we truly live for"

So, Mr. Trump...

When you're there in the Oval
and Europe's alarmed
'cause in Prague and in Warsaw.
the Russians, well armed,

have crossed o'er the borders
and come to reclaim
their former domininons,
then who will you blame?

So why this great bromance?
What's your motivation?
Why would you align
with Vlad and his nation?

Could it be business ties?
Or maybe high debt?
Or maybe dark secrets
you wish they'd forget?

I do not want to think
that it could be such things
but the Russians sure look
like they're pulling your strings.

Into the sky
Even ghosts
Once slaves
Rise
From graves
Of oppression
To see Barack

His eyes
Luminous
With humility
Head high
Steady voice

All witness
His assent
Over mountains
Of Whites, Blacks
Browns and Yellow
Multiplicity of life

In triumph
Barack takes
Bigotry's flames
Into dreams that lift
Humanity
Into stars, of equality

And God of all
Rejoices
A son has risen

by
Marta C. Weeks
January 20, 2009
martacweeks.com

Dear Mr. President

This is a letter from me to you.  There are many who are displeased with you....but I'm actually quite proud of you.

  You helped the automotive industry get back on track......even though you had the naysayers upon your back.

I feel many people put too much of the blame on you.....especially when there are other's involved.  You can't achieve success alone....you need a team. Just like Dr.King.... I know you also have a dream.

I recall your visit to my state and eventually my city.  You blessed my neighborhood with your presence.  I saw people of different ethnicities standing as one.  Everyone was smiling even the sun.

You bellowed words of inspiration into the mike.  My family was gathered on the sidewalk and for once everything seemed to be alright.

I like how you are just a regular guy and love to play ball.  I admire the fact that you get to play with the superstars who will eventually enter the Hall of Fame.

  Your name has been etched in history .....I'm honored because I never thought I would see this in my lifetime.  An African American giving The State of the Union Address in primetime and granting interviews on Nightline.

I love the example of marriage and fatherhood that is on display.  It is often stated that  "we" don't commit and are dead beat dads.....from what I've witnessed you aren't doing bad.  Thank you for the positive image you have provided me.....it's a form of motivation for me.

I saw a picture where you had your feet on the desk and you were on the phone....but I knew that you were a hard worker from the hole in the bottom of your shoe.  You were about the people and walked where we lived..... not in Hollywood or Rodeo Drive with your finger in the air doing your redition of  ' Staying Alive."

Mr. President...the thing that really gets me upset....is the blatant form of disrespect.  They continue to call you by your last name....You earned the title of President yet they deliberately leave it out.  I often hear Mr. Obama or Barack.....how is this cool when you are obviously on the clock.


They showed respect to President Clinton and George Bush.....both of them even though he tried to steal a whole state....but no one will discuss that issue.....I guess I'm a few years too late.  

You are highly educated and intelligent more than the media would like to say.  I'll make sure to add you to my list of leaders when I pray.

Thank you President Obama for the example you have been.  I believe that you deserve the opportunity to do it again.

Sincerely.......a struggling poet.

you are the forty-fourth
president
of the united states
of america.

you are black.
you are history.

you rolled in on the
waves of the storm.

you want to save us.

you are the forty-fourth
president.

even in the shower.

even when you sleep.

and when you get angry
and scream and flail your arms.

you are the president
of the united states
of america.

even when you cry so hard
it cracks your face.

you are the president.
you are america's new mask.
you are you.

barack hussein obama.
forty-fourth president.
USA.

On the day
I was baptized,
I sat in the back pew
of my church,
weeping.

It took a long time
for me to arrive
on the bank
of the
River Jordan
that Day of
All Saints.

Flanked by my
two young sons
also getting
dipped
that day,
moved
me to
solemn
tears;
humbled
that I
would wade
into the living
waters
with my sons
as brothers
in the
Living
Christ.

My fount
of tears
rolled
cause
I finally
arrived
as one of
Gods
own.

Today
I saw
Maya Angelou
weep.

She received
The Presidential
Medal of Freedom.

She sat while the
President placed
it around her neck.

She did not rise to
receive it.

I think she was
sitting in a wheelchair.

She looked tired
but she was not feeble.

She was humble
yet remained unbowed.

Her eyes were closed
as they read a citation
about her; yet I know
her vision remains
keen.

She did not look up.

She quietly wept.

The President kissed
her cheek after
he clasped the award
around her neck.

Maya Angelou
never
looked up.

She just
wept.

Maya,
fellow award
recipient
John Lewis
and
their
son
Barack
Obama
have
arrived;
sitting at
America's
table
of freedom,
as
Maya Angelou
gently
weeps.


2/15/11
Oakland
jbm