We had a very happy conversation about family matters.

Mom, Dad. I’m OK.
They’ve been really honest with me
but they’re perfectly willing to die for what they’re doing.
And I want to get out of here
but the only way I’m going to
is if we do it their way.
And I just hope that you’ll do what they say
Dad
and just do it quickly.
I really am alright.
I just hope I can get back to everybody really soon.

My little girl.

Catherine and Randy gave impeccable dinner parties.

I am an Establishment person.

I am being held as a Prisoner of War
and not as anything else.
I mean I am being treated
in accordance with
international codes of war.
I’m not left alone, and I’m not just shoved off somewhere.
I mean, I am fine.

Also, since I am an example
and it’s really important
that everybody understand that
you know,
I am an example and a warning.

And so people should stop acting like I’m dead.

Mom should get out of her black dress,
that doesn’t help at all.
and just hurry.
Bye.

Patty honey I want you to know
that your father is doing everything in his power.
Millions of people all over the world are praying for you
I know it’s been a long time sweetheart
but keep up your courage
and you keep praying
pretty soon god will touch their hearts
and they’ll send you home.

Mom, Dad.
I've been hearing reports about the food program.
So far it sounds like you and your advisors
have managed to turn it into a real disaster.
Anyway, it certainly didn't sound like the kind of food
our family is used to eating.

I called him a couple of weeks ago and said,
Hey, Randy, let's play tennis.
We haven't played tennis in months
and he said
Gosh. I just can't. I'm busy.
I know he's got a lot on his mind,
But, I think he's pretty obsessed with this.

Mom, Dad.
Tell the poor and oppressed people of this nation
what the corporate state is about to do.
Warn Black and poor people
that they are about to be murdered
down to the last man, woman and child.
Tell the people,
Dad
that the removal of expendable excess,
the removal of unneeded people
has already started.

I have chosen to stay and fight.
I have been given the name Tania
after a comrade who fought alongside Che in Bolivia.
It is in the spirit of Tania that I say,
'Patria o Muerte, Venceremos.'

She was one of the prettiest young women south of the Mason‐Dixon line.

Q. Okay. As a matter of fact, when you got to 1827 Golden Gate, or this apartment on
Golden Gate, you were not being held in that closet all the time, were you?
A. Yes, I was.
Q. You were?
A. Yes.
Q. Was there a previous closet in which you were held?
A. Yes.

DEATH TO THE FASCIST INSECT THAT PREYS UPON THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE

She is a winsome beauty and her sweetness of manner has endeared her to all who know her

Whatever happened to the real men in this world? Men like Clark Gable? No one would have carried off my daughter if there had been a real man there.

She was somewhat of a revolutionary savant.
We kidnapped a freak.
I think that she was spectacular.
At that point, it was against her will to go home.

Q. And you moved in a car, I take it?
A. Yes.
Q. Were you blindfolded?
A. Yes.
Q. And whose car was it, do you know?
A. I don’t know. I was put into a garbage can that was ******* and put in the trunk of the car.
Q. And then, was the garbage can taken into the apartment on Golden Gate when you arrived?
A. Yes.
Q. Were you in it?
A. Yes.
Q. And you were placed in a closet immediately, is that correct?
A. Yes.

I. She’s an amoral person
thought that the rules did not apply to her.
She lied to nuns at school
about her mother having cancer
in order to get out of an exam
engaged in ****** activity
at an early age
and experimented with drugs
such as LSD.

II. Velcro Theory defined the aimless, lost souls
such persons, he said, who float around
in an empty moral space
and then find stuck to them
the first random ideology they bump into.

III. She is a celebrity prisoner of war
but the other thing
is that listening to her voice
is kind of hypnotizing
and not at all unpleasant
she speaks in this whisper
the well-enunciated voice
that someone called
the rich girl’s voice
The eerie voice of an heiress
and it's hard not to admire her composure
considering the ordeal she just went through.

We didn't know whether we were looking at a live girl or a robot.

Greetings to the people.
This is Tania.
Gabi crouched low with her *** to the ground.
Perfect love and perfect hate reflected in stone cold eyes.
To shoot first and make sure the pig is dead before splitting.
I died in that fire on 54th Street,
but out of the ashes I was reborn.
I know what I have to do.

Catherine was mentally and physically exhausted after the kidnapping. No wonder she developed a drinking problem.

Q. Okay. And is it true, Miss Hearst,
that you in the presence of Thomas Mathews ejected a live round from the M-I
that you had near you
and inserted that in the clip,
and put the clip back in the weapon?
A. I don't recall, it is possible.
Q. It is possible you may have.
And did you, in fact, also at that time
load a couple of live rounds
into the chamber of a revolver, a pistol?
A. I don't recall.
Q. Did you give Bill Harris a pistol
in the presence a Tomas Mathews?
A. I don't recall.
Q. You don't recall?
A. No.

I’ll think of it all tomorrow—I can stand it then.

I think this has been extremely ******* her
She's what the kids call ‘spaced out.’
Her religion holds her together.
And when you talk to her,
you see reality escapes her.
All she can say is that people are
‘persecuting’ Patty.
That's the word she uses,
‘persecution.’
We all love Patty,
and God knows she's had a terrible time,
but the whole complexity of the situation
seems to escape Catherine.

You're being told this
so you'll understand why I was kidnapped.
The S.L.A. has declared
war against the Government
I'm telling you now why this happened
so that you'll know
so that you'll have
something to use,
the knowledge
to try to get me out of here.
Bye.

I’m the happiest mother in the whole world.

I hope that you'll make sure that they don't do anything else like that Oakland business.

Q. Do you recall you spoke those words, Miss Hearst?
A. Can I see the transcript?

I don't believe Patty's legal problems are that serious. After all, she's primarily a kidnap victim. She never went off and did anything of her own free will.

From the moment I was kidnapped,
they consistently attempted to
discredit the revolutionaries.
After the first communique was received,
the pigs reacted by hauling out the stress machines.
The machines indicated I was being tortured
and kept awake 24 hours a day.
I guess that all the pigs expected me
to keep my mouth shut,
but I was furious.
They put away their trickology for a while.
If you believe the media,
you'd think I was totally weird.
According to them, I never mean anything.

Catherine, while still blond and attractive, has aged around the corners of the eyes.

Greetings to the people,
this is Tania.
Our actions of April 15
forced the Corporate State
to help finance the revolution.
As for being brainwashed,
the idea is ridiculous beyond belief.
I am a soldier in the People's Army.

I am Tania and We are not fooling around.

What could have been a tremendous instrument for change—Patty's kidnapping—has failed, and their old attitudes toward life—I guess it's called ‘conservatism’—are back

The kids who went to public schools
were not the kind of people
we should have close associations with.
As a result, I spent twelve years
almost totally surrounded by young people
who were busily developing
ruling class aspirations.

She has nowhere to go,
as resulted in only a change of captors.
But at least now,
as long as society is her
captor,
she does not have to worry about being killed.
Freedom may be a more awesome
alternative
-- you are not here to decide that.
We have a framework,
the SLA predicted this trial.
If we can't break the chain
at some point in their predictions,
there are going to be other Patricia Hearsts,
the blueprint is plain,
it works

A year and a half after her kidnapping,
she's in the safe arms of the law.
So, what does she do?
Patty gives the revolutionary salute,
even when she's in handcuffs.
And when she's booked,
she's asked her occupation
and what does she say?
Urban guerilla.

Bailey, I just –
I don't know him,
you know,
like he just kind of drifts in
and you know,
says blah, blah, blah
and I just go,
oh,
okay.

It was never true that our objective was to reconvert her.

You can almost see how Patty couldn’t relate to her—you know, trying to be so self-righteous and so upright.

Well, I always knew
that the Lord was in my life,
kind of on my shoulder.
I started to stray off
I always knew His hand
was there to bring me back.
I got to the house,
put my bags down in the entry,
went right to the kitchen
and the first thought on my heart was
I need to hear Jesus.
I picked up that Bible
and started in Matthew 1:1.
For that whole five days
I read and cried
and read and cried.

In short order, she returned to being the Patty Hearst of Hillsborough, California, the heiress herself.

It's kind of fun because back then,
there's nothing else to do but paint your nails.
It's really exciting.
I have been crocheting now.
At least, my mother came in and she asked –
she had asked me,
about my hair,
you know,
like
can I change it back?
She asked if there was a beauty parlor.

Her eyes are,
for the most part,
downcast,
as if she were sharing a secret with
herself.

She’s such a devoted, old-fashioned Southern lady, that we just died watching her facade break. That hysteria wasn’t just grief that Patty was gone—it was guilt, you know, ‘What have I done wrong?’

I'm being treated in accordance
with the Geneva Convention
and one of the conditions being
that I am not being tried
for crimes which I'm not responsible for.
I'm here because
I'm a member of a ruling class family,
and I think you can begin to see the analogy.

She writes these dramatic
love letters to her boyfriend saying,
"I want to keep up the fight for the revolution."
And she wants to overthrow the government in America,
which she spells A-M-E-R-I-K-K-K-A.

Q. And you were reading a paper, were you not, when they were in the store?
A. Yes.
Q. And you looked up from that paper, did you not, and you saw that William Harris was being held on the ground by someone and being detained, isn’t that true?
A. Yes.
Q. And you picked up an automatic weapon and shot in the direction of Mel’s Sporting Goods Store?

OBJECTION

I have a really nice brown pantsuit.
Al got it.
He has really good taste.

Trish Tobin
is telling her
that she is about to head off to Switzerland
to go skiing for three weeks.
I mean,
so what you have
in this compressed circumstance
is the old life skiing in Switzerland
for three weeks,
and Patty is saying,
I've got a life now.
I've got a new life.

The Hearsts are really ramping up for this one.
He is a bright guy,
but in terms of just his manner and his dress,
you couldn't help but be struck by
how square he was.

Q: I've become conscious and can never go back to the life we had before." Do you recall saying those words?
A: I don’t recall seeing a transcript of that tape.

I have chosen to stay and fight.

She is still an uncommonly handsome woman, prettier in fact than any of her daughters.

It’s a miracle she survived at all.
The ordeal nearly killed me,
Mrs. Hearst once admitted and,
asked what sustained her,
she answers instantly: My religion.
Yet her victory over despair
sometimes seems more apparent than real.
After her divorce, she moved to Beverly Hills,
where she supported Catholic causes
and joined the Beverly Hills Garden Club.

I just want to tell you like, my politics are real different from way back when.
Obviously, right.

Q. Is it not true that you ejected
from your automatic weapon
a live round and placed into it
an additional clip?
A. I did not have an automatic weapon.
Q. You did not?
A. No.
Q. What type of weapon did you have?
A. It was an M-I carbine.

She’s a victim of thought control by terrorists. And all I can do is hope and pray that God will bring her home again.

She was de-programmed and de-radicalized,
returned to the persona
more similar to what she was
She was essentially brainwashed
by her side team and her lawyers.
By the time she walked into the courtroom,
nail polish,
nice pair of shoes,
very well dressed,
it was impressive.

I'm terribly happy. More happy than predacious.
Do you have any notion what you'll say to her when you see her?
I'll tell her I love her.
Are there questions that you want to ask her?
No questions in my mind.


I want to see my parents, and my sisters... I'm really happy to be going home.

Many have seen it within holy brains.
I've also found Terror on political lanes.
Most have spotted in religious garbs.
I've even seen Terror in Leader's barbs.

In hammer and sickle and in flag red.
Saw Terror when it left believers dead.
It came from skies on land of rising sun.
Horrifying, ugly Terror spared none.

Most have seen Terror in rebellious fire;
But I've even seen it in democratic attire.
In bullet cruel Terror can always be seen;
But I have even espied it in ballot mean.

Each has seen Terror in AK47's shine;
But I have even figured it in M4 carbine.
Things left unsaid may I dare to inform?
At times I have seen Terror in uniform.

I am a simple thing.
Reviled and admired.

I do the job requested.
I pose no query, why should I.
Indeed.

When called upon do I not serve.
I am a simple thing.
Devil.

Your hands are my volition.
Your will is my precision.
Your skill is my command.

Yet. I am reviled.
Cast aside. What then is my purpose.
But to speak loudly, shudder and recoil.
My message .

Swift assurance.
Bold pronouncements.
Fools rush in.

How am I to make the choice when you have made me what I am
a servant no more no less. A tool a sluggard at best.

Consider me a shovel in the shed. Do you hate me now. Fear me
Write laws to abolish me. Shout from the halls of anger, slander and deride.
Here I sit in judgment . A construct a conduit of your evil. Your callous machinations.

Most assuredly I am neither fish nor fowl.
Nor villain on the prowl. That is your domain.

I am your shelter in a storm.
a stern judgment for the lawless when all else has failed.
Play the De Guayo.
No quarter asked or given.

My friends. I pray for my own demise.
The day when peace abides.
Never.                        Nature or nurture.



I pray for my dismissal.
Until such time.
Put me away  with safety  and know that I am at your beck and call.
Your beck and call.
Yours.

I remain your humble servant.

Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps,
  From cliffs where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps
  With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.

But when, in the forest bare and old,
  The blast of December calls,
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,
  A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,
  In the cold and cloudless night?
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
  In forms so lovely, and hues so bright?
Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream and its rocky dell.

'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,
  A hundred winters ago,
Had wandered over the mighty wood,
  When the panther's track was fresh on the snow,
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.

Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair,
  For a child of those rugged steeps;
His home lay low in the valley where
  The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;
But he wore the hunter's frock that day,
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.

And here he paused, and against the trunk
  Of a tall gray linden leant,
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk
  From his path in the frosty firmament,
And over the round dark edge of the hill
A cold green light was quivering still.

And the crescent moon, high over the green,
  From a sky of crimson shone,
On that icy palace, whose towers were seen
  To sparkle as if with stars of their own;
While the water fell with a hollow sound,
'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.

Is that a being of life, that moves
  Where the crystal battlements rise?
A maiden watching the moon she loves,
  At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes?
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream?

'Tis only the torrent tumbling o'er,
  In the midst of those glassy walls,
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor
  Of the rocky basin in which it falls.
'Tis only the torrent--but why that start?
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart?

He thinks no more of his home afar,
  Where his sire and sister wait.
He heeds no longer how star after star
  Looks forth on the night as the hour grows late.
He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast.

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell
  In the halls of frost and snow,
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell
  From the alabaster floors below,
Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray,
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day.

"And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!"
  He speaks, and throughout the glen
Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine,
  And take a ghastly likeness of men,
As if the slain by the wintry storms
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.

There pass the chasers of seal and whale,
  With their weapons quaint and grim,
And bands of warriors in glittering mail,
  And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb.
There are naked arms, with bow and spear,
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.

There are mothers--and oh how sadly their eyes
  On their children's white brows rest!
There are youthful lovers--the maiden lies,
  In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast;
There are fair wan women with moonstruck air,
The snow stars flecking their long loose hair.

They eye him not as they pass along,
  But his hair stands up with dread,
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,
  Till those icy turrets are over his head,
And the torrent's roar as they enter seems
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.

The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,
  When there gathers and wraps him round
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,
  In which there is neither form nor sound;
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,
With the dying voice of the waterfall.

Slow passes the darkness of that trance,
  And the youth now faintly sees
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance
  On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,
And rifles glitter on antlers strung.

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies;
  As he strives to raise his head,
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes,
  Come round him and smooth his furry bed
And bid him rest, for the evening star
Is scarcely set and the day is far.

They had found at eve the dreaming one
  By the base of that icy steep,
When over his stiffening limbs begun
  The deadly slumber of frost to creep,
And they cherished the pale and breathless form,
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.

Those marble plaques in the cemetery
hold no dead beneath them
yet in the rising mists of winter evenings
when night like loose dark pebbles
fall from the sky
can be heard hooves of trotting horses
from the rows of cold white stones
and on nights favored by moon
is visible cavalry in scarlet serge
with pith helmets and carbine rifles
piercing the terror paused wind
with cries of vengeance
mirthful in washing blood with blood
on the fields of Cawnpore
dissolving into marble white stones
steeped in the peace of moonlight.

can we all hunker down
under the Magnolias
in the sand of the Plantation
driveway under
a confederate flag anymore?

draw our plans like Lee
would have, with a saber
a picture of lines
scribbled in the sand-
our carbine- loaded by our side
at the ready
our heritage the old war
or states rights
or slavery

when so much time and  lives
have passed
and people oughta know more
about peoples,
about history,
about struggling

which all races do.
It wasn't pretty then.
Not the least bit.
And cotton , high or otherwise,
needs no slavery,
and bigotry is
ancient as
sorghum and
horse meat.

And man is man, proven to depend on a
falsity or hate  to
defend his ancestry, his teachings,
instead of the question.

Here, with a stick
I scribble, while
down hunkering,
the least threatening position,
to ask of myself,
have I done what
I could. And the answer
of course,
the black man and the Mexican,
the Redman, the sensible ,
might answer, is
it will take time.
Do we have enough?

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,
The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade.
The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound,
With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound.
He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vein,
And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein;
Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third,
From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard.
"Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor,
"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.
Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood!
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.
Say not my voice is magic--thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice--to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
****** thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own,
Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone."
She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek,
Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

Some go by blades, bringing forth slices.
Some go with carbine, with a blast of thunder.
Some go by leaping, drop down to the pathway.
Some go with diving, muffled under the waves
And some go by tablet, to ask for a deep slumber.
But the lighthearted go with nature, no need for assistance.

happy valentine
I hope you step on a landmine
I hope you go to hell
then I'd be rid of the smell
otherwise I'll have to shoot you with my carbine

I can look at an Afghani
and want to **** them
wish the most horrible death uopn them
and yet I can save their life

I can look at the blood, guts and even death
and never bat an eye
or even remember the injuries
until I have to load and unload them once again

I can cry tears of sorrow
and hide them upon my sleeves
so no one can see
what is exactly wrong

I can look down the sights of my carbine
with a round in the chamber
and mutter to myself
its only a job I have to do

Yet i can not express simple emotions
spoken, simple and direct
as if it would make a difference
of whether i am sane or not

I can understand a consequence
as it is the law of nature
every action has a reaction
that is equal and justifiable

I can write something meaningful
and never mean a **** word
if context and understanding
is never understood

I think i understand life
or atleast the simple meaning therein
any creature is meant to have
eat, drink, reproduce and sleep

I think I understand death
or the permenace thereof
when the look of dispair
is transfixed upon frozen eyes

Yet i can gaze upon the stars
in a distant foregin land
where death lurks in the shadows
and still feel so meaningless

We should stand them in a long line
and each pick up a carbine
fill them full of holes.

but would it make a difference
to tear apart this offense
and offer up to someone new
the reins of our
democracy?

they sit tight in their combines
harvesting our wealth
and
issues such as health
do not apply.

then the ******* send you
letters from the revenue
it's enough to make me puke,
sod the carbine
nuke them.

oh
look where we could be
with
a new start real democracy.

WE SHOULD BE PRAISED.
WORSHIPPED.
******* HONOURED!

And all you do on this wonderous day is fill it with the smoke of ****
Instead of shotgun shells and carbine bullets.

maybe we’re from different worlds
or from different time loops
and our souls just got lost
into being born in this cosmos.

i dreamt of you clad in warlike armor.
perhaps you were meant to be born
in a dystopian realm
where mynah birds are aliens
and you never saw
what the sky really looks like
in the absence of explosions.

because that is what you are,
your skin reeks of angst
your stare is a carbine
ready to point shoot
i would shoot their mouths
until they splash red, you said.

and i thought of me growing up
not knowing the smell of longing
because how wonderful would that be?
to live in a city devoid
of longing for peace
to remain young, walking
through an endless hallway of trees
without the eyes of scavengers
observing our bodies
forming an entity.

maybe we’re not meant to be
and maybe we are
but not here
where we hide like the cicadas
on grass awaiting the moonbeams
to blanket the whole town
of living saints who tell tales
about angels who burn cities
stained with people of our kind, loving.

Look at the galaxies
Up upon the skies
Wait and see a meteorite
Whisper away your fright
say the adjectives of perfection,
the secret dreams of affection
Don't let this night pass
without receiving the joy that'll last
see the oceans of million lights
clothe it and illuminate the nights
You're meant to shine
An everlasting carbine
Show the world your beauty
You're not the trash they see.

WEB ~ Dec. 31, 1969: Three small-time burglars from Cleveland celebrated New Years Eve in 1969 by sitting in a car on a lonely road near Clarksville in rural Washington County. They drank beer and whiskey and waited for the lights to go out in an old brick farmhouse they were watching not far away. Perhaps the men were building up their courage. This was no routine theft job. This was the big time — ****** for hire.

At 1 a.m., the farmhouse went dark. The three men — Paul Gilly, Aubran Martin and Claude Vealey — approached the house, flattened the tires on two cars in the driveway, cut telephone wires, then entered the residence through a back door. After taking off their shoes, the three crept upstairs.

They carried two weapons — an M1 carbine and a revolver. Martin wielded the revolver. He snuck into the bedroom of  Charlotte Yablonski, 25, and shot her two times in the head. Vealey and Gilly entered the bedroom of Charlotte’s parents, Joseph (known as “****”) and Margaret Yablonski. Vealey attempted to fire the carbine but the clip fell out. Gilly picked up the clip, inserted it into the weapon and managed to fire one shot at Joseph Yablonski. Then the gun jammed.

By then Martin had entered the room. Joseph Yablonski was making a move for a nearby shotgun. Martin fired four shots with the revolver, killing both Joseph and Margaret.

So went the final political assassination of the ****** 1960s.

Joseph Yablonski died because he was considered a threat by W.A. “Tony” Boyle, a cantankerous bully who served as president of the miners union, United Mine Workers of America. Charlotte and Margaret died because the killers wanted no witnesses left behind.

Three weeks before the murders, Yablonksi had challenged Boyle for the union presidency but had lost his bid by a nearly 2-1 vote. Yablonski felt the election was fixed and said so. Federal authorities were looking into the matter.

Mining was a tough business. The UMWA was a tough union run by a tough guy — Boyle, who was corrupt and out of touch with the miners he represented. Yablonski believed changes were needed. He’d been working in mines since he was a boy. His involvement in the union began after his father was killed in a mine explosion.

Yablonksi met with Boyle in June of 1969, and the two ended up shouting at each other. About this time, Boyle decided Yablonski had to go. For good. Gilly, Martin and Vealey were hired for the job.

Police would later classify the three men as “clowns.” They left fingerprints all over the Yablonski place and were soon captured, tried and convicted.  Before Boyle was to appear in court on charges of instigating the ****** plan, he tried to **** himself by overdosing on drugs. He failed, only to die later in prison while serving three life sentences.

At a funeral mass for the Yablonskis, Msgr. Charles Owen Rice called the murders an “echo” of the killings of John and Robert Kennedy and the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.

Joseph, Margaret and Charlotte were then laid to rest on a windswept hillside in subzero temperatures.

Major reforms were soon enacted in UMWA politics and in miners’ health and safety. The changes sought by Joseph Yablonski and others finally arrived. The price: $1,700 offered to each of the three inept assassins and the blood of the Yablonski family.

The following poetic account
written more'n a dozen ***** dancing decades ago,
while I (a socially withdrawn **** Sapiens)
groveled along (on a secret Msn)
along boulevard of broken dreams,
whereby yours truly forced to eat crow
quite challenging cuz
wonky twittering angry birds
alive and well darting hither and yon to and fro
able, eager, ready, and willing
to gouge out the eyes of one common Joe.

Arduous agonizing affliction
didst unrelentingly assault and assail...
aghast to exhale... lest I would lose
desperate clinging clutch
held by more'n one
but less than eleven  
bloodied cracked fingernail
phantasmagoric phalange like tendrils constricted
stoppering me to whisper or wail
against being swallowed into hello poetry tumblr

(think Alice in wonderland
falling into rabbit hole)
yawning abyss menacingly beseeched
hmm...release could immediately curtail
cumulative (lifetime's worth) travail
freefalling, pirouetting unnervingly,
unstoppably, unwaveringly... zipping
into infinite black hole sun hell
buzzfeeding me where linkedin
earthlinked suffering lovely bones would ail

making minced meat out of me
“****” vanish as guilt – courtesy didst hail
analogous storm trooper peppering
Pennsylvanian's psyche... with eternal jail
time for eternity excluded option
asper garden variety baby boomer male,
albeit the father of deux darling daughters,
the eldest (broke vow of silent communication),
she reached out after months long hiatus telltale
sign indications to accept genuine apology

her biological father (me) culpability
regarding destitution raged against hurtfulness,
he affixed indelible psychological scars each travail
boomeranged back to yours truly duress
during her impressionable years, she did rail
and rant similar to countless
previous conversations, the scale
innocent intelligent progeny, we begat
(myself and misses) financially ill prepared
to provide respectable accommodations.

Our "dirt poor" status detrimental
livingsocial among affluent MainLine
incomes luxe Lower Merion
living costs fateful design
neighbors cursed, ostracized, vilified...
unsightly unkempt property (i.e. unmanicured)
intolerant snobs didst malign
child welfare services called NOT to dine,
but emphatic for papa and mama to align
dwelling safe and secure for minors

yes, I attest despicable living conditions
crowded house with Zison heirlooms
owners - malignant hoarders did confine
considerably reducing cubic feet,
they relations of spouse evicted us
ready to point carbine
at temple...quicker than noose
dead of winter 2010 near homelessness
relocated within "roach motel" decline
'twixt omnipotent bond

among our dynamics with offspring
livid with rage, asper an inferno no divine
comedy compounded by lascivious
behaviour - mine to hasten dateline
enduring helplessness, hardship
being alive plus brandished carving knife
against self witnessed...I assign
poor marks as paternal parent,
who bemoans loathsome
impact...this papa gropes toward hotline!

The following poetic account
written more'n a dozen ***** dancing decades ago,
while I (a socially withdrawn **** Sapiens)
one indigent Yahoo
groveled along (on a secret Msn)
along boulevard of broken dreams,
whereby yours truly forced to eat crow
quite challenging cuz
wonky twittering angry birds
alive and well darting hither and yon to and fro
able, eager, ready, and willing
to gouge out the eyes of one common Joe.

Arduous agonizing affliction
didst unrelentingly assault and assail...
aghast to exhale... lest I would lose
desperate clinging clutch
held by more'n one
but less than eleven  
bloodied cracked fingernail
phantasmagoric phalange *******
like tendrils constricted
stoppering me to whisper or wail

against being swallowed
courtesy COSMOFUNNEL
into hello poetry tumblr
(think Alice in Wonderland
falling into rabbit hole)
yawning abyss menacingly beseeched
hmm...release could immediately curtail
cumulative (lifetime's worth) travail
freefalling at lightspeed, jump/
kick starting pirouetting unnervingly,

unstoppably, unwaveringly... zipping
into edge of night
along the outer limits
of the twilight zone
defining, harboring lurking dark shadows
spelling infinite black hole sun - hell
buzzfeeding me where linkedin
earthlinked hotmail of pinterest,
suffering lovely bones would ail
making minced meat out of me

“****” analogous to an imagine aery dragon
vanish as guilt – courtesy didst hail
analogous storm trooper peppering
Pennsylvanian's psyche... with eternal jail
time for eternity excluded option
asper garden variety baby boomer male,
albeit the father of deux darling daughters,
the eldest (broke vow of silent communication),
she reached out after
months long hiatus telltale
sign indications to accept genuine apology

her biological father (me) culpability
regarding destitution raged against hurtfulness,
he affixed indelible psychological
scars each etching indelible travail
boomeranged back to yours truly duress
during her impressionable years, she did rail
and rant similar to countless
previous conversations, the scale
innocent intelligent progeny, we begat
(myself and misses) financially ill prepared
to provide respectable accommodations.

Our "dirt poor" status detrimental
livingsocial among affluent MainLine
incomes luxe Lower Merion
living costs fateful design
neighbors cursed, ostracized, vilified...
unsightly unkempt property (i.e. unmanicured)
intolerant snobs didst malign
child welfare services called NOT to dine,
but emphatic for papa and mama to align
dwelling safe and secure for minors
and miners for a heart of gold

yes, I attest despicable living conditions
crowded house with Zison heirlooms
owners - malignant hoarders did confine
considerably reducing cubic feet,
they relations of spouse evicted us
ready to point carbine
at temple...quicker than noose
dead of winter 2010 near homelessness
relocated within "roach motel" decline
'twixt omnipotent covalent
carbonic, harmonic, opportunistic bond

among our dynamics with offspring
livid with rage, asper an inferno no divine
comedy compounded by lascivious
behaviour - mine to hasten dateline
enduring helplessness, hardship
being alive plus brandished carving knife
against self witnessed...I assign
poor marks as paternal parent,
who bemoans loathsome
impact...this papa gropes toward hotline
writhing with agony
worse fate than swallowing quinine!