1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

DUMPY TRUMPY

Dumpy Trumpy
Sat on his ****.
Lumpy Trumpy
Infamous ****.
He is not a friend
To the left or the right
And has no live dog
In the political fight.

Dumpy Trumpy
Pats his own back
Bragging how he is
Way ahead of the pack
Of half-witted politicos
With nothing to offer.
He thinks he will win
On the strength of his coffer.

Dumpy Trumpy
Made a big jump.
His gold plated ****
Made a sickening thump.
He waved his money,
He figured it’s enough
To sway the competition
No matter how tough.

Dumpy Trumpy
His Mussolini face
Deaf to the meaning
Of public disgrace;
He figures that even
If the GOP rejects him
He has lots of money
He’s sure will protect him.

Dumpy Trumpy
Plays to the stands
Of wingnuts and crazies
In disgruntled bands.
He’s sure if he curses
The current regime
He can be President.
At least that’s his scheme.

Diapers and politicians
need to be changed frequently
and for the same reasons

********

los panales y los politicos
hay que cambiarles a menudo
y por los mismos motivos

Men and women for election,
Listen to the crowds,
Reflect desires to perfection,
Echo murmurs loud.

Elected, the voters exult
If their candidates win,
Curse under losing result...
Plot to get themselves in.

Either way, time isn't long,
Voters lose first love;
Officials begin to look wrong,
And politics gives 'em a shove.

We never quite see
We're electing ourselves;
Candidates riding on mirrors;
Shiny reflections scream while we yell
Our demands or feed on our fears.

Soon plans we've made turn to dust;
Politicos fail us;
The system breaks down;
The party clogs with inertia and rust,
Until the next campaign comes 'round.

Want to see what we'll get?
Take a look in the mirror...
What we see gives us reason
For fretting and fear.

True mirrors, our best politicians;
Can only reflect what they see...
If we kneel to offer petitions,
Ourselves will pay for our pleas.

People just don’t  get it do they?

PolitiX -

There are no good:
-politics
-politicians
-politicos
-policy
-polices

There is only DISTRACT and TAKE!

If it is bad, fake It good
if its fake, fake it real

if it’s obvious make it someone else’s fault
manipulate details and statistics too
lead the questions,
get the right answers for you
Mass Programmng Media
secret Not Saying Anything service
hide behind our own goods

Freedom these days is all about -

Policing

And the illusion you are in

Control

Politics by its very nature can only exist by divide
the greater the divide
the easier to fraction
easier to fraction
eaier to incite aggression and violence
the resulting fear makes us seek peace
we legislate our freedom away putting hope in lies
the greater the distraction,
the easier the take

Peace is an illusion,
a God-like ideal
A frightened little bird hiding in the bough of a tree
barely out for a second
starving to death
confused
and lonely
because the fear of fear is so great

Political Peace is submission and oppression while convincing you
that its in your best interests not to resist or persist.

You are then provided with a guilded cage
distracted by how different the cage is next to you
or the fence that divides you but you are safe?

All policed by consent
the unmerry road to oppression
begins and ends with distraction and take
all selling illusions of peace and happiness
while selling you out

And YOU are too distracted to notice
YOU are killing your family and neighbors
One fear
One prejudice
One judgement
at a time...

We're hungering for a leader
Who's not a bottom feeder.

Untitled 1– Challenge

The second great war was over
Europe had begun to settle
After years of fighting under the yoke of the gun
People relaxed and seemed in fine fettle.
Till the powers-that-be in their wisdom once more
Found another ill cause they could follow
Communism was now beginning to encroach
And all platitude began to ring hollow.
All the talks between leaders
Peace rallies, hippies man!
There would still be bleeders
From the ranks of the everyman.
We become the fodder of vicious politicians
In their eternal struggle for *******
That war became so very cold
As it swept from nation to nation.

And now amidst their platitudes
As night-time follows day
The war-dead fodder of yesterday
Encroach in dreams to have their say.

©Joe Wilson – Untitled 1…2015



Untitled 2 – Challenge

Like fodder we all go to cast our vote
As fodder once more, our ideals are smote
Times past we were sent as fodder to the gun
She lost her husband, he lost his son
And yet once more as the enemies approach
Politicians embellish and lies encroach
Yet no amount of platitude
Can change what must now be construed
We all are pawns in political aims
Sent as fodder in corruptors games
As cats get fatter and use platitude
The mood turns ugly as the populace brood.

©Joe Wilson – Untitled 2…2015




Untitled 3– Challenge


Statistical fodder in propaganda machine
The poor portrayed as lazy and obscene
While politicos laugh at this weekend’s jolly
The vulnerable suffer from yet more absurd folly.
While slick party leaders, before cameras, debate
In all of the platitude refusing to state
That they are the ones who are really to blame
As they take creature comforts for themselves in the game.

But the time fast approaches when they will be found out
As climates encroach that will bring with them, drought
And the poor and the weak will still just do their best
While the rich will get richer and ****** the rest!!

©Joe Wilson – Untitled 3…2015

What about them?

Do they know struggle?
Struggle that saps all you got, takes all you give with a hearty slap on the back…
Struggle and toil and trouble and loyal men and women digging and dragging through it all searching, searching, sometimes finding, but searching hard and long and harder for that elusive light at the end of the tunnel…

Do they know heartbreak?
Heartbreak, that all encompassing down-in-the-gutter kind of heartbreak…
Heartbreak that shoves you around, all ragged, all disarrayed and disheveled, like a whipping boy, tied to a post, push, pulled, punished…

Do they know pressure?
Pressure that squeeeeezes the life of the building, the party, the place, here, there…
Pressure and persistence and powerful stuff all coming down around and circling above, a hurricane, or tornado, or tsunami sized catastrophe of whatever and wherever, yelling things like, “Who do you think you are?” and “Why I oughtta!” at me, at you, at most anyone…

What about these hands?
Not their hands, not even those hands, but these hands, here…

These hands are covered in conveyances…
These hands tell stories, not so many, but stories enough.
Here, these hands have sores.
Here, these hands have blisters, and cuts.
Here, these hands are *****, callused, crooked, bent, ****** name callers and spiteful shame shovers, scarred, split nailed, hang nailed, grievance and guilt-ridden givers and takers, knuckle cracking nervous wringers, making fists and holding whatever needs holding…

What am I to do with these hands, now?
What about you?
Have you looked at your hands or whose hands?

Whose hands?  Their hands…

Their hands are clean.
Polished.
Glove covered and protected, their hands do what they want, untouched, unscathed…
Or pocket protected in a deep, heavy coat, out of sight, out of mind…

But I’m not talking about them there,
I’m talking about them there, way over there,
Beyond those and them, way beyond…
Definitely not here, but over there, faaaarrr over there…
That’s the them I mean.

They tell us to **** it up…
That we can make ourselves, to leave them out of it.
Them over there think I’m not worth it…the trouble, that is.
They show their glove-protected hands, wave them in the air, showing the pristine cleanliness of those hands (not these hands) and wave and wave, declaring, “No sir” and “Not I,” turning their backs.

But, what about me or you…here?

What then?

When?

Now, then, whenever.

Who will help you…when you’re at the end of the rope?
No hope.
No line cutter, no savior, no nonsense, all business…
Feet dangling, body twitching, lungs gasping, all inches from the ground…
Hands knotted, head on the chopping block, axes raised…

Who will help you?

The insurance policy?
The friends and neighbors you avoided?
The family you forgot to send Christmas cards to?
The gods of wherever and whomever and whenever?
The politicos calling the shots, pulling the strings?
The big shots in the suits with the Rolexes,
                                               Rolls Royces, and riches?

Them?
Them way over there?

No, not them…
No way, no how.
Their hands are clean… Cleaner then these, here.

Where?
Right, right here.

You claimed it was a missile,
Me, a shooting star;
I saw a pickle,
Not a bearded face
In the jar.
Some see wee men,
Approaching their islands.
Cubes floating
In the Austral Ocean,
Warning our hopes are broken.
Janus faced usury
Tear-up for the bear;
Politicos in the chase
Have two mouths on their faces.
We surely landed on the moon;
When we're gone,
We're gone for good.
Bigfoot's not in the woods,
ESP's in the guts,
All paranormal is psychosis.
Too skeptical's obsessive neurosis.
What's one to believe.
I see Jekyll, you Hyde Island;
These stories are so overwhelming,
Growing in numbers with retelling.

I dreamed I saw Tom Paine last night…*

The dream became a nightmare. Ride it. Fall.
A Republic if you can keep it. You didn’t.
Every four years a buffoon appears in TVs
who can bleed the American people to disaster.
Burnt Knees. Hill artillery. Hearts not Trump.
An article on now. The inherent absurdity of politics.
Infamy. Liars in public places. Old lies. New faces.
Abandoned factories. Angry workers, Abandoned. All.
Pick a pack of proven paupers. No one cares.
We lust for the stud who can wave his thick wand
and magically make everything better. But won’t.
Even if that he is a she. Show me the money.
How can the one percent eat everything yet never ****?
Faceless bureaucrats cannot be held responsible.
Zombie politicos bought and sold like cats in sacks.
Still the mindless parade charade continues
off to the public polls to be pummeled. ****** on.
  Get down on your knees and set lips to *****,
  Due your duty, turn your trick.

It’s the battle of Baghdad all over again.
Shiite versus Sunni, it’s them against them.
The push for a Caliphate exacts a high toll.
ISIS marches on the capital and, I fear, heads will roll.

On Potomac’s fair shores the politicos dither.
Are we going to help or just let Iraq wither?
We created a vacuum too big to ignore
And ISIS has filled it with ****** and gore

The blood of the innocent washes the streets
as the Iraqi government stares at defeat.
Feckless, our leader, abdicating his role,
is making a putt on the seventeenth hole.

Was it part of his plan to incite revolution?
Is he evil or clueless? What is the solution?
Does he take a position not based on a poll?
We have paid, blood and treasure, and heads ought to roll.

What happened in Tuticorin is no less than a democide,
the state snuffing out lives whom it supposed to protect.
The reckless and depraved disregard for the lives,
brought out the ugly and monstrous side of the state.

The state is taking the lives of its own people,
to give 'ease of doing business' to its tycoon cronies.
To enable them to grab lands, flout environmental norms,
violate labour laws and to usurp the natural resources.

People gave up their lives and achieved martyrdom,
to protect the 'ease of living' of their fellow humans.
To let them have a breath of fresh air and a gulp of pure water,
and to enable them save their natural resources and environment.

Democracy is no longer ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’,
it got hijacked to become ‘of the 1%, by the 1%, for the 1%’.
The neo-liberal spaces ever expand and public spaces ever shrink,
till the society is transformed into an oligarchy, into a tycoon fiefdom.

Tycoons campaign finance the politicos to get ease of doing business,
people queue up and exercise their franchise to get bullets in return.
This is the time to reclaim our democracy and regain our lost power,
the only way out is democratic deliberation and political confrontation.

Let's set aside, cricket, soaps, celeb gossip, reality TV and selfies for a while,
and spare a thought for those who breathed their last fighting for our rights.
Let's make sure that the lives of those who fought for clean air won’t go in vain,
by showing that we are the masters and oligarchy is only their pipe dream.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front*
by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Once he was a soldier strong and tall.
But that was another place and time.
Now he is old, frail and bowed.
He lives on the streets, but that’s no crime.

He lives on the streets of our nation’s capital,
Where Politicos gibber and disagree.
Since they have shut the government down
He labors now for you and me.

I’ve seen him daily at the Wall.
With broom in hand, he sweeps each day
He cleans the debris left by visitors
Who come to gawk; perhaps to pray?

It’s become his mission now,
to maintain the Wall. He asks no pay.
Just respect for his friends who died
on a battlefield so far away.

Franklin Davis is his name.
a homeless veteran on our streets.
He’s not one of those timid souls
Who knows neither victory nor defeat.

The rains seem to have finally subsided
At least it seems so for now
Mopping up the sodden devastation
Amid many an insurance row.

Some now say that dredging will not work
But surely history proves that it’s right
Though never a complete solution
At least it reduces the plight.

But politics now comes into play
It’s crucial to be seen in the right
So decisions that were taken only yesterday
Can so easily be changed overnight.

Climate change is with us for good now
It’s become part of our way of life
And solid steps will need to be taken
To end frequent bad weather strife.

But Chancellor’s have always cut budgets
And none have done more so than this
In fact in all of the service programmes
People see themselves staring into the abyss.

It’s all about how they look to the voters
For we carry their careers in our cross
For otherwise I think most politicians
About the plebiscite just wouldn’t give a toss.

We have wards now closing down in our hospitals
There are schools that are never repaired
A benefit system, though flawed, is besieged
Yet the rich tax avoiders still get spared.

So the land, like these other things will lose out
The efforts will cease as will the rain
Till the next time that the heavens all open
And ordinary folk again feel the pain.

There are houses that are ruined forever
Some insurers refusing the bill
Flood defenses that seem barely adequate
Properties from before empty still.

On sodden fields where houses keep rising
And new concrete covers over flood plains
Where tenants often get such poor insurance
And the country just never sees the gain.

But it’s the ‘I’m alright Jack’ way of the politicos
Who mostly live in their ivory towers
They’re the ones who aren’t making decisions
Yet the ones wielding all of the powers.

So the’cross’ is our one powerful weapon
It’s the most powerful thing in the land
We should all make so sure that we use it
And make all of these fools understand.



©JRW2014

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Hey there
You there
Standing with the director
In his chair
Talking about the right actor
Slick back your blonde hair
While you’re mouthing to him

Talking about the movies
Sends you into a hitch
Time to talk about that *****
Who is up next
You know you’re not in the right situation
It’s time for the nation
Let’s go again
For the new generation

Looking at the congressmen
With badges pinned across their *******
And a politically-correct three-piece suit
With their largess
Drenched in sweat
Driving the rally into the unknown folly
To fear the unknown people of foreign cities

More than just a sign
It’s all in our precious time
The high-rollers
In their representative fashions
Taking over the world
And committing all the crimes
But that is just all they do
Let’s be moving on too

What about the generals, brigadiers and captains and colonels
With their epaulettes and patriotic decorations
Conspiring against the nation
Like chameleons
Thanks to their post
With ideas
Those are insidiously of corruption
As they stand host
To nations feasting on war
And diplomacy at the most

Political amusement isn’t it
The dichotomy of having aliens
Deported
And these braver politicos star in their expensive overcoats
See themselves getting promoted

It’s rather fun
When the bourgeoisie
With their Large brim hats
To protect them from the sun
Cash in
More money and hate
More than religious faith
Innocents supposedly drowned in sin
Don’t know when good will begin

With the Catholic Church
Being a prison of beliefs
Since the inception of time
Changing political opinion as we speak
Which brought forth with it unnatural urge
Hilarious isn’t it when politics starts to stink
When the crowds go berserk as they scream
For more religious retaliation and a lost dream

Fun isn’t it
For the vengeance seeking righteous prisons
Who wish their prisoners burn in the crimes
That they spin
Before they can live out of those times
And their whims

But who is to blame
The heart isn’t tame
Is it God
Who has made it rough
For the virtuous inferno of actions
That has been extinguished by the holy water of circumstance and disdain

Isn’t it easy to blame our surroundings
Rather than our actions and our fate

Politicians, when questioned, who begin their answer with “So”... Those who waffle when questioned and yet they clearly don’t know.
Juggling “ums”, “erms” and “aahs” when struggling to avoid the truth.
It alienates, infuriates and generally makes those interviewed sound unprepared, uninformed, dense, almost uncouth.
But that doesn’t stop them!

The nation’s thirst for updates demands Government be contrite. Approaching difficult situations, yeh - but ours, dropping ******* left & right.
It means an address from a hapless minister almost every night.
Each department must have top aides quaking in their boots
because the media correspondents, incisive, sharp, erudite and firm
shoot tricky questions, deliberately, to make the politicos squirm.

It shines a light on what the country needs... clear thinking, logic common sense, honesty, truth, stealth and less guille.
Not subterfuge, not **** covering,“let’s dodge the bullet” style. Certainly not ten grand extra for having to work from home.
But sharper more contrition, put yourself in our place for a while! We want to be reassured, buoyed up, not consumed with bile.

You get more support and sympathy if you just tell the truth!

The doors will fly open without warning.
     Strong arms will encircle the bald man
Whose stare is as cold as his heart.
     The chains that bind him
Will clang and echo across the world.

More sudden doors will bring arrests
     Of his minions in soul-less ******.
They will be pulled from their desks,
     Yanked out of their tanks and turrets
And led off to their cells in chains.

No soldier with blood-soaked hands
    Will escape the consequence of his evil.
Cells walls will be draped with the
    Images of human carnage and the
Sounds of their victims will scream in their ears.

Where will they find enough chains
     For putin, and all his gutless puppets?
The russian people will lend them theirs
     The press will surrender theirs
And turn on their cameras once more.

The criminals will walk to the stand -
     Silent and un-repentent in their chains.
All of russia will sit glued to their screens.
     As one by one the gavel falls on their shame.
And the judge intones the fates of justice.

Who will step forward to lower the curtain?
    Will generals wake up in the dead of night
With the wails of innocents in their ears?
     Will politicos vote in solemn silence
To rid their state of its festering cancer.

The just of the world don’t care how or who
     Just so long as it’s soon!
Show us, don’t tell, Just so long as it’s soon!