An Open Letter to Really Important People
                     The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
           A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness

We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go

To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name

Signatories:

Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.

Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be

Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED

Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico

Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X

(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)

Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans

Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime

Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies

Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time

Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....

Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood

Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation

Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *******
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression


Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks

Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ******* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines

In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo

Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
******* a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men

The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’

There are no tribes in America

after reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land,
I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^

how I came to be there is a
poem for another time

walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American

One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA

how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence

brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place

dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day

no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms

I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
ten years hence,
perhaps with their grandsons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart.



^disembarked to be leavened....either works

There are no tribes in America.  This is my annual reposting of my July 4th poem, written years ago.  After reading about some tribal warfare in a far away land, I wrote this true story down....
~~~~~~~~~
one July 4th,
many years ago
walking the streets,
of the city of Nice, situe
on the Cote D'azur of France,
on the Mediterranean Sea,
where ships of navies
may safely park,
sailors ashore
leavened to
disembark^

how I came to be there is a
poem for another time

walking the streets,
of the palm tree resort
along Le Promenade Des Anglais,
coming at me,
Three Sailors,
unmistakably
American

One white,
One black,
One from California,
which I believe,
is still part of the USA

how we fell upon each other
in warm embrace,
smiling, bestowing
blessings of grace
not as strangers,
but as fellow signatories
on the Declaration of Independence

brothers,
long lost, reunited
as if it had been many years,
since we had our arms entwined,
one family from one far away united place

dialectical differences ignored,
even the wide-eyed 'Bama boy,
totally comprehensible,
for on that say,
we spoke a language that
encompassed a single brotherhood,
a common history,
all on that
holy day

no tribes in America, no colors,
no religions,
only brothers-in-arms

I need not choose to believe
that should it happen again
twenty years hence,
perhaps with their sons,
my embrace will exactly
the same be,
for I know it true,
for there are
no tribes
in an
American heart.



^disembarked to be leavened....either works

LOVE AND LOVERS

by

TOD HOWARD HAWKS


Chapter 17

Mr. Ly opened the door slowly and greeted his beloved daughter and son-in-law warmly. He said to both, “Come in and have a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”

Of course, a hug and a handshake were sine qua non. The three chatted with one another for quite some time about the final preparations Bian, Jon, and Mr. Ly and his friends had recently completed before this monumental, two-year, worldwide journey began on 2 January 2024. Then all three relaxed.

“Mr. Ly, I have a rather unorthodox question I’d like to ask you,” said Jon.

“Please, go ahead,” said Mr. Ly.

“Do you have a favorite American author?” asked Jon.

“Interesting you should ask me that question, Jon. Indeed, I do. My favorite American author is John Steinbeck. I think I’ve read every novel he wrote. There are many American authors who have written well, but Steinbeck not only wrote well, but also, in my opinion, ‘felt first,” then wrote. In short, he imbued all his works with passion.

“My favorite Steinbeck novels are THE GRAPES OF WRATH, EAST OF EDEN, CANNERY ROW, IN DUBIOUS BATTLE and OF MICE AND MEN. Steinbeck wrote, did he not, of the human condition, which, interestingly enough, is what we three, as well as billions of other Citizens of Earth are, and soon will be, willing–indeed, determined–to “turn right-side in” Earth for the first time ever--as you, Jon, so eloquently penned in your PEACE ON EARTH THROUGH LOVE commentary. Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize for his writings. We, humanity, will win Peace on Earth forever.”

“Mr. Ly, if I may, I’d like to add a few corollaries:  Why–why in the hell–did a select group of intelligent, wealthy, socially and politically distinguished males in 1787 sign the Constitution of the United States of America, thereby legalizing the pernicious institution of slavery through the infamous “3/5ths clause” in all 13 nascent states of our nation? The list of those signatories included none other than George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, and James Madison.

“Did you know that 12 sitting U. S. presidents were also, at some time in their lives, slave owners themselves:  George Washington;  Thomas Jefferson (who owned over 600 slaves);  James Monroe;  Andrew Jackson;  Martin Van Buren;  William Henry Harrison;  John Tyler;  James Polk;  Zachary Taylor;  Andrew Johnson;  and Ulysses S. Grant (to whom General Lee surrendered at Appomattox)?

“On the 4th of July of every year we Americans celebrate the birth of our nation. We gather together, family and friends alike. We have parades in virtually all towns and cities from the Atlantic to the Pacific. We fly our flags proudly. We shoot off fireworks when evening turns into night’s sky. But do we ever read the list of the 12 U. S. presidents who once owned slaves? No, because apple pie and vanilla ice cream leave a better taste in our mouths….”

Thoughts
Conditioned as an old leather glove
Fitting as an endless search of love
Jammed together as knots on a rope
Sliding a slippery *****
Me as Misanthrope
Lover of hope
Hater of nope
Dope.
Some smooth as a quiet summer eve
Chaotic as a garbage heap
Wrapped in twilight sleep
To haunt your night
With barely a peep

Hey there.
Over here.
Where oh where
have you come from?

A heavenly abode?
Where here is there
And there is anywhere.
Where thoughts play their part
Playfully
Awareness got its start
Necessarily

As you
As me
Speaking
Subjectively
Must we rethink
Objectively
Or is it the other way around
Chasing the thought down
Into the silent part of town
I have booked a reservation.
Into divine silence
A less traveled designation.

Seems so random
Yet orchestrated by a great hand
Could it be
Like as puppet master
Some ephemeral higher self
Prodding and poking
Pointing to directions
You dared not go
Pinched by pain
You don’t want to know.

Do you feel the push and pull
Of an authoritative hand
A gentle guiding
A silent light
And the pulsing prism
Through which you know
Yourself.
If the light seems to dim
Know it’s only a momentary respite
A letting go
A rabbit hole
One needed to go down
Something one needed to retrieve
Before another go around
  
To the sender of this thought
If you dwell in the shared silence
of connection
Two ends
An invisible cord
One of perfection
The other
Reflection
How to be sure of
Anything?
Only an uncertain knowing of  
A certain direction
Is showing.

Some thoughts
I would send back  
If I could, love
But never the feeling
For I am
The colors with which I paint joyfully
The words with which I speak lawfully
The chair on which I sit hardly
I was what you wanted me to be
To please
But that was never me
But a part of me

Just as well
For if every story tells a lie
How to know, how to tell
Truth be told:
Some would say
There is no truth.
Nonsense I say
If that is true
Thinking it through
Proves truth
If a lie
Proves truth still
Some tell tall tales
Some tell short stories
Some leave breadcrumbs
Along the way
Some ***** monuments
Signatories
For another day

I am
is  
Gods mighty vessel
Might you dwell there?
In the house of the seventh abode
Where the choice and the chooser are one
And on the coattails of god you rode
For awhile
As you
As me
As
Infinity.

To choose from
A potpourri of probabilities.
A thought repository.
A heavenly quarry
With a penchant for fair
A warehouse of prayer
And
When received
Then perceived
Leaving an indelible imprint
On the blackboard of spacetime
By a lofty stenographer
Replayed
To ones’ utter amazement
On judgment day

Awareness
as a field
of flowers
a ground to surround
Vivid colors all around
Shapes and sizes
Never seen
No in-between
No upside
Downside
Take no sides
Only a fire
To express desire

You are the dreamer
And the dream
Lost in a dream
Of yourself
You believe
You can be what you want to be
Royalty, celebrity, scoundrel, rat
Queen bee
Gnat
Sometimes the queen loses her head
Plays dead
What a sight
All in a daydreamers’ night

Dare you know peace  
But for only a moment
The dreams a momentary forgetting
From the shackles of separation
Have you awaken as me
Is this your dream too
Have I
Awakened as you

Infinity
To know you as me
To be free and in love
Kneeling down to your knowing.
Thoughts are the clothes you wear
The outer bank
A personal think tank
A familial thought bin
To recycle them?
To trace every thought back
Looping all the way back
To the start
Before thought
Before you
Before me
To the first shared feeling.
Love
Perhaps
Love
Then.
Like an evening prayer
You are always there.
Always
hiding behind
The clothes you wear.