Friday, July 31, 2009

Warring Samurai, Foreign Barbarians and American Drone Killing

His ambitions didn't match his karma

As warlords went, Yabu wasn't much. He had his own territory but he was never his own man, always a lieutenant general, never the supreme commander. In the wide open era of the Sengoku, there were those content to serve and those filled with raging ambition. Yabu was in the latter group. Knowing he was mentally outgunned by the top warlords, he reasoned he could make up for that with sheer treachery. He may not be able to out-think you, but he could bribe a cook to poison you. Such were his plans for advancement in this weary world.

The problem with making your bed with treachery, though, is you never get a good night's sleep again. Yabu's soul frayed around the edges, never leaving his winter of discontent. Yet he saw only one friend in this world: his ambition. And because his treachery served his ambition, he couldn't kick it out of bed. Self-conflict like this is what made Yabu always be a second tier warlord. He lived in a snake pit of asps, his life consumed by the need to constantly dodge their bites. Malcontents like Yabu always incurred a fatal decision trying to operate from such a poisonous base.

But on this spring day, Yabu was still master of his domain, his treasonous plans yet to be unmasked. And unless his liege lord was present, Yabu held ultimate sway in the villages and farms, his commands obeyed unconditionally. News came of foreign barbarians washing ashore from a ship wrecked in the previous night's storm. Foreigners at this time were considered part curiosity, part cattle. Unless one could prove useful in the power struggles vying across the country, what use could one possibly have?

Gunnery tactics developed by me

The foreign barbarians had proven useful with the introduction of the gun. Warlords who adopted this new technology could quickly gain the upper hand. And as intermediaries for trade with China, bringing much desired silk to the Japans, the foreigners proved useful in that as well. But a few measly sailors washing ashore - from a country with no established connections no less - counted as much as the lives of insects.

The sailors, however, did not share those same feelings, carrying the Western values that every life was sacred. But with their rude manners and arrogance, they did nothing to acquit themselves of the title of barbarians and were quickly thrown into a hole. As punishment and to ensure future obedience, one sailor had to be chosen for death. The sailors refused to choose so the samurai dragged one of their own choosing out - and thus we come to the Night of a Thousand Screams.

Yabu's choice for execution for the boy was to be slowly boiled alive. This sort of torture greatly excited Yabu. For a few precious hours he could give voice to his tormented soul as the boy was raised and lowered over and over into the scorching vapors. The cries of a doomed fate mixed with unbearable pain also scorched the souls of any who heard them. To Yabu it was a symphony, a chorus of sweet agony to be cherished. He only wished there could be a way to keep the boy alive longer.

These idealists who think their lives count!

As the light of dawn brought a merciful end to the horrific howling, the villagers peered into one another's passing eyes as if to confirm the mutual repulsion of Yabu's rotted soul. Their only consolation being of that it was a barbarian's death and not one of their own. Had Yabu tried this trick with a fellow warlord, the infamy of it would have brought a swift retribution by appalled samurai eager to let him know he had gone too far. But Yabu held unwavering and doubtless confidence none of his countrymen would question the death of a mere barbarian - someone who by his very nature of being foreign probably deserved to die anyway.


LAHORE: Of the 60 cross-border predator strikes carried out by the Afghanistan-based American drones in Pakistan between January 14, 2006 and April 8, 2009, only 10 were able to hit their actual targets, killing 14 wanted al-Qaeda leaders, besides perishing 687 innocent Pakistani civilians. The success percentage of the US predator strikes thus comes to not more than six per cent.

Figures compiled by the Pakistani authorities show that a total of 701 people, including 14 al-Qaeda leaders, have been killed since January 2006 in 60 American predator attacks targeting the tribal areas of Pakistan. Two strikes carried out in 2006 had killed 98 civilians while three attacks conducted in 2007 had slain 66 Pakistanis, yet none of the wanted al-Qaeda or Taliban leaders could be hit by the Americans right on target. However, of the 50 drone attacks carried out between January 29, 2008 and April 8, 2009, 10 hit their targets and killed 14 wanted al-Qaeda operatives. Most of these attacks were carried out on the basis of intelligence believed to have been provided by the Pakistani and Afghan tribesmen who had been spying for the US-led allied forces stationed in Afghanistan.

At least we can console ourselves with the thought foreign lives don't count and wrap ourselves in blind faith slumber of our President. But I can tell you with 100% certainty these murders will come back to haunt us in the worst possible way.


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Boston Cop Suspended For Incompetent Racism

Boston police crack down on jaywalkers
and suspected Yankee fans

Breaking news from Beantown:

The fallout from the Henry Louis Gates Jr. arrest continues: the Boston Police Department has suspended an officer named Justin Barrett for using a racial slur in reference to the Harvard professor in an email, the AP reports:

After learning of the slur, Commissioner Edward Davis put 36-year-old Justin Barrett on administrative leave pending a termination hearing.

A person with knowledge of the case, speaking on condition of anonymity because the person is not authorized to speak publicly about it, said Barrett, a member of the National Guard, used the racial slur in messages to guardsmen and to The Boston Globe.

The AP omits the phrase Barrett used from its article, but the Boston Globe reports that the phrase was "jungle monkey," and that the officer used it while reacting to the media coverage of the arrest

Commissioner Davis later expanded on his outrage over the officer's comment. "Comments like these will not be tolerated. They make us look both foolish and ignorant and we hold the highest of conviction regarding racist talk. Either you call the perp a porch monkey or a jungle bunny but mixing slurs into an idiotic phrase like "jungle monkey" puts us in the worst possible light."

When questioned what the police department's officially preferred slur was, Davis replied, "Moon cricket." In an effort to further explain the department's torment over the inept slur, Davis expounded: "Just imagine as a white person if someone meant to call you a 'Peter Brady' and instead called you 'Peter Partridge' - a character that did not even exist on the Partridge Family! Not only would I as a Cracker be offended, the speaker would also bring unending ridicule upon himself. I hope the Moon Cricket in question can appreciate the delicate position our forces are in, realizing that each officer receives very serious race sensitivity training on an annual basis, and find in it in his black heart to forgive us for calling him a 'Jungle Monkey'. Oh the shame!"

Unclaimed by two races
and possibly one gender

Further complicating matters is the backdrop of the continuing firestorm of whether Michael Jackson died as a black man or white man. The white Birther Movement furiously contends since he was black at birth Mr. Jackson can only be buried in a black cemetery "far, far away from our white womenfolk." Black Separatists however angrily retort Mr. Jackson was seen openly "drinking from whitey's water fountains" without challenge and lived his life in a bubble "just like any of them soccer Mom bitches." Recently, however, a third group entered the discussion claiming that in fact Mr. Jackson died as a woman. An upcoming trial is expected to sort this out but the court is having a difficult time finding a jury of Mr. Jackson's trans-raced, trans-gendered peers.


Tuesday, July 28, 2009

And You Thought Every Life Was Precious

You count Jessica - for now

We all remember Baby Jessica who fell down the well. The thought of that baby dying was simply unbearable. No expense, no amount of manpower was too great to save her. To let that baby die would have been to rob meaning from every life. Who looks upon a single cell in their body and says to themselves: that cell is not precious.

And neither does God say that of a single human soul.

But the eyes of men see things differently if that soul joins the military. In America, we view soldiers as toys. We have airplane toys and tank toys and soldier toys - and it just ain't no fun to get all dressed up for war with no place to fight. "Peace through strength" is nothing more than war undeclared. Peace is a byproduct of trust, not mistrust. But we like to say we're always using our soldiers for good. Yet there's an inherent danger in using people - no matter how strong any conviction to the contrary.

This from CNN

CNN has a heartbreaking report of a U.S. soldier who served in Iraq and Afghanistan and was subjected to multiple bombings. Despite serious injuries, he was repeatedly sent back to duty. Doctors now believe that the bombs were slowly destroying his brain. He was eventually sent back to the U.S., but the full extent of his injuries were never treated, and he ended up committing suicide, police believe.

Oh, I know all the false arguments - they are the arguments of children and cowards. He signed his life away. That's the price of war. It's a soldier's duty. He knew what he was getting into. But it's not the voice of responsibility making these arguments, it's those who either from fear or disdain or some other foul motive deem a human life unimportant. Suppose it had been Baby Jessica who had joined up and committed suicide. Suddenly, she's not so precious.

When a firefighter rushes into a house to save a baby and dies, it is an act of true heroism. But it's a different story when we as a people go around deliberately setting fires to houses and then use the desire of firefighters to serve against them. That needless risk of lives from unnecessary fires is a tragic waste of life. We know that is wrong and live in the constant terror of discovery causing an undeclared conspiracy of guilty silence and righteous propaganda to continually reinforce the rightness of what we do. Like you can really fool God in the end.

The difference between a woman and a girl is that a woman knows the difference between a man saying "I love you" and "I love using you". Girls who parade around in women's bodies end up on Oprah talking about what dogs men are and getting wild applause. There's also a difference between those who support our soldiers and those who support using them. You can hear very passionate speeches getting wild applause for "supporting" the troops with the speaker being oh so careful to parse the word "using" from his stated desires. But the proof is in the pudding.

Doesn't he know he's not supposed
to be a person anymore??

We treat our soldiers like shit. For the most part we despise them no matter how many bake sales we hold to assuage our guilt. If we truly supported our troops we wouldn't be wasting their lives in fires we ourselves started halfway around the world. So rather than face up to our own treachery we throw away lives in the name of freedom though it achieves no freedom at all. Like the witch burners in the Crucible, we fear the ending of our insanity, for what will be said of us then? Talk about a case of the truth setting us free.

I know what it's like to be thrown into the trash, to be put into a dark corner of the world and declared of no value - a soldier used up is put in the same hell. I can live die scream or cry - it matters not to the world around me. I'm no Baby Jessica. Just another dead body found in a dumpster on a winter morn. That's when you see your "supporters" in their true light. Threaten them with exposure to the light and they all come scrambling to cover the asses, but it's what you do when no one's looking that truly defines you.

Every soul must fight for its survival and it's the job of everyone to help with that. I've posted before on the high suicide rate of Iraqi veterans - a situation that has not improved over time. Parse it however you like, but our wars are not about making the world a better place. Our soldiers are good people who can't live with the acts they've been asked to commit. We suffocate their feelings with words like freedom and patriotism and duty - words most people have no right to even speak.

Decided suicide is not painless

Some soldiers have decided to fight back. The fearful and the cowardly will call them traitors. I call them uniquely brave and freedom fighters. You can read about them at the Courage To Resist website. These soldiers must fight against peer pressure, a gutless nation's scorn and military law to preserve their souls - which is the only fight that counts.


Sunday, July 26, 2009

It's Always The Eyes That Speak Loudest

Not Debby, but similar (to when I knew her)

There are many things I remember about Debby. The way her bangs curled across her forehead drove me mad, making her seem vulnerable and delicately precious. It would not have been a loss for me to give my life for her, but a gift. A thousand men would form a ring around her to protect one as precious as she, taking however many bullets it took to keep her safe. Debby was the Holder of Dreams. And what is life without dreams?

Approaching Debby was like approaching a hurricane. By the time I cut through the winds of emotions my head was spinning so badly that whatever I had in mind before was completely wiped out. I always stood naked before Debby. It's hard for me to describe that experience. It was as if I were standing before God on judgement day. This is who you are, revealed in full. In Debby, every dream, every fantasy of life came true. The sheer, uncontainable joy I felt was only matched by the stark terror of it.

What hope has the monster?

The only way I can describe spending a moment with Debby is to say it was like winning the lottery or getting the news your book is a bestseller or some other moment of endless life, to know you will live forever. Yes, it was to walk in Heaven on earth. I could hardly keep away from her and she dominated my thoughts and feelings night and day; long suppressed hopes came to life, erupting in my sleep. All my life I'd waited to meet her, knowing she was out there experiencing life in the same way I was, believing in the light. It was a meeting, but also a reunion.

My first year at church camp they held some sort of kiddie dance and I heard the Beatles for the first time. "I want to hold your hand" it was, and it struck me like a thunderbolt. "Yes, that's it!" I remember remarking to myself. It happened again with Debby. What exactly "it" was I cannot define to this day. But there is far, far more to life than meets the eye. Magic does exist. If you don't know that, you don't know anything.

A stairway to Heaven

Walls and barriers came flying off between us like heated lovers shedding their clothes. Our unspoken truths were already known. Like water seeping from a dam, the more truth that came out the more truth had to rush out, the urge too irresistible. A word was forming between us and that word was "Yes". The world is an illusion, life is an illusion, all history is an illusion - but this was real. I asked it if was love, the answer was always Yes.

What I wanted most was a conversation with her eyes. For both of us to sit cross-legged and explore each other's eyes, laughing and groaning at whatever we found. No words need pass between us, they could only interfere with our talk. Debby's eyes were deep and old. A dreamer's eyes, of course. I ached for them and hungered for them, literal food for the soul. What a grand adventure it would have been to stare into the eyes of Debby Hanssen. Eyes that held the midnight sky and all the universe beyond.


Saturday, July 25, 2009

What's The Best Way To Commit Suicide?

The best way is with a suicide pill like Goering used. When it comes to modern death, Nazis are always the experts.

Of course, living here in Texas, I should probably use one of these (which is what I do plan to use). From what I gather, under the chin is the best way. You sorry pieces of shit can clean up the mess.

I could always get the government to do it as well. They're always itching to shoot somebody for the greater good. Just tell them you're a liberal, the greatest terrorist their puny little minds can imagine.

A slower, more painful way is to believe Daddy will fix all your problems. Don't worry about what an asshole you yourself are, just stake all your hopes in Daddy making up for it. Daddy is good so I don't have to be. Don't you dare question my Daddy! Waaaaaaah!

Mass murder is not a crime. Invading another country and raping millions is not a crime. Heck, we got that going on in two different places halfway around the world and it doesn't bother a soul. Why? Because there's only one true crime: not paying your rent, failing to worship the money god. They REALLY hate you for that and demand the slowest, cruelest form of execution possible: to die alone on the street.

But there's only one foolproof method of dying, one that works ten times out of ten and is completely infallible: trust your fellow man. "If you ain't gonna be a piece of shit like me, I'm gonna crucify your goddam ass!" That's a heckuva motto there, Brownie! Don't like it when someone tells you the earth is round? Just shoot their sorry ass! That will make it flat again.

Oh hell, if you really want to die, just show up on planet Earth. We'll get you sooner or later. What sort of conflicted planet talks about life in the future and life after people all in the same breath? A self-deceived one, a futureless one, a dead one.


Dear world,

Stop acting like you care. No one is buying your bullshit. All this talk about making tomorrow better is just lies to make yourself feel better about the destruction inflicted today. Your only true commitment is to dying. But you lie about that as well.

It's all a charade, a game. Whoever pretends the best wins! It's not honesty that counts, but skill as a liar. Pretend to care, pretend to choose life, pretend truth has no meaning. War makes life, money makes life, rape makes life - it's all a farce. Do you really think the truth can't come out?

Of course you don't. You know what's coming as you politely sip your tea waiting for the atom bomb explode. All this talk about taking care of your fellow man or peace or the environment is just so much buzzing in the ears of God. It means nothing because talk is all it is. No matter how.very.seriously you take it.

OK, you can go back to your pretense now, back to your faux optimism and blind obedience and unquestioning loyalty and fake blessings and wishful thinking and all the other tools of the trade of dying. That's fine by me because I want you to die, world. So if you ask me what I think, I'm going to tell you I think you're a great guy and everything you're doing is just dandy! And because you're a freaking damn moron, you'll take that as a compliment.


Friday, July 24, 2009

Obama Is A Useless Cunt

Obama: Stalin is evil -
but I support his policies!

There are some ignorant people in this world and they are called Obama supporters. It rather reminds of the days of Russian purges and those arrested were confused and shocked, claiming comrade Stalin must not know about the wrongs committed in his name. Of course, it was Stalin who directed the evil. It's the same now. Just so long as it's not me getting screwed I'm going to ignore any transgressions of our President Stalin and put on a happy face. I'm over-fucking-whelmed by your compassion and sense of justice.

Gil Kerlikowske, nation's drug czar, said the federal government will not support legalizing marijuana. "Legalization is not in the president's vocabulary, and it's not in mine," he said.

That man should be put in jail, all his assets confiscated, his family destroyed and be branded a criminal until his dying day. Apparently he and his overlord are fine with that. They think that's all a BIG FUCKING JOKE. Well, FUCK YOU, asshole. Just another goddam rapist in a suit.

The injustices of the drug laws are far too numerous to even to begin to list. The amount of damage done to millions of lives staggers the imagination. From wrongful arrests rewarded from drug bounties to seizing cars from highway travelers to small businessmen wiped out from cash wrongfully taken to families shattered by the loss of loved ones and the stability they provide. The list goes on and on and on. All that makes Obama giggle.

Someone needs to tell God he made an evil plant!

"Marijuana is dangerous and has no medicinal benefit," Kerlikowske said.

When one implements or sustains an evil policy, it rots you from within. The abuse of power from the drug laws is inherent and inevitable. To argue otherwise is to say you want to hit someone on the head with a hammer but not have it cause any pain. And to those who propose to hit me on the head - and to those who support that happening or turn a blind eye - I can only pray such a fate befalls you. Maybe I should plant a joint on Air Force One and Mr. President can see what it's like to be hauled off to jail to "tell his story to the judge" and watch his plane get impounded while attorneys and judges and cops line their pockets with his money. Let's see how much of a goddam smart ass he is then.

People don't support drug laws out of some sense of compassion for their fellow man. They support them out of wanting a sense of power. Throwing Pedro in jail for a joint isn't going to save the life of a heroin addict. People take drugs for a reason. Try finding that reason - that's when problems will truly start to get solved. It's not that hard to differentiate between those who want to solve this situation from those who allow it to fester.

Obama: Justice is not a word in my vocabulary!

Some say Obama doesn't have the political capital to stand for justice. In that case, I don't stand for him - and he stands for death. Obama is not a leader, he's a butler. Go home Obama and go to hell. You sure as hell don't have a problem saying that to others left to die and languish voiceless in the dark. Any society that turns it back on justice turns it back on having a future. Choosing not to face that doesn't make it any less so.

Monday, July 20, 2009

The Practicality Of Idealism

"You can kill a man but you can't kill an idea."
Medgar Evers

"Oh, you're just an idealist." I hear that said to me all the time in the dismissive tone of that of an adult informing an ignorant child. They sigh impatiently with my alleged lack of understanding of how the world works. I'm chasing the end of the rainbow and fanciful dreams having nothing to do with reality, my detractors contend. Smug and superior, they deem my words to be wishful thinking and wholly irrelevant.

See the morons I have to put up with??

If nothing else, you might want to make sure the world you defend as "realistic" is not freaking dying in the first place! Who the hell calls dying realistic? Go off on your own planet and die, I plan to live. It's the definition of living that needs to be redefined. Two bulbs are planted yet only one sprouts to be a beautiful flower. I ask you, which one is living and which one merely exists? And what is the point of merely existing? What bee lands on the flower that never blooms?

Medgar Evers University"The gifts of God should be enjoyed by all citizens."

Medgar Evers understood this. One of the pioneers of civil rights, he started his activism in the early 50's organizing boycotts ("Don't Buy Gas Where You Can't Use the Restroom." I still want that bumper sticker!) and legally challenging segregation at the University of Mississippi. Although not the most famous of activists, none were braver. The choice he made was to sprout to his full potential. Was he an idealist? Was he a fool?

Medgar Evers was also a husband and a father with three children. Did he not also have a duty to them? Did he have the right to put his life on the line and abandon his family? Sure, we need civil rights, but what of the rights of those who depended on him? You can't change the world, it's hopelessly bent out of shape. People are the way people are. Why get killed over it?

"I'm looking to be shot any time I step out of my car . . . If I die, it will be in a good cause. I've been fighting for America just as much as the soldiers in Vietnam."

On June 12, 1963, Medgar Evers was assassinated. But he did not die. His body passed away as all bodies do but having chosen life, his life is everlasting. The measure of any man is not whether he saves the world, but if the world is a better place for his having been here. The job of every soul is to find salvation. It matters not if no man or every man joins you. There is no choice but to choose life, no flower has the right to expect life without sprouting. That is reality.

So it's funny now - in the name of life - the coward has been crowned king and rights are considered optional to living. It's not safe to sprout, say those who seek to curb freedom. The false hope is to stay buried in the ground, never exposing yourself to danger. And yet the irony is you also never expose yourself to life - or even the possibility of it. America has receded into cowardice: the cowardice of war, the cowardice of mistrust and the cowardice of moving to the back of the bus all over again.

Medgar Evers took care of his family better than any man who refused his rights as a human being.

"I don't know if I'm going to heaven or to hell, but I'm going from Jackson."

Would you accept this if you
thought it would prevent a war?

Evil, but its very nature, is a form of self-destruction - of insanity. To believe in "necessary insanity" is the height of folly. Our wars are not preserving liberty, but destroying it. Our greed is not preserving our way of life, but eroding it. Rejecting the values of freedom will not make us safe, but rather endanger each and every life. I don't care about the ways of a dying world, I care about the ways of life.

Don't talk to me about reality - about arming yourself to the teeth, never leaving the house and placing yourself in chains in the hopes you can do the same to those who transgress in your eyes. That is certain death; futureless. I can't help what others may choose and no bullet can save a soul, but I'm not going to live like a dog. And I can't conceive of any terrorist more dangerous than someone who chooses to do so. To give up our freedoms is to create a 9/11 every single day.

Want to make the world a safer place? Shine the beacon of freedom to every corner of the world.

Life In The Factory Grind

"If it keeps on raining
"Levee's going to break"

Play me while reading

In the Factory Grind, the drum beat never stops. Relentless, driven with the earth's energy bent by the will of men, the Factory feeds on the souls within. Hollowed task masters whip slaves in sexual glee, earning their positions by the willing blindness of their eyes. That way all cruelty is unseen. Oily sweat reeks as perfume in the nostrils of the Factory god giving perverse pleasure to Kingly Rats. It's here the human soul is processed, made a commodity for consumption and sold to the lowest bidder. The Factory is a holocaust of dreams, a harvester of nightmares and a disposer of bodies.

In the Factory, the answer is always the same: More. More rot, more taking, more demands. The order comes down from above: "Ramming speed!"


No one knows where it ends

In the Land of Sir Real, all life is built upon the Alley. The Alley: a daily, godless crucifixion where no scream is heard or plea harbored; the ultimate despair, a place of rampant rapists free to service the vices of their mistress' foulest desires, mutilating and marauding in open delight, neither the laws of men nor the laws of nature hold forth, life in the Alley is suspended between heaven and hell, which can stand only for a time - but for that time a fate to be feared more than any mere hell.

Fear of the Alley is the unspoken gun to every head. But it is also the Golden Threat, the Holy of Holies in the Land of Sir Real, a religion subscribed to even by its victims. High priests and brainwashed mutants skewer doubt in instantaneous suffocation. For the Alley to survive, no word can stand against it, no heretic be unprosecuted. Societal sycophants slice souls in suicidal solidarity. The zealotry of the possessed mind, sprouting terrorists in weedly fashion, belief in the Alley is deemed an Unquestionable Truth, the Only Way, a religion needing no mind, no heart and no soul.

And yet, the Factory needs more.

The only way out of the Alley

The Factory machine diseases the land, turning living flowers to concrete, leaving industrial haste in its wake. In the twisted logic of the damned, profit is gleaned from destruction - profit imagined but never realized. The living flowers consumed are replaced with plastic mockery, hopeful hypocrites sniffing their silent smell. The breathing air is burned in glorious fury, a smoke signal to the universe of unbroken will, scoffing at Sir Real Himself. The Factory extends beyond all human reason, stretching into the very twilight of existence. Those who ask where will it end are never answered.

In plastic luxury live Perverbians, each one a plastic Pharaoh. Prostrating in Factory flattery, they wrap their lives in bubbled blessings designed to bar reality's ugly truths. Dancing under the sword of Damocles, they don clothes born of blood, believing only good comes from the Factory floor. In insulated insanity, hushed whispers are spoken of life in the Factory but what does Pharaoh care of those who bear his holy chair? The party must go on and pointless plans proclaim an orgy ongoing opposed by none.

Work hard or face termination

Fresh from the Alley stood a hapless Steve, staring at a worn and despised wheel. His row one of untold millions, Steve's soul counted less than a speck of dust. His overlord was a one-eyed half-rat bitter from his demotion from the Kingly Rats. He asked Steve his age and when Steve replied "27" he was told that was how many times he should turn the wheel, stop, turn the wheel 27 times in the opposite direction and repeat ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

Other jobs were that as "human phonebook": in order to save the cost of paper, numbers were stored in the minds of humans. Or that of "ventertainer", cleaning the factory smokestacks while dangling from uncertified ropes, risking your life as amused Rats watched and applauded falling workers. Most feared of all were "pretzel posts", jobs sure to mangle your limbs for life, ensuring a return to the Alley to die in magnificent misery.

The Factory cannot be bargained with, cannot be reasoned with, it doesn't understand fear or pity or remorse and it will not stop - ever - until you are dead. Into this swirling whirlpool of desolation Steve was thrown, standing like all workers on a trapdoor over a chute leading directly back to the Alley. Trapped in the confines of boundless inhumanity, no cry for justice could rise above the din of the machinery. Steve's one hope rested in the faint recesses of his mind - a hope at this point not even he dared to consider true.

"My living means the death of every man, woman and child on the face of this earth."


The job of capitalism is to destroy all humans

Friday, July 17, 2009

Radioactive Man

With no direction to find a home


I envy the desert belongs here

Endless countless dry dunes leave me to drown in sandy grains

When adrift on water, land is life...when adrift on land, water is life

My bones morph to lead, my feet encased in stone stop is to die

Moving without rest is to die

I want to die...

But not fry

With two hands I grip to lift my leaden knee of stone, inching it forward

Yet, which way is forward...I move in doubtful guess...boundless sands hide clues from the living

Upon my weary head rests a concrete crown keeping me tediously toppled

In despair's exhaustion, I teeter, falling to brace myself against desert scorches the hand with my trusting touch

The fool yelps in sharp agony but Nature has made up Her mind on the likes of me,
Radioactive Man

Who comes here expecting life? The laws of Nature cannot be bought

A life resting on lies garners no rest

Radioactive my body be

Thus truth and lies turn opposite

If I wish to be near, my disease you fear

To whom I'm closest, I most hurt

Radioactive Man signals semaphores from afar

My love to you carries a lifetime ban

Knowing what I know, who can know me more?

I once saw ten thousand die under summer's red sun and not a tear was shed

I once saw one die in the cover of night and a village mourned without consolation

The sick cat flees to die alone

Dozing into desert's drowsy death

My will passed round in a slut's desire to live

Immortal sun pushes ever downward

Mortal man pushes ever homeward


Huddled souls watch me die
Eating popcorn Japanese;
They blink and the spirit's gone
In the breath of a cat's sneeze.


Some people never come clean

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Tom Hicks, "Broke" Billionaire and Karmic Killer

"I create nothing. I own."

There's a lineage of evil in ownership of the Texas Rangers baseball team. First it was [the anti-Christ 43rd President] and now Dallas' own Tom Hicks, a leveraged buyout (LBO) specialist, a.k.a economic parasite. But the keyword here is 'leveraged' because Tommy boy failed to see the financial crash coming and got caught with his pants down: fully leveraged with his assets tied up and his cash flow dried up. First he defaulted on a $525 million dollar loan backed by the Rangers and Dallas Stars, then he had to go hat in hand to Major League Baseball and ask for a $15 million loan to make payroll. Some billionaire that is.

But it couldn't have happened to a nicer predator. As an LBO guy, it's Hicks' job to increase the value of assets acquired in order to justify the cost of the loan. There are all sorts of ways of doing this depending on each situation. Hicks doesn't create companies or products or services, he has to feed off the original efforts of others and then swoop in when he finds an opportunity. But this makes him Tommy on the spot, requiring him to make good on his loan. One way to do that is to cheapen the lives of workers, a fine American tradition.

The knife fights are a free perk

This from an article on one of the Swift Meat packing plants Igor LBO'd:

Today Salcido is a plaintiff in two separate class-action lawsuits against Swift. One alleges that the company wrongly terminated dozens of injured workers to save on workers' compensation costs, slashing them from $6 million in 2002 to just $600,000 two years later, and another claims the company deliberately and systematically replaced native workers with illegal Guatemalan immigrants in a scheme to depress wages. While Swift acknowledges that it fired employees who'd been on injury-related restrictions for more than six months, it denies any wrongdoing. The company also says it did its best to obey immigration laws during hiring.

Nifty scheme, that. Once your body is torn apart, you get thrown out into the street. Think anybody else will hire you as such an obvious insurance risk? You think unemployment is bad, try being unemployable, in a foreign fucking country no less. And not content with Hispanic workers who apparently proved too feisty, Guatemalans were shipped in.

Caught in a no-win situation after the raid

"...many of whom came from the same highland area and spoke a Mayan dialect, not English or Spanish...When asked their names, many would point to their government-issued IDs or Social Security cards. Some had names like Smith and Johnson."

The Guatemalans were too fearful, too disoriented to complain about unsafe conditions and basically were used as kleenex - use one up, get another. Swift & Co tried to set up plausible deniability, but that did not stop a raid for illegal immigrant workers, causing one plant to shut down.

"...accounts of former workers reveal a brutal work environment in which safety precautions were persistently disregarded and failed to prevent injuries caused by slips and falls on greasy floors, rapid line speed or repetitive cutting with dull knives. Many of those interviewed said verbal abuse, intimidation and sexual harassment at the hands of supervisors were common, especially after they'd been injured or had reported safety violations to the Occupational Safety & Health Administration."

If you read these articles, the viciousness illuminated there is of nightmare proportions. To have one person crippled for life and left to die is unconscionable. To make it systemic is beyond belief, a Nazi wet dream. I wonder how dear Mr. Hicks would respond if that were one of his children being victimized. Why is it monsters like this are allowed to roam free and even be lauded? What does that say about us?

Republicant unmasked

Dark Voices live among us and how we deal with them determines our fate. We listened to one such voice and made it President for eight years, bringing wholesale destruction we very possibly may never recover from. Having a job doesn't make you a good person. Making money doesn't make you a responsible citizen. A person's lifestyle doesn't determine his worth in the eyes of God. But we choose to keep such myths alive, to claim worth that is not due. And in so doing, we sow our own karma and allow the beasts among us to feed off our very lives.


From our local D Magazine on the 100 Most Expensive Homes in Dallas:

#1 Cinda and Tom Hicks

On the one hand, the investor and sports team magnate looks to be in trouble: he recently defaulted on $525 million in loans, he’s trying to sell off parts of the Stars and Rangers, and this month the $400 million loan he used to buy Liverpool FC comes due. On the other hand: he lives in a 28,996-square-foot house on 25 acres, and last year he used 10 million gallons of water.

"But woe to you who are rich
For you have already received your full comfort "

Lucky for us there's good news:

It's there when I look in your eyes

Monday, July 13, 2009

An Immodest Proposal

Obviously a righteous dude

There's an easy way to tell a person of worth in this fine society of ours: they have the money! You got the bucks you must be doing something righteous and pure, no two ways about it. Some holier than thou people like to prattle on about character and values and crap but I don't get into all the philosophical stuff. For me, if you want to tell you if you're a good guy or not, just show me your wallet. Why does everyone have to make life so complicated??

On the other hand we have The Homeless Obsolete Unemployed (THOU) and I can tell you this is one case I'm for damn sure holier than THOU. I mean, c'mon dude! You gonna stand at that corner all day long scratching your ass? Surely somewhere there's a lawn that needs to be mowed. Even worse are the leeches begging for my hard earned money like I'm a freaking fountain of wealth. Hands off, pal! I pull my weight Mr. Freeloader.

Sleeping when he could be fixing me a Big Mac

But what really gets me about THOU is the endless whining! "I want to live indoors! I want to eat! I want medical care!" Jesus, give me a break will ya? You don't see me going hungry, do ya? Well, there's a reason for that: I'm a good person! All this wailing I hear whenever some useless THOU freezes to death, enough already! It's called thinning the heard. Hello? Haven't you people ever heard of evolution? Am I the only rational person left who believes in science?

So it's bad enough we got these homeless insects to swat away but we gotta fight off vultures from above too. It's those damn Greedy Repulsive Asshole Banking Bastards Eternally Rotten (GRABBER) folks taking all my damn cash too! Am I the only one left working in this lazy ass country?? GRABBERs have a different definition of work than I do. When they say "work" they just mean to work to take away all my damn money, they don't actually DO anything! Hey, pal, quit stepping on my greed!

I earned none of this! Haha!

Worse yet, nobody is stopping the GRABBERs. They rob you right in broad daylight just like THOU does - only they're a whole lot more effective. And don't think them government clowns are going to do anything, either. Know why they call each other "Honorable" all the time? Because they get so tired of picking up the phone and hearing lobbyists say, "Hey, bitch!" Worthless fucks! The only person I'm interested in being bought and paid for is me. I ask you people: where's the integrity?

Since I'm the only person actually doing anything I guess it's up to me fix the damn world THOU GRABBERs keep fucking up! The solution is right in front of our eyes: have THOU get rid of the GRABBERs! That's right, take 'em out one by one. Luckily, the GRABBER's have made so many THOUs they way outnumber them even though the GRABBERs are sure to have superior firepower. After the GRABBERs have been eliminated, any of THOU left living will finally get their wet dream of free food and indoor living at the state pen. Who the fuck's not happy in this scenario?

Shit man, do I have to think of everything??

Just imagine what he'd do for
three squares and a roof over his head!


I want your love!!

Sunday, July 12, 2009

OJ: In a Dark Place

Vacuum's killing void;
Where no word is ever heard;
All directions: space.

I sit in a dark place. A place unvisited, a forgotten corner of the world. So far am I from the living life, all thought of it is lobotomized from my mind. I am blank. The walls are blank. Blankness as far as the eye can see. The void within.

My hard heart gave me hard walls. My ruler a tyranny of metal. You can't scratch it or harm it in any way - and never ever pass through. But from it madness reeks. A choking madness without eyes or ears, every day the infuriating same. You may go mad, you may not - the walls don't care. All they care about is you never escape their boundaries.

I know every inch of the smooth metal walls, gliding my hand across from side to side. I pretend I'm the welder, sealing the cracks for future convicts unnamed. I wonder what went through his mind knowing he'd be entombing his fellow man. Did he care if justice had gone awry? Did he feel any guilt cashing his bloody paycheck? Anonymous ghosts are these ancient welders, having long forsaken me, living in their picket fence houses with laughing children.

The pillow too. I count the stitches in daily ritual, hoping - somehow - the number might change. If the number changes, then my universe is not so finite after all. One day they did! For a few fleeting, electric moments, I had hope - but dark terror descended once more on the recount. This is the micro world where I exist.

But what of the melodies in my heart? I can't find them to sing them. And if I did, who would hear? God would. But how horrible no human ear can I touch. To be cut off like this makes me the dumbest man alive...buried alive...with time standing still...

Once a month is the feast of the magazine. I brand it into my brain, reliving the images and the fonts of the letters; ads and articles the same. I look at the man with a smiling mug of beer and I ask: What would he think of me? Would he throw his beer in my face? Would his friends hate him if he did not? Or does he give quarter, refusing to speak ill, hearing only his own convictions? I would thank him for eternity if he did - then angry guilt comes home to roost, wrecking any tranquility found.

Who on earth carries sins such as mine? Crimes against humanity. A worm that will not die lives within me, eating me alive. I am powerless to stop it. When the I heard the man cry out for war I said, "No! Don't go! You don't know what it will do to your soul!" But I was ignored and shamed for speaking when it's my duty to suffer. In moments of weakness I worship the war, knowing then I won't be so alone. Knowing they will not be able to speak of their crimes and how it will warp their minds and their lives keeping it in. You see, heroes don't sin. And if there's one thing I know about, it's pretending to be a hero when you know you're not.

The biggest sin now is to breathe. Even to want to breathe is a crime. When it gets too much, I suspend the air from entering, appeasing the gods who want me both to live and to die. Then cold air rushes back in, mocking me and reminding me of my eternal plight. It's like being trapped in an endless underwater cave, swimming from air pocket to air pocket, never reaching the free air. Who chooses a fate such as this?

Sometimes I can't move when they enter my cell. I pull the blanket over my head, sitting cross legged and perfectly still. The emptiness comes and washes over me like a solar wind, and I hear pain's words upon the wind. Then I see faces appear out of the sun, asking me what I've done. How could you? they ask. Where is the hope? Then the faces turn ugly, and with every angry word a line creases their face in contortion. Will enough tears open the door to my cell?

I killed everything that I love. When all that you love dies, you die. What can this dead body do with its time left on earth? Any good at all? Preacher man comes to earn his pay, but his words are as empty as his eyes. He offers me to drink from his dry well - but maybe that's the plan, they hate me so. He doesn't understand anyway. I'm not looking to take, but to give. That is my true water. Hell comes not when you have no love received, it comes when no one cares for the love you have to give.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Portrait of the Artist as an Alarmist

There are certain, um, advantages to working on a cruise ship. Namely, the scenery. Heart pounding, rip-roaring scenery to leave you tearing the walls out in frustration. And since my job as porter is boring and rote, this kind of distraction is especially appealing to me. And then there's times like this, when the thunderbolt strikes. "Dear God, sweet Jesus! Now there's a girl who can save a soul!" Only, of course, she didn't.

I did, however, scurry down the employee stairwell mentally screaming, "Fire down below!" I was feeling a great and urgent need to, uh, pay homage to her. Her delectable lines spoke of a bliss unobtainable but that changed not my needs. Hurrying down the steps I nearly stumbled into a truly ignominious death but I finally reached my most secret of all spots in the bowels of the ship - outcasts instinctively find the places where no one else wants to tread.

Instantly I noticed something wrong when I heard rhythmic banging noises nearby but I dismissed both them and my inner voice, having more pressing interests at hand. But disturbing thoughts kept seeping through as I slowly considered the very wrongness of those sounds. "Not now, you fuckers, OK? Dear God, she was hot!" Finally, the noises got to me so badly I had to pull out of my reverie to see what's what. "Something is seriously wrong here."

The bowels of the ship are deep and sweaty, a dark forest unto themselves. They don't invite visitors so those who do come must have one helluva reason - Lord knows I did. I wasn't expecting to find anyone with a more lowly motivation than mine but what I saw shocked even me: six portly men in the finest of suits employing pick axes, drills and mallets attempting to hack a hole in the hull.

"What in the fuck do you think you're doing?" I demanded to know.

My voice startled them like a thunderbolt, freezing them in place with a guilty child's look of fear on their faces. I put my hands on my hips, showing them I wasn't going to back down, but after a moment's inspection they resumed their efforts as if I wasn't even there. But I was not to be swayed.

"Hey! I'm talking here!"

Evil's mouthpiece blows smoke

"Stop your racket! We're trying to have fun tearing this apart!" dismissed the one with a cigar, whose thoughts eerily echoed mine from moments before.

"Fun? Fun? You're going to sink the whole ship! What am I missing here? Somebody here is clearly insane!"

"And clearly that's you," retorted cigar man without missing a beat - apparently the only one with a voice.

"Lookit! You fuckers are insane! You don't even care if you sink yourselves along with everyone else!"

"Nah, we'll be fine. We always are."

He set his head back down, intent on his work, the conversation closed.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that! I'm telling everybody up top what you're doing!"

It bothered me no one seemed bothered by my threat. Of course, I would have the unenviable task of explaining why I was down there to begin with. And for some reason, I too found my threat curiously empty. But dammit, I'm going to make people listen to me if it's the last thing I do!

Stomping back up the stairs I auditioned various excuses for my trip to the bowels but none passed muster. Finally, I came up with: "I heard a noise and went to investigate" - as if I was pulled in! Most excellent. I spent the remaining time up the stairwell trying to convince myself of my fake story. Warily (and wearily) I noted that I actually spend a lot of time doing that...

Spotting a steward, I breathlessly informed him of what I saw - yet he remained stone-faced and unmoving throughout.

"What the hell do you know? Get back to work!"

"Hey, dill, I saw what I saw! Do you really want to compare IQs with me, pal? I guarantee you you'll come up short."

"It's obvious the only thing coming up short is you. What business had you in the bowels? The only way to hear anything in the bowels is to be there in the first place."

Clever me was busted. Unable to provide an adequate explanation, I took another tack and called the bridge. The Captain was intrigued by my story, wanting to know more. It was obvious now I needed to deal with a person of true intelligence if I was going to get anywhere. But upon seeing me, the Captain turned away.

Kiss your Love Boat goodbye!

"I'm sorry. I thought I was dealing with a serious person."

Et tu, mon capitan? "I am a serious person. Dead fucking serious. Do you want to be known as the Captain who let his ship sink because he wouldn't listen to a truthful warning?"

"No, nor do I want to be known as the Captain who let his time be wasted on frivolities - which is easy to see that you allow yourself to do!"

I stormed off the bridge frustrated and confused. It was as if everyone knew of my empty life and summarily dismissed me out of hand. But how could they know? Do people with lives somehow have this magic insight? Or are there security cameras revealing my dirty deeds? Nothing makes sense! But it's happening, I can't deny that. I could go stark raving mad trying to figure this out.

Not my usual compadres

I would have to appeal to the passengers directly. Since I wasn't getting any satisfaction with a rational approach maybe I needed to add a dramatic flair to get my story across. If only I could find the right words. Why is this so freaking hard??

"Attention all! The ship is in danger! Men in suits are hacking a hole in it as I speak. We must stop them before it's too late!"

But all I got were scoffing stones hurled at me. "You're in serious need of attention, aren't you? Find some other way to get your kicks and leave us alone. Keep your tomfoolery to yourself."

I don't get this. I really don't get this. I see the truth, I speak the truth - what fucking hell else am I supposed to do? Is there some secret language I need to learn? I'm going out of my freaking mind!!!

"What's wrong with you people? Do you want to die? Is that it? Because it's sure as hell is going to happen if you don't stop the sabotage. Listen to what I'm saying, I'm not making this up!"

"Look, dweeb-head, you've got a serious credibility issue. And men in suits would never destroy us. It's losers in silly little porter's outfits you need to look out for!"

Drowning laughter forced my retreat. The only place left on the ship was the pool area, but I couldn't return to the scene of the original crime could I? But I had to.

This is bigger than me or any of my failings. Think logically. Those women don't know of my lusting heart, and if they'll listen to me that's all that matters. I do feel massively guilty, however, about going back there knowing my usual ulterior motives. Hard as it may be, I must put all that aside and ignore the hot legs bronzing in the sun - and save this ship. I boldly stepped before their bodies.


"Ladies, I have something important to tell you-"

A communal screaming erupted, women covering themselves in towels and fleeing as if their lives were in danger. Shell-shocked me watched until the final chaise lounge was abandoned and I lost all hope. I collapsed onto a defeated chair, ready to slip into a mental coma.

What a way to die. God is looking down and shaking his head. Who does He think less of, I wonder. Sure I'm a creep, I get that. But that's all anyone else focuses in on! Fuck, man - I see the truth, I speak the truth - simple as that. What's going on here? If they think I'm so stupid, why don't they check out what I'm saying and see if I'm wrong? Judge me by that!

I give up...I'm not saying another word...I have to die on this ship in the most humiliating way possible...knowing it's going to happen and can't do a goddam thing about it...thanks God! I hope you're fucking happy!!!!!

Then, through the slits of my comatose eyes, I saw two teenage boys pass by, snickering and pointing towards me.

"Dude! You got your dick out!"


Who wants to make that first mistake?

Saturday, July 04, 2009

A Treatise On Trust

You're not to be trusted.

Go ahead. Ask anyone if you should eat for free like a kitten. Trust is a commodity forever undeserved and impossible to earn. Why? Because you can't be trusted! (Circular logic is always the best!) Or, at least, we have deemed that to be a truism.

But I noticed a funny thing about those who harp on man's "inevitable" treachery: it's always done by those who betray trust themselves. They want perversion accepted as fact: that the nature of man is evil and any society must be built upon that precept. And that is what we've done, but as I look around me the world is dying though we honor this "truth". Wassup wit dat?

These traitors among us claim to speak with insight and understanding. "It is the naive, the blind and the fatally foolish who paint man as anything but evil. After all, look at our deeds throughout history and who can say differently. We crucified our savior for God's sake! What more proof does one need?" These unholy priests make such assertions with high authority and brook no disagreement. But their fury comes from the fear of being unmasked, not from conviction. To translate their words: "I'm an evil loser and I can't stand it if anyone does better than me!"

But we all know the truth, no matter how well hidden or dedicated we are to pretending otherwise. There's supposed safety in numbers and most people smarmily assert distrust is a loathsome but necessary pillar of any society - even if it results in ultimate destruction. But the irony of Nature is we all have to trust, there's no way around it. Survival is a group effort. So you're gonna trust *something*. So we've put our trust in distrust.

Looking for the unemployed

Blackmail is the god of a distrustful society. Its principle states that no human deserves to live by virtue of being born, he must be made to do good. One must earn food, water, shelter, medical care, clothing and every other item under the sun. It is assumed all babies are born evil, for even their requirements are sold, not given. There's no trust in blackmail - but that's why we trust it!

"Without requiring money, no one will work!" Most of us have been brainwashed into believing that, that without blackmail society will collapse - even though it's collapsing anyway! But what can one say about the integrity of a system that says "you must work to live" and then denies a person the right to work? It says that is not a system about life, but of ownership and slavery, claiming the right to determine life and death, like a godless religion.

Yes, it is true, most of us don't have much integrity, it's why we allow this insanity to continue. The broke, the starving, the de facto slaves of working poor will cry out against the system but would they if they had millions? It's all about buying souls, taking the bribe and saying, "Yes, there are injustices but things are good for me." Most of us cannot rise above that but even that is not fatal as human weakness is to be expected. It's the fact we don't recognize our human weaknesses that's the Achilles heel.

Because we've made a religion of our system, questioning it is verboten. "People who work are good, people who don't are bad." The conversation begins and ends there for blind adherents to our religion. Listen to those forced out of work and hear the guilt they express. The guilt doesn't come from being unemployed - as they often allege - but from believing in the first place in the lies of a system that now betrays them. Leaves one feeling rather foolish.

The truth is we have no choice but to trust one another. No matter how vile thy neighbor, your job is to nurture trust. Why? Because it's every person's job to be trustworthy. There's no system possible that can ultimately make up for a perfidious people. So the goal is to give the best chance possible, to grant life to every person regardless, that even if life is ultimately rejected, at least the chance was given to make things work. Way things stand now, there is no hope despite all the pretentious chest beating one hears from insanity's enablers.

Don't shoot!

To the brainwashed and/or corrupt mind, the height of insanity is to freely hand out the rudiments of survival with no questions asked. "You can't just grow food and give it out. No! Never! Never!" But the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing expecting a different result. Clearly what we're doing now has no hope and is reaching the point of irreversible suffering yet we cling to the false dictum of "There is no other way!" But that oath applies only to trusting.

It doesn't take a prophet to use logic, but Moses saw this coming:

When such a person hears the words of this oath, he invokes a blessing on himself and therefore thinks, "I will be safe, even though I persist in going my own way." This will bring disaster on the watered land as well as the dry.

But what the hell. I guess everyone needs a plan, huh? Maybe I'm underselling starvation.

Every life is a cry for love. The need for love will rule for all eternity, determining the fate of every individual. Love is like water, choose it and live, reject it and die. There is no god with a ledger of judgement determining our fates. We write our own names in the Book of Life. So yes, you can say you don't need love - but you will die just the same. Time bears this out every day and there will come a time when all those who reject life die by their own hand. You were expecting something different?

Still don't believe in trust? Then re-read this post and substitute "love" for the word "trust".

A world based on this would be horrific!