This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO
Showing posts with label george w bush. Show all posts
Showing posts with label george w bush. Show all posts

THE WRIT

A writ of habeas corpus is a court order addressed to a prison official (or other custodian) ordering that a prisoner be brought before the court for determination of whether that person is serving a lawful sentence and/or whether he or she should be released from custody. The writ of habeas corpus in common law countries is an important instrument for the safeguarding of individual freedom against arbitrary state action.

And it is that Habeas corpus can also mean
That an imprisoning authority of an alleged murderer
‘Should have the body'! Yes! Should have the body
To prove there’s been any such murder at all!

You should have the bodies stacked up high,
Above your neck the fallen amassed and towering
Toward the gray-thrown sky where their faces
Look alive once more with the sobbing of battle.

You should have the tortured hands and backs
Bear them to the cavern of your limbless,
Eyeless scourge as the conqueror’s honor;
The due reverence to your lifeless carnival.

You should have the trembling youth’s red echo
Of anguish knocking against your ear in sleep;
A mud-spattered lullaby, and have the beautiful,
Trodden and gashed bodies of the children dancing.

And, as you writhe, you twist the writ to sunders
And pledge no support for our grown-dim reality
While shadowy plans are pinched for a fresh war
Lying eastward of quagmires steeped in freedom!

Downward, downward, missiles bury the blameless
And stoke the soil with a lover’s enthusiasm
Like murderers and thieves leaving their mark
Upon every body gasping beneath the enemy.


Copyright © 2007 mrp / thepoetryman

GORGE

(Another poem from the archives (2006) originally titled "Dull Spark". I found it to be somewhat relative to our countries situation today...Maybe it's just me...?)

We only think we have a different story to tell,
but they're all the same;
just old blasted, worn-to-the-nub tales;
(Even a genius can think he's God.)

Our minds needn’t lead us through to our history’s end;
It is our hearts, the bloody, wildly beating, throbbing heart!
Not the brain with its monotonous weak-kneed glimmer.
It is the heart that must lead, take our hand
and guide us out the valley of our own shadow.

The heart, not our intolerantly pricked ear or roving eye
Or arching want against the smack of unholy greed,
and most certainly not our capricious and foul-fickled-soul
Stumbling for deities like some inebriated son-of-a-bitch!

We need our hearts to direct us safely `round this gorge.
The heart knows the outside of its host;
it knows we’re not fit to strike a goddamned match,
That we’re empty outside of it.

The heart knows that war may signal our end
and that collateral damage is a coward’s phrase.

It is our hearts, not our minds;
Our rotted head makes sport of death
and our lean souls tease the dwindling wit,
pokes, jabs at our churning gut
beckoning it come sit heavy upon our will.

Our hands, feet, arms and legs
Are only told to move in rage
when the heart’s gone missing.




Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

Between...


Between the century and the shoe
came the war, the torture,

the injustice and the blood,
the rage and the sorrow
and the tapping and the flood.

Between the eleventh and the crash
came the shock, the awe,
the anguished and the dreaded,
the widowed and the scourged,
the bombed and beheaded.

Between the reign and the snow
came the child’s vacant stare,
the grief and the wrath,
the tears and the scowl,
the starving and the flag.

Between the heaven and the hell
came the lies and the spin,
the tanks and the guns,
the free and imprisoned,
mankind and his sun.

There were no angels….


© 2008 mrp/tpm


Craig Welch takes viewers inside a surreal, meticulously crafted world to meet a mysterious protagonist and his otherworldly visitor.

In this surreal exposition, we meet a man, obsessed with control. His intricate gadgets manipulate yet insulate, as his science dissects and reduces. How exactly are wings attached to the back of angels? In this invented world drained of emotion, where everything goes through the motions, he is brushed by indefinite longings. Whether he can transcend his obsessions and fears is the heart of the matter. A film without words.

Directed by : Craig Welch. Produced in 1996...








-How Wings are Attached to the Backs of Angels-

TEMPEST

GOP considers delaying convention

Tropical Storm Gustav is forecast to hit U.S. next week as hurricane

Republican officials said yesterday that they are considering delaying the start of the GOP convention in Minneapolis-St. Paul because of Tropical Storm Gustav, which is on track to hit the Gulf Coast, and possibly New Orleans, as a full-force hurricane early next week.

The threat is serious enough that White House officials are also debating whether President Bush should cancel his scheduled convention appearance on Monday, the first day of the convention, according to administration officials and others familiar with the discussion.

For Bush and Republican presidential candidate John McCain, Gustav threatens to provide an untimely reminder of Hurricane Katrina. A new major storm along the Gulf Coast would renew memories of one (of many) of the low points of the Bush administration, while pulling public attention away from McCain's formal coronation as the GOP presidential nominee.


(Read the poem)

Devotion in the ever darkening climate. Our
Spirit. This time’s consideration. The will
Of the people. Love. Fairness. Choice. Tyranny.
Failure.
History.
This time’s reflection. History’s christening.
Now. This time. Now. At present,
Before us, in our ready throats, such standing courage.
High in the air and underneath the feet.
Our moment. Our time. Our history. Our
Occasion.
And the stroke of the clock and the quickening sea
And the pace and the face of our pale and dark occurrence
And the call of our mother’s and father’s
Mislaid chance.

Our backs must hold this up, haul it onward and set
This day on course. This time. This
Moment. Child. Renewal. Birth. Joy
Swimming near the frame.
Hope of victory. Grasp the radiance
In our hands; the clear glow of expectation.
Ready now, like a vast breath in our storm.


© 2008 mrp/tpm



Rolling along "M"...Maggie's Madness - Main and Central - March 19 Iraq War Blogswarm - Martha, Martha.... - Mccs1977 - MeInAction - Mock, Paper, Scissors - Mockingbird's Medley - Morpheus Revolutions - My Past, My Present and My Future - My Saturday Evening Post

TWO...ONE...FORTY



Two wars- forty years reminded
One nation- still blinded
Two men- forty years aloof
Words- forty years removed…


This world thrashing in sleep
recoils of such flattering speech
in the hell of man’s making.
A nameless, penniless peace
stands weeping at the purblind raking
of histories misguided providence.

Howling as the dying howl,
alone and hopeless in the faint gorge,
unmoved by the useless patter of war,
nodding in disbelief,
she begins her throbbing journey
unnoticed, lunging into the throes
of such frequent pursuit.

She thinks she glimpses light ahead
bending on the way to her throat
and lets slip hope in harmony’s sky…


© 2008 mrp/tpm

GEORGE'S "GULF" HANDICAP

(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)

President Bush says he gave up golf to be in “solidarity” with the fallen troops...

"I don't want some mom whose son may have recently died to see the commander-in-chief playing golf," he said. "I feel I owe it to the families to be in solidarity as best as I can with them."

My muse saw this yesterday and brought it to my attention by clanging two metal trashcan lids together very close to my ears. She did this until the hair on the back of my head stood up on its own. If your short on hair gel or mousse, might I suggest this as a stand-by lifter. Its hell on the ears, but, even after shampooing it three times since, the hair on the back of my head, between my bleeding ears, remains at full attention!

After my muse was going for her third clang I said,

‘YOU KNOW THAT AFTER THE FIRST TWO TIMES ANY FURTHER ‘CYMBAL’ CRASHING IS RATHER POINTLESS. I’M DEAF IN BOTH EARS, SO WHATEVER IT IS YOU WANT FROM ME YOU’LL HAVE TO WRITE IT DOWN IN YOUR NOTEPAD AND PUT IN FRONT OF MY FACE.’

To which she countered with somewhere around thirty further "cymbal" crashes! It could have been more. I mean I can’t really be sure since I had gone deaf in both ears already. I’m still a bit disoriented, like I’m in a deep well.

The following is what my muse wrote on a piece of paper and violently shoved in front of my face-

GEORGE BUSH, FUCK YOU! YOU ELITIST AND EVIL BASTARD! YOU ABSOLUTE INCOMPETENT, NO GOOD, IGNORANT, GODDAMNED RICH, LOWLIFE, SILVER SPOON-FED FOOL! FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE! GO STRAIGHT TO HELL YOU PATHETIC, WORTHLESS, ILL-MANNERED, WARMONGERING SWINE! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! AND FUCK YOU!

I said, ‘I understand you’re angry, my dear, but I expected better from you. I did. I thought you’d have channeled your anger into a heartrending, earth-shattering, piercing poem or something like that...'

She furiously grabbed the notepad and began to write like she was possessed.

I stood aside and patiently waited. I passed the time by dabbing at the blood that trickled from my ears and marveling at my newly rendered coif.

It wasn’t long before she again shoved the notepad in front of my face-


-a poem titled "George's Gulf Handicap"-

GEORGE BUSH,
FUCK YOU!
YOU ELITIST AND EVIL BASTARD!
YOU ABSOLUTE BASSACKWARD,
NO GOOD, IGNORANT, GODDAMNED RICH,
LOWLIFE, SILVER SPOON-FED SONOFABITCH!

FUCK YOU, YOU FETID, ASS EATING WHORE!
GO STRAIGHT TO HELL
YOU PATHETIC, WORTHLESS TO THE CORE,
ILL-MANNERED, WARMONGERING SWINE!
FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
AND FUCK YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME!

She then began to cry uncontrollably.


© 2008 mrp/tpm



FOUR THOUSAND



(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)
(click photomontage to enlarge)


BAGHDAD - U.S. officials said Monday they will press forward in the fight against extremists in Iraq a day after the overall U.S. death toll in the five-year conflict rose to 4,000.

The White House called the grim milestone “a sober moment” and said President Bush spends time every day thinking about those who have lost their lives in battle.

“He bears the responsibility for the decisions that he made,” White House press secretary Dana Perino said. “He also bears the responsibility to continue to focus on succeeding.”
(...U.S. death toll in Iraq reaches 4,000...Bush says outcome of war will 'merit the sacrifice')

FOUR THOUSAND
(a poem by thepoetryman)


Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Blind are the men of warring.
Deaf are the men of policy.
Dumb are imperial leaders,
Crippled of a thirst for music.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Songs go unsung among bones;
No ears heed the joyous choir,
No eyes observe the living score,
No blood left within their delight.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Leaders, blind and wicked are those
With no wings painted upon them;
Only hoisting their wretched talons
Should the music ever change.



© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

Rolling along "U"...

un blogger SCEPTIK - UnAmerican Revolution - uncomfortably numb - Urban Unrest



3,2,1, 0... WAR ANIMALS (1 million dead Blogswarm)




'3' Civil War (March 19th, 2006)


I have traveled to the edge of Iraq
And peered over.

She panted treacherously.

It is not strange coming out of
The stifled mouth of national war.
It is not easily uttered, these
Words of internal detonations.
It is not compliant, this laceration
Of autonomy `gainst thy neighbor.

She beseeched the air.

I have traveled to the edge of Iraq
And peered over.

Lunged of war.

~

'2' Your Escape of it (March 19th, 2006)

The nattering jaws are a hearse of warring wits
And within their dry swamp thunders denial
They’re dropping the bombs!
They’re lobbing grenades!
They’re devouring in sneering laughter
And consuming with their cynical smiles

These, our leaders, and their most pestilent flesh
Now harvesting souls for kingdoms sport
They’re dropping the bombs!
They’re lobbing grenades!
They’re exterminating in sinister heart
And demolishing the spirit’s sweet core

We the listless are ingesting trepidation in this
And within our quagmire torment subsists
They’re encasing the bombs!
They’re staining our waters!
They’re transporting terror of a false god
And detesting our darling independence

The feint Iraqi peoples, an urn of absorbed ash
And within the ferried grief crashes internal war
You’re dropping the bombs!
You’re lobbing death’s den!
You’re lancing our prospects in tyranny
And you shall escape us ahead of our end

~

'1' Coursing Upward (March 19th, 2007)

This country needs the truth to be spoken.
Have a reunion with an unwavering light
To chart, ride, and calculate deceptions heavy barbs,
Sustenance weighed for worth and certainty.

We need pledge our suspicion on the breath of man
Prepared to open his lips and cough up
America’s latest shadowy, myth-soiled account.
We need pale all the ears of our streets with hesitation,

With exactness snatched between the rational mind and fear.
Power seeks out the holes in our doubt
And patches them with dread
So good men shiver at their own shadow.

I’m not afraid to pen my doubt upon the screen,
The virtual pages of our present language,
Of man’s bowed and busted logic
Coursing upward, seeking the flesh of truth.

~

'0' War Animals (March 19th, 2008)

Would I hold my hand thus if I were such a murderous beast?
Asked the wolf…
Would I be thought a monster like you if I howled in horror?
Asked the sheep…
I howl for pleasure, little sheep! I consume to nourish my sorrow!
Scolded the wolf…
I do not mean to offend your howling or persuade your hunger, sir.
Prayed the sheep….
See my opposing thumb and how it can bring me such pleasure?
Inquired the wolf…
See my shivering hooves and how they frustrate me significantly?
Echoed the sheep…

The wind now wails its bitter speech as the wolf skulks nearer.

Come! Let us sit next to one another and we shall drink a toast.
Said the wolf…
I shouldn’t. It’s not right to do so while so many continue to perish.
Replied the sheep…
Thou art afraid of me, dam? Me? A creature with such manners?
Crooned the wolf…
No. I- I- I just don’t think it appropriate to toast on this- of all days.
Answered the sheep…
But this is a day of triumph! Today’s the best day to drink to victory!
Howled the wolf…
There you go again with the howling? I told you my lambs are sleeping.
Whispered the sheep…

The wind abruptly strengthens with the crow of murderous night.

Yes. Please forgive me, sheep…. …Your lambkins are precious to you?
Posed the wolf…
All babies are precious, wolf. Are yours not precious to you?
Raised the sheep…
Of course they’re precious! I would, without a doubt, kill for them!
Charged the wolf…
Of that I’m sure. But haven’t I asked you to keep your voice down?
Sighed the sheep…
Yes. But aren’t you sufficiently fearful of offending me, little ewe?
Urged the wolf…
I have not offended you, wolf. It is you that will not do as I’ve asked.
Rejoined the sheep…

The wolf now howls with a beast’s bloody bravado!

I do not believe this- Before me is a sheep that’s utterly lacking in fear?
Marveled the wolf…
I’ve fear enough. It is your opposing thumbs that are rigid with terror.
Said the sheep.

The wind stops its screeching and the sheep suckles her babies.



© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Economy Distracts Americans on Iraq War Anniversary?





Rolling along "N"...

Neo-Resistance - Neural Gourmet - New World Order Reports - Night Bird's Fountain - No Accuser - No Cure For That - No-More-Ignorance - Not In My Name - Not Much, But All Mine - Not My Tribe - Nothing Aside - Nutopian




THE FLIP OF A COIN




(A Poetic Justice Photomontage)(Click to enlarge)

No Country for Old Men revisits themes Ethan and Joel Coen have used in Blood Simple and Fargo. The novel's motifs of chance, free-will, and predestination are familiar territory for the Coens, who presented similar threads and tapestries of "fate [and] circumstance" in those earlier works. Numerous critics cited the importance of chance to both the novel and the film, focusing on Chigurh's fate-deciding coin flipping, but noted that the nature of the film medium made it difficult to include the "self-reflective qualities of McCarthy’s novel."

In The Village Voice, Scott Foundas writes that "Like McCarthy, the Coens are markedly less interested in who (if anyone) gets away with the loot than in the primal forces that urge the characters forward... In the end, everyone in No Country for Old Men is both hunter and hunted, members of some endangered species trying to forestall their extinction."

New York Times critic A.O. Scott points out that Chigurh, Moss, and Bell each "occupy the screen one at a time, almost never appearing in the frame together, even as their fates become ever more intimately entwined."

Variety critic Todd McCarthy describes Chigurh's modus operandi:
Death walks hand in hand with Chigurh wherever he goes, unless he decides otherwise ... if everything you've done in your life has led you to him, he may explain to his about-to-be victims, your time might just have come. 'You don't have to do this,' the innocent invariably insist to a man whose murderous code dictates otherwise. Occasionally, however, he will allow someone to decide his own fate by coin toss, notably in a tense early scene in an old filling station marbled with nervous humor...

~

ROLLING STONE...Not since Robert Altman merged with the short stories of Raymond Carver in Short Cuts have filmmakers and author fused with such devastating impact as the Coens and McCarthy. Good and evil are tackled with a rigorous fix on the complexity involved. Recent movies about Iraq have pushed hard to show the growing dehumanization infecting our world. No Country doesn't have to preach or wave a flag — it carries in its bones the virus of what we've become. The Coens squeeze us without mercy in a vise of tension and suspense, but only to force us to look into an abyss of our own making. (Peter Travers)

~

THE FLIP OF A COIN
a poem by thepoetryman


-We have the power to make this the best generation of mankind
in the history of the world - or to make it the last. __JFK



Hidden under our disguises,
Like the sunken path used to avoid our fate,
Are the hollow eyes of man staring at a heap of ruin.

When we cease to bow to arrogance,
When we feel the burnish of mortality
And at last grasp man’s relation
Only then can we see our true face
Standing agape in the midst of shame.

It is not nearly as valuable to discover “who” the thieves are
As it is to recognize “what” it is that smothers our sight.



© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman


Rolling along "D"...

Dandelion Salad

Darvish

Declarations of Pride

Depresident.Blog

Docudharma

Doonesbury-The Sandbox-Military Blog


DOUBLE UP




You may want to read the previous post first
...


http://www.newsday.com/news/local/politics/ny-usdems0225,0,182939.story

Nader jumps in, creating stir amongst Dems
BY ERIK GERMAN
11:07 PM EST, February 24, 2008

PROVIDENCE, R.I. - Consumer advocate Ralph Nader announced Sunday he's running for president, a move that isn't likely to put him in the White House but that could shave votes from the Democratic nominee in November's election.
Nader, who ran as the Green Party candidate for president in 2000, announced his White House intentions on NBC's "Meet the Press" Sunday.
Hillary Rodham Clinton said Nader's bid would be bad for whichever Democrat ultimately faces likely Republican nominee Sen. John McCain in November
















JOHN

This is my Kodak® moment! Go away sorceress of ruin, you’re in my last light!

HILLARY
Stuff it you horses ass! I'm fed up with the way things are going as of late!

JOHN
You’ve only yourself to blame for your bowlegged service!

HILLARY

You’re one to talk of service; the better part of your wits are still caged in Vietnam!

JOHN
At least mine have a home! Yours flit with the emotionally charged winds!

HILLARY
You wet blanket, your principles are erroneous, indistinguishable, bought and bent!

BARACK

Just words?

JOHN/HILLARY
Shut up, ebony and ivory wordsmith! You’re absurd!

BARACK
You two sound like a dream played backwards.

HILLARY
Plagiarist!

JOHN
America’s not ready to pledge to you, Osama!

BARACK
It’s Obama, John... and the only thing you’ve both to fear is each other.

HILLARY
Plagiarist!

BARACK
I am not a plagiarist!

JOHN
I am! And damn proud of it, too! If it weren’t for pledges I couldn’t afford this!

HILLARY
Plagiarist, not “pledgerist” you imbecilic conformist!

JOHN
Oh...

RALPH

All of you are corporate pawns!

HILLARY/BARACK

Oh Christ! Nader! What the hell are you doing here?

RALPH

Spoiling your little party, I’d imagine.

JOHN

Hello, my old pal, Ralph! Welcome to the Rat race! Kisses!!!!

HILLARY

Shit…

BARACK

You've no more a chance than a black man at winning the Whitehouse!

RALPH

Precisely why I’m here, Obama.

JOHN

Osama!

HILLARY

Plagiarist!

BARACK

It wasn't plagiarism!

HILLARY

Was too! Was too!




GW
- None of you can do for the United States what I’ve done
for her
!








RALPH

You’re right about that, King George.

HILLARY

No dispute here.

BARACK

No dispute whatsoever.

HILLARY
Plagiarist!



NUMBERS

(Ben Heine - Cartoons)
from

Dear George,

Just as the sight of crocuses peaking through the soiled snows of March are harbingers of spring, so is the dealing of the Terror Card the harbinger of another election cycle. Once again, you are trotting out the strategy that has kept you in office for so long: If you scare the chickens enough, they will vote for the fox.

It is a thing of beauty. First you create imaginary shadows, and then in every imaginary shadow you hide an imaginary terrorist skulking down Main Street America, ready to blow up the local soda shoppe where America’s clean-cut teenagers hang out.

Your Director of National Intelligence Mike McConnell says it so, so it must be so. And we must believe it is so, and our faith must be perfect, untainted by doubt, because if our faith is not perfect and it we allow the 935 lies that led up to your Iraq enterprise plant to a seed of doubt in our minds, we may wonder if the next utterance that comes out of your administration’s collective mouth might not be lie number 936.

National Security demands perfect faith. Just as the Rapture shall come; so are droves of terrorists rowing across the Atlantic in route to Main Street. (MORE...)


NUMBERS NEVER LIE
a poem by thepoetryman

O, now your voice is that of truth?
What happened to yesterdays street lamp that the swimming fog
painted with terror,
and the plane upon the sky
with brown men wielding loss; what’s come of their design?
What of the bell ringing with freedoms magnificence
where freedom was and freedoms no more?
Where do you think these numbers fit, brandishing such menace?

O where is the mighty hero, the soldier child, the marine
whose breath wafted over the border pleading to pass on,
wailing in grief the loss of life in the sand
as talons lash his ankle to the very ground he guards?

These numbers speak a blood-spattered speech
and call forth an acrid air that fills the lungs
with its seed and it hemorrhages and bleeds
over your torture bending our will!

Why must you again with your slump of thievery
trudge upon our malleable expectation?
Why have you entered such dismal days
as to end our breathing?

To the apathetic hordes hearing, sensing nothing,
to the naked and dead calling their voices down,
to the mystified living worshipping your words,
to the angry and vengeful whose lion is pacing,
to the bitter and downtrodden without a voice,
to the hopeful and wishful locked away praying,
your belief’s as empty as its messenger.
Your savior’s a swaggering sham,
nine hundred and thirty-five...
Like dread he comes again!
Numbers never lie.


© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

A CHARGE TO KEEP (Thievery's Slumber)





The Illustrated President
"I thought I would share with you a recent bit of Texas history which epitomizes our mission. When you come into my office, please take a look at the beautiful painting of a horseman determinedly charging up what appears to be a steep and rough trail. This is us. What adds complete life to the painting for me is the message of Charles Wesley that we serve One greater than ourselves."

[Bush] came to believe that the picture depicted the circuit-riders who spread Methodism across the Alleghenies in the nineteenth century. In other words, the cowboy who looked like Bush was a missionary of his own denomination.

Only that is not the title, message, or meaning of the painting. The artist, W.H.D. Koerner, executed it to illustrate a Western short story entitled “The Slipper Tongue,” published in The Saturday Evening Post in 1916. The story is about a smooth-talking horse thief who is caught, and then escapes a lynch mob in the Sand Hills of Nebraska. The illustration depicts the thief fleeing his captors. In the magazine, the illustration bears the caption: “Had His Start Been Fifteen Minutes Longer He Would Not Have Been Caught.” (
Source)


THIEVERY’S SLUMBER

ALL THAT BREATHED IN HIS ROUGHSHOD RIDING
OVER THIS WORLD, and every creature howling
in his thoughts, echoed his emptiness without reply,
save for the slain.

Writhing in his waking dream of selfish banter
The thief rides hard, fleeing the onslaught of truth…
Even his own dreaded and lengthy swig of it!
Thrash and swagger, let hell itself raise its talons,
Wrestle mighty hubris to its filthy Goddamned knees;
The world wants him and his horde of occupied senses
To suffer the ocean awash over their watery, filthy faces!
Yes! Even the ocean wants them to descend,
To have faith, believe in its sodden worship,
Fantasize of its godliness,
To Slumber ‘neath its thinning grasp as
Wretched beasts and the murdered fill their trophies
With the bandit’s counterfeit cries of forgiveness and tattered flesh!

Above the world children are weeping noisily; No. Not even death
Can end such youthful howling abducted in its beginning.
Upon this world red-faced mothers and fathers shriek-


“Who let loose these devils of man?”
“Unchained such god-fouled, vile terror?”
“Delivered this Goddamned misery to the breathing?”

Even before such pungent breath leaves their gaping jaws
The answer, riding upon a foul steed, charges past them
Toward the ocean’s shores.

"Where are the children?"
“Their spirits…Where are they?”
“Their soft feet and bellies?”
"Surely they are hungry?"

Writhing now upon his waking steed of selfish banter
The thief rides swift, fleeing the onslaught of truth…
Even his own dreaded and lengthy swig of it!
White hounds shake their sodden restraints
As their ghastly paws scrape the floorboards of hell…

The spirits are not here now. The spirits are not here.
"Where are they? What has become of them?"

Above the world they wait with the keeper of horses
Who tells them that soon will come a most splendid feast;
A banquet that only the ocean knows how to arrange.

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman


FAILURE



Jackson Browne, Graham Nash, Ben Harper and Bonnie Raitt on a petition to Congress to prevent a costly bailout of the nuclear power industry.


Only this remained of the
Stone
The thunder slapped greedily
Over the obstinate sky grown low
Striking over collapsed
Spear
Remember this is not make-believe
But new, bright and breathing
Of the eagle and the lioness
Seeking mere
Food and water
Writing history with bloody awe
We should have saved the young
And not left idle the spring of man
Charity subdued in loathing
Sword
They may now read of this slaughter
Papers insured
Gun's possession
But failed in man’s ache for murder
We shouldn’t recommence our fixation
Wielding science’s crush of matter and atom
Difficult, slow and deliberate is this
Bomb
dropping overhead, called homeward
To its use;
Radiation
bathing nations
With the stench of man’s undoing
Something as seemingly negligible
As affirming life in
Petri-dish.

© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

Take Action! Urge congress to fund renewable and efficiency technologies not an unknown number of new power plants.



WEAPON





They didn't warn us of this growing up.
How could they?
They too had been sold deceit painted to look like gold.

We shall continue to wander off into the dark,
Lumbering through the sludge,
Leaving the whole thing as it was;
We’ll not be the last to ingest it.

We’ll stay kneeled behind the world,
Behind authorities stench,
Our noses filling with it-
For we are an obedient creature
Watching everything we’re here for disappear
And everything we should fear being painted gold!

We’re too busy warring-
We’re too busy dreaming-
We’re too busy scheming-
We’re too busy competing-
We’re too goddamned busy!

O never have we seen such indifference!
Never have we stared so eyeless,
Breathing in the stink of depravity,
Howling that our things are being confiscated,
Agape at the murder and rape of mankind,
Screeching of powers rush forward,
Of our being strapped to the slab of want,
Our freedoms turning nose skyward
As they plunge from the precipice we made,
Screaming of deadly chemicals and mushroom cloud!

Christ!
Can we not make our existence fit for love,
Not submissive to these spineless, lousy rogues
Hell-bent on ruin?
Not the way we’ve existed-
Not the way we’re now living
And will go on living until they say we’re not.
We’ve known all this time who's had the weapons
But we’ve no sense that we’re the filthy trigger…

copyright 2007 tpm



To watch the video(s)- AMERICA: FREEDOM TO FASCISM- expand the post.




It is Coming



IT IS COMING



Breathe in deep America,
You are fading.
The liberated their dreams,
We’ve none.

Warriors fall to the streets,
Children face down.
Streets drenched in gloom,
Ours awash in pride.

Rise up to splendor,
It is waiting.
Show the world freedom,
Conquer your death.

(Poetryman Productions)



© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

IMMOBILE DESCENT



Robert Shetterly ...The second strong feeling --- the first being horror --- I had on September 11 was hope, hope that the United States would use the shock of this tragedy to reassess our economic, environmental, and military strategies in relation to the other countries and peoples of the world. Many people hoped for the same thing --- not to validate terrorism, but to admit that the arrogance and appetite of the U.S., all of us, have created so much bad feeling in many parts of the world that terrorism is inevitable. I no longer feel hopeful. If one looks closely at U.S. foreign policy, the common denominator is energy, oil in particular. The world is running out of oil. Political leadership that had respect for the future of the Earth and a decent concern for the lives of American and non-American people would be leading us away from conflict toward conservation and economic justice, toward alternative energy, toward a plan for the survival of the world that benefits everyone. We see hegemony and greed thinly veiled behind patriotism and security. We get pre-emptive war instead of pre-emptive planning for a sustainable future. The greatness of our country is being tested and will be measured not by its military might but by its restraint, compassion, and wisdom. De Toqueville said, “America is great because it is good. When it ceases to be good, it will cease to be great.” A democracy, whose leaders and media do not try to tell the people the truth, is a democracy in name only. If the consent of voters is gained through fear and lies, America is neither good nor great. Nor is it America.


Someone…something… has fallen to earth,
Tumbling from far above to the dismal ground.
Each year, as this moment comes `round, we are met
With its foul-smelling, screeching descent.


We’ve not made peace with this unknown,
We’ve not processed the quivering snapshot,
We’ve only erected monuments of its anger…


Again, as I see myself in its decline,
I am greeted by my own intolerable failings
Determined to shackle the thrashing legs
And bind the wrist to stale, bleached bone.


O! We are resolute each time it falls to us,
To the solid earth; her clattering,
To this determination; our held posture…

Into the costly void we go again,
Deeper than the last, pungent in our horror,
Overlooking embers of exactness that boil
Deep below this; our replicating defeat!


To annually pen an immobile descent
In godforsaken reverie of vengeance
Is more damning than this occasion…


O! We’re clothed in potency by tailored failings;
This unremitting plunge shall course our evermore
Save we excavate our mettle from `neath dread and death.
(Let us not be trapped under the ruins of our own collapse.)




© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman



Thank you, Robert for the beautiful introductory words to the poem and for writing such an important book as Americans Who Tell The Truth.

Special mention to the amazing site, No Cure For That, where I had the pleasure of being introduced to Robert.

Here are other poetryman 9-11 poems:
1. One Life One Bone One Skull One Moment
2. Remember This Moment
3. Floor by Floor Beam by Beam Soul by Soul
4. In Pursuit of 9-11
5. Widowed
6. Omnipresent Enemy
7. We Shall Never Forget (August 6, 2001)

THE VIRGIN AND THE SEASONED



Bush just playing us with 'troop withdrawal'


Olbermann: "President Bush told troops in Iraq some of them may be able to come home. To a country dying of thirst, the president seemed to vaguely promise a drink from a full canteen -- a promise predicated on the assumption that he is not lying. Yet you are lying, Mr. Bush. Again. But now, we know why. "

"...Everything you said about Iraq yesterday, and everything you will say, is a deception, for the purpose of this one cynical, unacceptable, brutal goal: perpetuating this war indefinitely."
(full transcript)



THE VIRGIN AND THE SEASONED

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world
And sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich;
Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds
And unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips;
O! That this world could make use of silence or a hushed and soothing reverie
From the heavy chains knotted `round our breath! The tongues are corroded over
With idols and liars and hordes of impish drones and toadies and criminals;
A fine mess we’ve made of it! A fine mess we’re into now; a world in disarray!
And someone’s going to stop breathing tonight! A father’s going to cry, kill or pray
As someone else will sleep far away from his grief. Sleep roundly without sorrow.
The moving sand and running streets and flying steel pilfering the radiance
Will send a messenger, a virgin warrior, with tidings of community and expectation,
Only to return with news of a lifeless planet with lifeless inhabitants; dull and jaded.
Another more seasoned warrior will then be sent with reports and bags of gold,
Only to return with news of an insensible planet with insensible and terrified patrons.
Then it will be time to send the General, a gallant, fearless stag of impeccable servitude
Armed only with the kings dangling gaze hard upon his back. The news is good!
The planet breathes! The previous, now lifeless dispatches were two-faced traitors…

Right after the sky had seemingly dumped all its gloom upon this world
And sunny days lay ahead of us… some of us… maybe some lucky son of the rich;
Just when the world could use some talk of peace and healing of wounds
And unruffled reflection allowed to descend… or shine… or sidle between dry lips;
A command was given to cease all opposition and to run crying for shelter!
Come warble your dissent! Whimper in anger! Snivel in disbelief and comfortless drivel
Until the soil trembles with your quaking of our liberty that is the world’s torment
For the virgin and the seasoned have been silenced and all that remains is monstrous!
O! If the rivers could but sing of this time they’d flood the world in sorrowful verse.




© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman



SING IT! (New Orleans)




WARBLE



Sing it, George! Sing it! Sing it!
Sing it, baby! Sing it!
Carry your message to the world
Warble from shore to shore
Harmonize into Baghdad
Sing your truths to the dead
Sing in the darkened streets
Sing it under watery New Orleans
Sing it loud! Sing it fiercely!
Lie! Lie! Lie! Lie!
Sing your lies to the masses,
Watch now as they burn,
The glow reflected in your eyes
And through your dark soul...
Sing it, baby! Sing it!
Sing it! Sing it!
Empire awaits!


Thank you Blue Gal and...


http://www.suspect-device.com/blog/?p=1525

http://www.suspect-device.com/blog/?p=1544

http://www.suspect-device.com/blog/?p=1550

http://bgalrstate.blogspot.com/2007/08/katrina-anniversary.html

http://www.blogintegrity.net/2007/08/criminal-neglig.html

http://www.first-draft.com/2007/08/remember.html

http://www.first-draft.com/2007/08/bush-coming-to-.html

http://flprogressive.blogspot.com/2007/08/two-years-ago-today.html



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