Category Archives: Psychology

Nader & the Triumph of the Shadow

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Nader & the (Temporary) Triumph of the Shadow 

 

   Of course I have several tons of trouble forgiving the idiot Nader voters in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Florida in 2000 who voted for Nader The Unspeakable instead of for Al Gore. (That Nader allowed it was Unspeakable.) This was an historically insane case of  letting the perfect become the enemy of the good. No, they are not “all the same.” Yes, there is a huge, a gigantic difference between the Parties. 90 thousand Nader voters in Florida. What were those people thinking?  A case of rampaging political immaturity and political petulance at its very worst. You make a protest vote in Idaho or California, not in Florida, you under-informed flaming imbeciles. Don’t even talk to me about the cousins of rats who didn’t get around to registering at all. Or didn’t vote at all “because they’re all the same.” We’re supposed to forgive you this self-indulgent nonsense? Like suicide – stand on the ledge and do your drama so we know you’re really upset, but don’t actually jump. Ruins too many lives, including your own.

    I remember going to sleep a couple of days before the Election thinking, ‘In World X, Al Gore wins and in World Y, George Bush wins — and I wonder which world I wake up in?’

   Well, ole Fat E woke me up in World Y. How in the Hell could it have happened? We had a vast budget surplus. Al Gore was a man of depth and insight who was a champion of the environment and a champion of the Internet slash Future and of civil rights. We were set to take our place as a leader of an increasingly free and just future of humane development. It was clearly in the stars and in the cards.

    What the hell happened? The Shadow. Jung’s Shadow. The atavistic forces of fear and paranoia; the primitive, fundamentalist, future-fearing, dark underbelly which lurks maggotily writhing under all our enlightened rocks. We have to have a Reckoning with the Shadow before we move on.

    These Shadow-ridden folk are the apotheosis, the manifestation of gigaGreed and Religious zeal and perversion of the kindness, the tenderness the mature can dare, the kindness required by all the Sages, including the impetuous young Jesus, an undeveloped, somewhat inflated and delusional, but occasionally inspired incipient Sage.

    We have to slog through the gruesome recognition of the capacity for nastiness and selfishness in our own selves – these horrible people are our very own family – we cannot keep sweeping this garbage under the rug just because it’s so skin-crawlingly embarrassing. We have to speak out clearly, we have to draw the lines. War is an unspeakable violent mess. Capitalism has strengths and grotesque weaknesses. Addiction to Patriotism and Religion blinds people to kindness and fellow-feeling. It is harder to be adult, sane, humane, and sensible than it is to say those words. Our country has been bloated with hubris, power-drunk – George used to do Jack Daniels, now he does PowerAde – both incapacitating of the resources of the heart. We haven’t listened or consulted or collaborated. America must spend some serious time in a dunce cap.

    Nationally and internationally we have submitted to Bullyism, the delusional entitlement that the Have-Mores have accrued unto themselves in ugly spasms of self-righteous Greed multiplied by Creed.

    We can discover a sweetness of purpose and the enduring strength of that if we keep our own hearts bright and refuse to succumb to the ghoulish perils of Seriousness.

    More about antidotes anon.

 

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11 Water . Muluc . The River . East  tzol 89  08.29.05 mon

ffwofw 570§8769§24d7h47m33s1047

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Go to Mutilation .. “War” is a Euphemism

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Go to Mutilation

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />. 

    Instead of saying Go to War, if we say Go to Mutilation, we strip away the monstrous notion that War, that Mutilation is noble. We’re going to Mutilation for fight for freedom? People need to recoil if they hear a Mutilation-monger – whether it is their neighbor or their president.

     Remember, dear reader, that my premise is that in Y3000 human reject war as absolutely as we reject child abuse today. (Of course war, of course mutilation is the worst degree of  child abuse – no worse harm can be done to a child than death or mutilation.) I believe that we end Mutilation as an accepted tool of cloved-hooved statecraft much sooner that Y3000. I’d reckon we will have eradicated the mutilation virus by 2038, 33 years from now. But because I don’t find it fruitful to get hung-up on dates, I’ve picked a timeframe only the NeoNutCons can dispute. Once we refine the memes, the mind-vaccine will spread very fast. People will recoil and rebel against the obscene waste of humane resources that the Mutilation Machine sucks out of your child’s brain.

    Because we are learning to stay on message, let’s have today’s recounting of the Extreme Left Wing 5-Point Agenda: universal healthcare; superb K-College education; a treasured & revered environment; a robust living wage; and nation-wide wi-fi.

    When we spend $200,000 per minute on Iraq; $820,000 per minute on the Mutilation Machine annual budget beyond the Iraq quagsands – those sum are being subtracted from healthcare, education, environment, robust wages, and a wired nation.  

     The pro-Mutilation crowd will jump up and down and hiss ‘n holler, ‘Whoo, whoo, Remember 9/11, They’ll get us here if we don’t mutilate them there.’ Balderdash.

   3000/425,000. The plane-wielding jerks are much less destructive than the cigarettes-wielding jerks. Yes, we should be vigilant and smart. But not, I may inject mildly, hysterical. This full-bore red-line the Mutilation Machine hysteria has not served us well even in its own terms. We have proved a red-coat dinosaur among insurgent lemurs. We have already lost.

    But we will have wiser leaders and, more important, we will teach ourselves not to be bamboozled by false fervors.

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Notes:

(1)On 02.27.1968 Walter Cronkite said about the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam debacle, “To say that we are mired in stalemate seems the only realistic if unsatisfactory conclusion.”  It was seven more years until it was finally over on April 30,1975. I hope we can do better. Mr. Kissinger implies that it was the divisions at home that prevented us from winning. Ho Chi Minh said, “We would have fought you for 300 years. We live here.”

 

(2)Cindy Sheehan spoke of people “who don’t have skin in the game.”

 

(3) Karen Meredith, Gold Star Mom from Mountain View noted that since Mr. Bush’s vacation (‘hanging loose time’) began, 31 soldiers had been killed in Raq.

 

(4) Whole cities are getting wired by MetroFi and Aiirmesh. South Korea has 60% broadband penetration in its country. And its broadband pipe is 20 Mbps moving to 100 Mbps compared to Comcast’s broadband boast of 1Mbps. We is smokèd. Effit, we is radically charred.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

8 Death . Cimi . Twins . North . tzol 86  08.26.05 fri

ffwow 472§8769§24d7h47m33s1047


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The Real Pornography

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The Real Pornography

Toad Spawn Be Gone! Chapter 10

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     Obscene Accumulation is the Real Pornography.

     Back in the also obscene nuclear-weapons accumulation days, I used to wail and rail, “Let them steal our tiny piggybanks to build enough nuclear weapons to obliterate all living things and reduce all human structures to vapor and/or pebble-sized rubble 5x over. I won’t even squawk about that. I am willing to go that far in assuaging their paranoid fantasies.

     But the 6th world-rubbling? The 7th? The 10th? No. They have powerful inner demons that have to be fed. But they don’t have to be fed our children’s education and universal heathcare (certainly a jesusian idea) and a minimum wage which does not bring us shame. $14000 a minute for the fantasy Missile Crackpot Scheme aka StarWars? $200,000 a minute for the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq war? Nope.

     So, there is a sin of scale. SUVs seriously suck, but Hummers are an Express Ticket to Hell.(Arnold has 8 Hummers – you do the Math on how fast he gets to the 10th Circle of Frozen Tears.) SUVs are the vehicular equivalent of microencephaly – the smaller the brain (& no doubt the dawg), the more bizarrely enormous the vehicle.

    I’m hoping to get us to think about not an Utopia, but rather an Buenopia – not perfect but good enough. In that world which will be wrought by the progressive work we begin and continue now, we will have solved the pathology of the real Pornography, Obscene, Filthy Accumulation. How? Well, the main task of artists is to show the Frantically Rich that those riches, like ole Midas did find out, don’t ultimately satisfy. There is enough money that makes you and your family comfortable and safe. Massive accumulations of Money that sit in your bank account fester spiritually. You don’t earn or need $33 million dollars in some year. It’s sick. You don’t need $90,000 bucks a day. You don’t need a tax break. You need prayer. That the poor sonsabitches whose lives and labor you hoovered all that lolly from don’t wake up and think “It’s a lovely day for a Guillotine.”

      It absolutely earthquakes my mind that people are offended by a glimpse of Janet Jackson’s bosom or the burning of a flag and we are talking Mt. Everests of Bosom & Flag Dudgeon here and Congressional Hearings with pompous and pious speeches, — and somebody gets 33 million bucks and the minimum wage is 7 bucks an hour and nobody twitches? My mind-heart struggles with the human Math – how much does what matter what?

     I have to recommend to you an always free consultation with my friend Dan Gero, a journalist and philosopher from Mars. Of course he’s in disguise. He doesn’t want to get incinerated, smithereened, or dissected. I can get you in touch with him though if you’re earnest. A long chat and a cup of tea with someone from another planet is very sobering. Excruciatingly illuminating. You try to explain that a free market (hahaha) always brings the best result. It doesn’t. It brings random and insane and clearly stupid results, but it an article of  economic theology that it always works better than, say, that Satan of Capitalists, the Government. I got a Rapture Ticket I can sell you if you believe that.

   Explain slowly and clearly to a patient philosopher from another planet why we get so twisted in a nutknot about Janet Jackson’s bosom or some such and the polite sympathetic look in his kind alien eyes is unbearable. When you see your species from the vantage of someone from another planet whose insight isn’t clouded by tribal prejudices (the human tribe), there’s a fair amount of nonsense that’s too ludicrous to defend.

   “Well,” I said, “in the dominant Religion in my nation . . .”

    “Excuse me,” he will say softly, “What’s a nation?”

   “Uhh. Well, it has a square rectangle of colored cloth that you wave on a stick. Your rectangle of striped colored cloth tells you which nation is yours, sort of. You have a special rousing war song. You hardly ever kill people who wave the same colored rectangle of cloth even if you hate them. If they have a different colored rectangle of cloth and your government says to, you kill them even if you like them. Or you kill them even if you don’t have a clue whether you would like them or not if you sat down together to have a burger and a beer.You kill people who step over your border if your government is really mad at them.”

   “What’s a border?”

   “Uhh. Well, it’s a line that separates my nation from Juan’s nation.”

    “We have very powerful holo-telescopes on Mars. I’ve never seen such lines. We can count the trees in your forests, but I have never seen these lines?”

   “Uhhh. Well, they’re there. Uhhh. Well, they’re on pieces of paper we call maps. They matter. We kill for them. We die for them. I’ve never seen one either. But. But they’re there. They’re very real to us. I don’t know why.”

   “So you were telling me about the dominant Religion in your nation, now that I understand what a nation is.”

    “Yeah, in the dominant Religion in our nation, they have one special day a week where they go drink the blood and eat the flesh of their God’s Son.”

   When you tell these kinds of things to a philosopher from another planet, and you see the politely veiled recoiling look on his face, it’s hard to want to have ‘Human’ stamped on your Galactic Passport.

    As a friend of mine says, “We have our work cut out for us to get 'equality of human value' around our whole spaceship. Capitalism has significant strengths. One of the great flaws of untended capitalism, however, is its collateral-damageizing of workers. Stupid becomes bad becomes evil when you aren't watching. It'd be better to go back to beads and barter if paper money and then just chicken scratches symbolizing paper money become more important than the people.”

    The idea that unless people are motivated by Continually Basted and Stuffed (like the Thanksgiving Turkey) Greed, we will devolve into uninventive sloth is absurd, but it is an Article of Faith justifying the Grotesque Accumulations Of Cold Gold. Let’s take three counter-indications. Most artists make zilch until after they die and then all the Richies buy up these symbols of something more meaningful than that Bottom Line.Us artists work like dogs for zilch.

    Legions of  women before the modern era did godszillions of useful volunteer work for centuries without money remuneration. Similarly almost all of the people who labor like dogs in non-profits are lousily underpaid, but they do the work anyway.

    Europeans who are hugely more taxed manage to have verve enough to continue to be entrepreneurial at a rate comparable to America’s verve — with much more public accountability.

     So we can take greed as necessary motivation off the table. It’s a hoary crock that gets hauled out in these arguments and somehow stops all further thought. Forget it. It’s stupid. It’s not true. 

    We’ll explore more of the solutions to the Real Pornography of Obscene Accumulation under the kind but relentless gaze of our Martian friends, unblinded by economic creeds, but for the moment, begin to study and dream and mull over a future in which you cannot feel or be lionized as powerful and successful if the planet, our Buenopia, is not pleasant and prosperous for also the least among us. Where you don’t get to have Two Mansions until everyone has one Swell Hut with indoor plumbing. A kind of inner gyroscope of justice, or a  justice-cap to Obscene Accumulation. I am not, by the way at all against your having a lot more than Mark or Mary, but there is a sin of scale. Along with them 3 Rs, we might want to start also teaching one J – the simple human math of justice.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved

Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

6 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 58  07.29.05 fri  8783§24d8h36m59s

♫ffsk 1295

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Militant Pacifism as Daily Bread

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Militant Pacifism as Daily Bread

 

..

 Now that I’m settling into being a militant pacifist, how does it feel?

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 Fierce pacifist, c’est moi! Well, I’ve burned almost all my bridges to politics as usual or life as usual. I am no longer considered part of any fold. As you can see in the Hector & the Abolition of War piece, I’ve seen too much to go back. 

 

 

 You realize you’ve gone further out on a limb to the future than any of your friends. They’ll still default to some version of the good or necessary war.

 

   I don’t see any point in arguing about any past wars. We should stand where we are in history and in human rights and see our way forward. I say without fear of contradiction that in Y3000, we do not fight wars to resolve conflicts anymore. The idea then is repugnant, is preposterous.

 

   So what I’m trying to grok¹ and funes² (big picture/drink deeply; little picture/inhale details) is how we make our way through the individual consciousness; the social consciousness; the practical restructuring – to take care of the buggywhip makers and to re-orient the grooms. And to paint the murals of how we can inhabit an energy and fierce creativity comparable to the addictive personal & collective bloodthirst?

 

    What are the new memes³ or idea genes we need to manifest as talismans for people to make it to a whole new way of thought? Of course in retrospect this process will be seen as having happened organically, but there are quantum nudges.

 

    The Military Industrial Ship has hit the Iceberg. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq has proved that War doesn’t work even if you are the only Gigantic Bully on the Whole Planet. There is still pro forma and habitual Chest Thumping, but if someone with ¼ a brain can get the word out about the Cost of this Sucker, the populace is going to take major incoming of disillusionment. It was swell – this very night I saw one of the guys who pulled Mr. Hussein out of the hole say 'No, Don’t stay in to honor the slain.'

 

      How many people like me will have to be thrown in the leaf-chopper before it becomes generally accepted that War is Toast that fell on the floor butter-side down?  I’m ready to take on the reviling and the ridicule so we can refine our language. It’s going to be a brutal time of Whak-a-Mole.

 

    Someday soonish a few more people will say, “Some of my best friends are fierce pacifists!” I long to be claimed by someone, anyone.

 

     There is a great liberation being out of the cocoon, beyond the gestation. I’m not sure how to handle all this bright light and the zephyrs and gales or to handle these glorious if ungainly wings. Quite the long while I’ve been willing to be arrested for the right to stand with my Teach Peace sign in public places where I was not so welcome. This now is a quantum leap – I have to be willing to die not to kill.    

 

¹ ² ³  See pogblog's Glossary

 

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part 1

 

Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by Nagasaki
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I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

 

But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?

 

I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.

 

The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.

 

Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'

 

There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes. 

 

Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.

 

So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.  

 

pogblog

 

ps. It was that day in WashingtonDC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.

 

Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.

 

There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.

 

I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.

 

My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.

 

I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because  so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.

 

I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.

 


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
………….….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.myblogsite.com
7 Serpent . Chicchan . East . tzol 85  08.25.05 thur
ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33s1047ikhoudvanu
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>……………..part 1
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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2 Deer . Manik . West . tzol 67  08.07.05 sun 
for jamie 981§8783§24d8h36m59s ikhoudvanu

God shrugs. Satan smirks.

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God shrugs. Satan smirks.

 

I, 96.66% of the so-called time, have the distinct sensation that I am visiting from the future.

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One of the clues to me is the very great difficulty I have in translating you all's apparent facility with linear time. I am embedded in an holospheric, photonic spice (space-time) funeszing the galloping or snoozing details and someone will say “When's your birthday?”

 

Innocent question to them. But panic comes over me, “This should be easy. I know they want, they expect an answer. Of course the question is nonsensical in spice, or holo-space-time, hurry hurry, what was the damned answer I gave last time? They expect the same answer every time. I'm ancient in death; an infant in skateboarding. Birthday? Birthday? Dagblast it. Oh my oh my.”

 

So while I dither, an odd look crosses their face because of course they have met me in their dreams many times, that panoply of spices, but they can't quite lay quit of darling K1, the solid reliable Earth masterpiece of density-engineering, and slide into kaleido-time for a splash.

 

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Another clue is the notion I wrote about recently: “the solidarity of the living – the civil right to remain unmaimed.” In the year 3000, we would be somewhere along the emotio-spectrum from agog to appalled at the idea that sentient creatures could deliberately maim each other.

 

   I realized that when I visited you in the summer of 2005, you had some serial murderer, repulsive & loathsome, who had murdered a dozen people. There was huffing and puffing and clucking, “Monster. Remorseless. On & On.” In the exact same days, your remorseless Murderer-in-Chief who had by proxy killed or maimed 100,000 non-combatants was swaggering around being protected by strong and handsome young viriles who had at hand a special Device where MaimerDood could cause the destruction of  millions in one very fell swoop. There was no recoil. No shame. No projectile vomiting of disbelief. It was all considered not only normal, but very fine. Sketches of official portraits were being prepared and a new official chef to fed the Maimer and its family was just hired.

 

   In Y3000, we couldn’t even write a nice cathartic horror tale with a character this grotesque, least of all imagine this servile a populace who sent cabbages to his kitchens for coleslaw. And no one cries out? No one, shuddering, points a finger with a pealing cry of anguish and falls to the earth turned to stone?

 

    One of my fellows from Y3000 searched in our dusty nano-digital archives and found that in Y2002, 425,000 people in the USofA Inc alone died of tobacco-related causes. 3000 people died in the ‘terrorist’ attacks which generated the mobilization of vast armies and shock&awe. Not one battalion was mobilized to attack either R.J.Reynolds or Philip Morris, clearly a huger danger to the public life & lung than some scraggly measly minor league terrorists of Arab descent. Citizens are not losing rights, being patted down in airports, and profiled to see if they are wielding a pack of Winstons.

 

Where in the Hell is Reason? (Note to right-wing imbeciles: Of course the officially designated terrorists suck. No, I do not support ‘terrorists.’ No, I am not against our troops. Yes, I am actually trying to do my damnedest to bring them home alive and unmaimed. And if there are any other idiot and pre-psychotic twistings of what I’m saying that you might be churning up in your febrile brains, don’t. Like with the bible, I mean literally what I’m saying. Unless I’m taking a flyer off into the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Land of Irony, a subject, like jazz – if y’gotta ask &c.)

   So we’re all a tut tut with revulsion at someone who offs 12 people and not only la de dah, but actively hurrah about the mega-mass murderer & minions who have offed enough Iraqi non-combatants to fill 30 World Trade Centers? How is the future to get their minds&hearts around this impossible concept?

    And the people who make timid little demur around the edges, who like little mices squeak out – they are reviled with a vehemence which has to be witnessed to be believed. Satan doesn’t even have to break a sweat to put this planet in His column. God shrugs. Satan smirks. People didn’t even put up a fight. That’s what so damned sad when it gets looked back on from Y3000.

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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16 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . Panther . North . tzol 81

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The Education Industrial Complex .. please!

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The Education Industrial Complex

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“Our government has kept us in a perpetual state of fear — kept us in a continuous stampede of patriotic fervor — with the cry of grave national emergency… Always there has been some terrible evil to gobble us up if we did not blindly rally behind it by furnishing the exorbitant sums demanded. Yet, in retrospect, these disasters seem never to have happened, seem never to have been quite real.” — General Douglas MacArthur 1957

 

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron.     — Dwight D Eisenhower, <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />April 16, 1953

 

 

I have taught high school. I have taught adults for the last 26 years.
.

 As you’ll see over time on pogblog, my rage at the waste of war and of the disgusting Military Industrial Complex is the fissionable plutonium incandescing in the zircalloy synapses of my molten brain. It’s the education, stupid. Not these tame little underfunded tweaks reluctantly couched up by a cowed Congress, but a massive Manhattan Project to quantum the  human experience thru intense, delicious continuous continuous continuous education. (Education to me is NOT trade school whereby you become a doctor or a lawyer or a plumber, as worthy as those may also be, but prejudice-shattering, mind-egg cracking, raw blazing discovery.) 

 

When people tell me that “you can't throw money at the problem of education,” they simply  do not know what they're talking about.

 

If we put the kind of primo-vigesimo-centillion money into Education that we put into the Military Industrial Complex, some of that $200,000 a minute, that $820,000 a minute, we could have a superb K-College public educational system that serves every single child with the best teaching and the best facilities. (As well as sending and sending adults back and back to school.)

 

This would be a quantum step toward the deeply human and humane species we could, well gee, intelligently design ourselves to be.

 

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15 Cane . Ben . Reed . East  tzol 80  8.20.05 

ffsb 829§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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The Real Pornography is not spending enough on schools.

What's the Euphemism for Screaming?

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What’s the Euphemism for Screaming?

  

    Next time you hear the phrase 'collateral damage,' I want you to leap up out of your chair and start screaming.

   Too boat-rocking for you? Too impolite? People will question your sanity? Your urbanity?

   You get to scream. The dead are very quiet. Perfectly polite. Perfectly polite are the collaterally damaged. You get to scream the scream they can not.

   Doing what’s right ain’t comfortable, ain’t polite. Solidarity of the living. The civil right to remain unmaimed.  

    Well, if every damn one of us leapt up and started screaming any time we heard some obscene mealy-mouthed insane euphemism like collateral damage, may be we could make a dent in their denial systems that lead to mutilated children – not collateral damage – children mutilated.

   There came a time when you had to say, “No, you can’t say ‘nigger,’ it’s wrong, it’s evil, and I won’t stand for it.” Now many a cocktail party in the early ‘50s was ruined by someone boat-rockingly, impolitely, finally, speaking up, speaking out.

   Living is a civil right. War is the last insane bastion of the double-speakers, the lunatic justifiers. War is state-sanctioned murder. War is state-sanctioned mass murder. Ohmygods, the ‘m’ word! Murder.

    As a planet we must pick a day – 9.5.05 would be good enough. Before that day all of history people were blind, do not blame them. Move on past the past. Til that hour they have an amnesty.

    After that day call it what it is. Killing is killing. Dead is dead. Murder is murder is murder.

   We do this telling of the whole truth now on 9.5. Or some other day, some other year, some other century. The abolition of war can be delayed but it does occur. The sooner, the sooner we can look our species in the mirror and bear it. The abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you.

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     Professor Quetzal said, “We better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.

    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry. If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your creeds and greeds.

    “You cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.

    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”

      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”

    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.

    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke he had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.

    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne Layers of Denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.

    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know. Collateral? Damage?

    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us. If you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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14 Rainstorm . Cauac . Redbird. West  tzol  79  8.19.05

ffsb 872§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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Fight for the Soul of Earth

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<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Fight for the Soul of Earth .. slumped over keyboard . .. .

 

6:03:34a.pdt.us

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 Fight for the Soul of Earth .. Hmmm, found myself slumped over the keyboard of the Faithful Computer at Dawn, having, well, slumped against the wall of Castle Fati Gue apparently. The last thing I remember was at about 2:44am writing about us far-left looney left fringe left folk at a Solidarity with Crawford Vigil.¹ Then I was swaying & swooning trying to stay awake to do Preview at a Comment Screen one more time to make sure the html angled brackets were all closed.

 

Who even knew that in the Fight for the Heart of Earth one would learn some rudimentary html? It ain’t the Da Vinci Code, it’s HTML code in the <a href=>“http://pogblog.myblogsite.com/blog/_archives/2005/7/11/1018320.html”>noosphere</a>. No, no, no, I did not slump because I was ahopin’ beyond hope, that His Beastly Worship YouDon’tKnowWho would give me a buzz on Ye Olde Fashioned Phone Lines. It’s not that I actually long to hear his dulcet tones or nothin’ – nah, he can go sniffa sock for all I care, but we have a kinda deal that I won’t drink no beer unless he’s visiting or we’re aphonin’. Well, I really coulda used a beer, Boyo, after a hard 48Hours in a row Fighting the 12ftTall Lîzards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead Us.

 

I have been derelict in my Task #1 on The Stay Outof the Culvert List which is finding an agent or publisher who would dare to handle my avant-reve giga-futur fractal-radical prose. You’re out there, or you, dear reader, know that person. Do by all means or by email contact me so we can begin that Publishing Adventure. (pogblog@yahoo.com) It would be nifty to be able to concentrate on the Writing rather than The Worrying about how long I can stay outa the Culvert² – or outa Gitmo for that matter. Financial Ruin Looms. I was clearly born to write a trenchant column, so somebody please hire me.

 

I have been derelict because I have been so offended. So offended that our country has been invaded by stenched souls willing to call dead &/or mutilated children, the born, collateral damage. Now, with my name-doppelganger Swift, I certainly ain’t against the occasional “stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled” plump milk-fed child. I am not a sentimentalist. But just blowing them to smithereens is an offensive waste in both nambi-pampi moral and strict capitalist Greedo terms. The least we could do is make tasty sausages out of the freshly killed. I mean where are the Entrepreneurs when you need them? Give the no-bid sausage contract to Halliburton.

 

Usually I am in a Rage against the LOML (Love of My Life – it may already be that acronym for all I know. I am not the LOHL –Love of His Life, but then nobody else is either, so it works out for the nonce), the Bringer of Beer, Harp preferably; or against the really rapacious Mr. Cheney, known not affectionately between me and my putative pal as Dick the dxxk.

 

 But the whole CollateralDamage Nation is rising my gorge this Dawn whose pearlescence they are spoiling because they Immensely Stupidly keep caterwauling on about The Far-Left Extremists. And we let them, friends.

 

Own the Far-Left Exremist Agenda. Say kindly and with patronizing patience and sorrow, “Yeah, that pesky Far-Left Extremist Agenda – We want [recite the List below] We need to learn a simple simple List and Stay on Message for 100 years if need be. Every question or challenge or insult is answered thusly: “Well, tho you may think that I am a far-left duck-billed platypus who is a danger to the nation, but the real far-left agenda we got is [see below]. Do not be derailed, do not be side-tracked into Talk about Homosexuality or Abortion. (Those are matters of Personal Ethics we will not solve here today. The Agenda we can fruitfully discuss is [re-state The List])

 

Remember, and tell ALL your friends, this is not about changing minds. Do you really think you are going to change Dick the dxxk’s heart with your Incisive Arguments? Well-observed, he doesn’t have a heart – I’ve seen the real x-rays – they take him in for a coronary lube job periodically. But even if he had a rudimentary heart, neither you nor I are changing his well-honed greedy and vicious mind. The political Trick and Task is to ID or identify your own voters and to energize your own voters. You peel off a few on the cusp or fence, but neither core group ever changes its mind.

 

We can de-fog the veils over the eyes of our natural allies, however. So, damnit, Stay on Message. What they know, and we’re tooo Damn Dumb to have figured out yet is that the audience that day or speech or chat at the coffee shop hasn’t heard The Message before or hasn’t heard it the required 10 times necessary for it to stick in the busy mind. And tho your friends may be ready for projectile vomit or projectile feces if you mention The Far-Left Agenda one more time, just bloody do it anyway until they too can recite it in their sleep.

 

Ye Owls, I just put “Gitmo” in my Spell-Check dictionary. Brave New World. (I’ve held out on “Rumsfeld.” Just can’t put it in the system as, like, normal.)

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

¹ Below is the description of the Solidarity Vigil and includes a Handy Pocket-Sized Version of the Far-Left Extremist Agenda.

 

Flickering Candles, Steady Hearts

 

I wish everyone could have been here at the Mountain View CA Vigil — it was so touching.

 

There were 230-ish people gathered in our central city plaza at twilight.

 

One of the things that is so mis-reported is that the so-called 'far-left looney fringe' is an astonishing assortment of ages, races, creeds. I love looking across the earnest faces.

 

So many experiences shine like a lovely light from these folks, united in radically wanting an end to the killing; wanting wonderful healthcare for all our citizens, like the health care Mr.Bush and his family get; wanting an undeniably splendid K-college system in all 50 states; and a tended, treasured and revered environment. Real radical stuff. The “hateful, radical, looney left.”

 

Of course the 'looney left' stereotype is silly, but you look around and think am I really so crazy to want these things for our future?

 

(KIA 5.30.04) Lt. Ken Ballard's proud Mom, Karen Meredith spoke compellingly of the spark in Crawford; of all the amazing parents she's met in Gold Star Families. And of Ken, her beloved son. As she spoke all the candles flickered on the faces listening to her. She held a large photo of this handsome young man in his uniform looking out at you so intently. A young man, a consummate professional — who never gets a day older.

 

“What noble cause? What noble cause?”

 

“The idea of “staying the course to honor the dead” seems so absurd and obscene to a mother who knows the cost of that delusion.  More dead sons. “How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Iraq for a mistake?”

 

No occupier beats insurgents. Ho Chi Minh of Vietnam said, “We would have fought you for 300 years. We live here.”

 

Ken and his friends did their jobs and did not complain. There were a few odd bits that stick in the mind though. The troops resented that Rumsfeld would show up in new desert boots, when so many of them had not received those boots yet.

 

It was thoughtful, grieving, determined people who gathered to send Karen Meredith off to Crawford on this coming Sunday and to be deep in their thoughts about what it is to be a true patriot, to love your country with all your steady, faithful heart.

 

..

http://pogblog.myblogsite

….

http://www.ltkenballard.com/

 

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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13 Flint . Edznab . Knife . North  tzol 78   08.18.05 

ffsb 1310§8769§24d7h47m33sikhoudvanu

.. 

the pro-peace world begins today with you

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

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Hell, Catharsis, Militarism, Abolition of War

 

the abolition of war, the pro-peace world, begins today with you

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If I may unexpectedly speak up for the dumb and tasteless. I have one friend on Earth with whom I have burrowed well-below Hell in our obsidian humor. Nothing has been more cleansing of neurosis, cleansing of the aegean stables of the soul. I never would have guessed, but the really darker and more preposterous we go, the more tender and softer and sweeter of soul we become — because we are lying a lot less.

As a small example, my dearish dead mother had the mildest almost unnoticeable case of german measles when she was pregnant with my older brother Peter. He was born a 100% vegetable. It was always a hushed-tones, look down pensively at your shoes family tragedy. (He lived with no function but breath & bowel in an institution until he died when he was 25.)

When my friend started to beat upon and mock my 'retard' vegetable brother in the crassest terms, I was completely shocked and offended. But this friend is very funny, and he was pitbull and would not over some weeks let it go. Finally, I really laughed and it amazingly released my wegetable brother from this grim prison of miserable memory and I could have the several pretty memories and not have to dwell in memory-hell. It was like bursting a festeringly secret bubo.

I'll admit there are Hells we've, he & me, harrowed that I would not dream of sharing publicly in this present world yet, but I

can say that obsidian humor will be a necessary psychic-medical technique to excise what is mostly prissy and janus-faces & rump-saving about our protections of the immobilized and fossilizedly Sacred Past.

Now of course we are not mean to the naive or unarmed. We are only that pristine and fiend mean to each other, as master teasers must be. But, in truth, I can hardly talk any more to those who can't be teased. EggShellism is so terminally tiresome. I have a very longstanding friend who is from the US MidWest and the slightest tweak gets a Kicked-Puppy look. Our real communication is significantly truncated.

 

I am convinced that art is the eventual primary substitute for war. Let’s posit as a thought experiment that we do get to, as I believe we must, the Abolition of War as we got the Abolition of Slavery. Now some very smart folks thought slavery necessary & inevitable, predicted economic collapse without it, &c. War is now the Inevitable Social Condition, the sine qua non of immutable human nature..

    Pish tush. Balderdash. Piffle. (That’s a hat-trick of disdain.) If we set our minds to the Abolition of War as a grail goal and we make every decision in its light, we will outwit the slouched Beast and spend out Lives, Fortunes, and Sacred Honor on the Pursuit of Happiness through Art and other Ingenuities.

    There are several Golden Keys. Art, about which more anon. But obsidian humor. Now that is what let’s you travel on the dark side of the moon and return intact. Traverse the bardoes from which have arrived these heartshrunk, serious Leaders who betray their humorless humanlessness daily more vividly. Laughter, dark laughter, is in my experience the final strength, the anti-gravity, the lead turned to gold.

      Obsidian humor .. from panther stone; Veriest dark humor; the kind of ironic humor during the magnetoquake of a pole shift: who knows that compass, the angle of refraction or distraction? Obsidian is a densely glassily perfectly opaque black stone (formed by lava hitting water); used by Quetzal Originals to make knife blades and objects of art. Obsidian is a myrth so black, so impossibly preposterous that all subjects are on-limits (not necessarily for all audiences – this may be projectile bile, but not casually flung); all subjects are fodder, grist, silage to feed the devil cows of your delicately diabolique, obliquely hilarious, intricately twisted mind-heart, élan-coeur.

  [Silage is most deliciously mature but still robustly green whole corn (maize), stalk and corn ear including the still soft cob inside the absurdly sweet rows of corn kernels. This is all coarsely chopped (nowadays by a huge bladed machine) and blown in to a silo, that tall cylindrical building on farms. The corn silage compresses and ‘pickles’ and ferments and waits for winter.

   A whole huge corn field can rest plotting in a silo – it is a kind of lumpy moonshine, cornshine, that is forked out from the top by the wide ten-tined silage fork. Cows love silage. Cows can get quite drunk on it. Having been brought up by cows (<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Holsteins; the black & white ones; modern art on the hoofs), I have utter respect for them, but drunk + cow is very droll.]

   Obsidian humor, daring it, delving it, is a love that steep and that deep. It begins beyond the Pale. It begins with the  letter after zed. Few jeopard it. 

 


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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2005 all rights reserved
Please send pogblog’s link to your friends:
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9 Jaguar . Ix . Ocelot . panther . North . tzol 74 . 08.14.05 sun
ffsb 829§8783§24d8h36m59sikhoudvanu
..
the pro-peace world begins today with you
………….<^>…………….. 
 
 
   
 
 

The Alamo, Dead Children, & Dick Cheney

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The Alamo & Dead Children & Dick Cheney
   part 1
   Sometimes there are <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alamo moments that gain in icepick-in-the-left-eye piercingness. Other lines-in-the-sand crossed diminish in ferocity of ache, but remain iconic in the steles¹ of your own story.
    Meeting you crescendos into a catastrophe of raw joy and raw terror. Our exquisite, excruciating obsidian humor is the last mystery, the unholiest sweet fact I grab before I plummet, wings on fire, into the Abyss. Our unholy humor is what makes me forgive the Universe for its goddamned Sins.
   That you bastards could call dead, mutilated children collateral damage is a scarlet fact so disgusting, so repugnant to the human of heart that I have crossed into an incandescence of rage.
   I will not accept a world in which the hissing and falsely pious utter the phrase collateral damage. To whom collateral?
    I could, in concept, possibly bear it if you fell blubbering to your knees keening screaming, tearing your over-starched white shirts from your chests in grief. But this mealy-mouthed measured crap. It is cursed.
    I crossed a line from past which there is no return. If you can utter the phrase collateral damage when you mean bomb-shattered – your bombs — dead, mutilated children, you so dishonor the dead that I revile you. You do not get the life you lost; you do not grok the life you lost; you do not drink the tears of the dead. There are no obscure wars. There is no collateral damage.
    In the Alamo, there came a time of decision. William Barret Travis drew a line in the sand with his sword. Step across this line and you offer you life and your sacred honor to a Fate certain to be cruel.
    Unmasking your Big Lies, Collateralizers, and your Vicious Euphemisms is my duty to the Dream from the Land of Nightmare. I will not sleep.
<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 
part 1 + 1
    Professor Quetzal said, “We’d better enlist our readers in the National Child Mutilator Registry campaign. Child Molestation is self-evidently grotesque. Children should be left to cheerful, raucous abandon without fear of being furtively pawed by some cretinous aging drooler.
    “However, one-to-one in seriously sick from the ethical perspective is the Child Mutilator. Until our Leaders and their Fervent Followers, the Killer 12ftTall Lizards in Human Disguise are mellowed by the de-euphemizing vaccine all the sane are so panickedly trying to develop against this Plague of Addiction to Big Lies, for our own protection we must have a National Child Mutilator Registry.
     “If you have mutilated a child or mafially contracted persons or armies to have a child mutilated on your behalf, we need to know so we can keep our uninfected cheerful clown children from your virulently contagious influences. At least until we develop the vaccine. Sadly, many of your diseases are hot-airborne. We do not want our delightstruck clown children paralyzed and disfigured by the viro-botulisms of your baleful creeds and greeds.
    “Face twisted in a simulacrum of sincerity, you cry, ‘It’s in a good cause, these wars!’ The mutilation of a child can not be in a good cause, ipso facto. Child molestation is supremely disgusting, but if you can go one boschian rung lower on the ladder of ice down into cold Hell, Child Mutilation is one re-eat your-own-vomit degree of more sickening.
    “At least the Child Molester has to be faced with his own disfigured self-loathing in the mirror every morning when he shaves.”
      The Blue interrupted, “Unless he’s a taliban child molester who never shaves.”
    “Goaaal!” said Salma Nella whose hatred of religiopatrio chest-thumping hypocrisies was ivory – 99.666% pure.
    Quetzal smiled that smile to which Myrth was addicted. For the sake of the joke you had to maintain a deadpan, but with the faintest northernlights of extra glow in the aura around his face and an extra burnish of the mischief in his brown eyes, Quetzal nodded the wry nod.
    “The Child Mutilator wants some anodyne layers of denial between him:or:her and the brain-exploding acts they are allowing in their name. The mafia does contract hits so the blood-splatter evidence is on someone else’s cheap suit. But the Mutilated-Children karmic score goes in your column, pilgrim, by not one digit less. A child:mutilation is a child:mutilation is a child:mutilation. You can’t pretty it up unless you’re depraved or insane.
    “If I have to live next door to someone willing to call child-mutilating collateral damage, I want to know.
    “If you in your hometown take a grenade and throw it at a child or mow them down with an M16UziAK47, you go to jail, get battered with outrage and shunning, get wired up in the fry chair and e-lek-tro-cuted. If the mutilated child is exactly the same End, but your Means is a noble son dropping a bomb from 10,000 ft or mowin’ ’em down with the M16UziAK47, you get parades, holidays, and sousa music? You do go to Karmic Jail, and it’s a profound security prison, let me tell you, and that is a faint solace for us.
     “But if you had to touch them as they died; if you had to push their wheel chair; if you had to look over their shoulder into the same mirror as them as they have to see every day that they’ll never be pretty again; if you had to sit with them as they watch unmutilated kids play basketball or soccer. The jury that judges you is dead children, pilgrim, mutilated children. Not the protoplasmic jelly in the womb you so luridly defend, but the once-leaping, once-laughing, once-hopscotching whose hullabaloo and delicious lives you spindled, mutilated, folded, and collateralized.”
 
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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com
………….<^>……………..
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¹ stele .. a carved band of scenes from your life; like you would find in your chapter of the akashic record where the universe, helplessly, keeps the record of every thought and heartbeat of your life, benighted, noble, petty, delightful tho they may be.
anodyne .. a drug, a repression, a cotton-candyifying layer of insulation between your conscious mind and the atrocities, large and small, (and never secret to the hapless universe) that you have committed willfully and have tried to hide &/or justify with creeds or legerdelengua, slithering sleights of  the forked tongue.
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the pro-peace world begins today with you
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