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Archive for October, 2008

The Curse of Stonehenge

Engraved here upon firestone hauled from the cliffs of Preseli Hills are secrets of the underworld:-

Within the act of carving irrepressible words at the base of unshakable sandstone, we dispose of our burdens, brought about through the selfish art of penning. Through the creation of this sacred tablet, our ancestors are hereby released from the curse of collective consciousness. Truth has set us free from the burdens of textual matter.

This is our confession. Woe to those who turn over this slate, stumbling upon the secrets trapped within this text, interpreting in ignorance, words hidden for generations from the light. Buried within the pores of quartz, within these chiseled indentations, rests the fate of many tongues.

The buried words of this monolith serve as unread testimony to the magnificence of all that was and what is to be written. This spell of knowledge is hidden for eternity, placed under stone, the surface upon which it originated

 

Beneath this tower, the secret of the written word is protected. In the beginning there was the word and in the end, all will be read. With this stone erect, there is no end. Shake it down, and be cast from paradise—

Marked in the light, the written world is read by those in the underworld, reminding the deceased of the principles of life. Literature is all that the dead comprehend and see in the light. So much reading in all of eternity.

The great circle of stones will protect this truth. This inscription and these secrets were designed to remain face-down, embedded within the cold Earth, readable only by those trapped in the afterlife. Spirit eyes learn to listen to poetry as ears turn to music. This inverted tablet and the words engraved here will never perish, for these rhythmic lines are crafted to be read only in the light.

Eyes of the breathing– those with spoken tongues, remain blind to the lines of death. The majesty of these stone towers will never tumble, and here, beneath this ashlar, our secrets remains written but, unread. The silent prayer of eternity is the written word. Surely man will never again harness the jewels of the heavens and preserve time in word, marking the truth of life as it passes, preserving fact, leaving behind only original sin, only to be consumed as prose by unsuspecting minds. Those comprehending this inscription take on the fear of our past.

For generations, our Celtic ancestors preserved an ancient tradition of harvesting pure stones from the banks of Whales. They dragged chiseled portions of hardened Earth from the furthest places of the middle-world to place in this garden. These were stone seeds, carried by giant men. They moved their temples at the pace of the vast darkness which connects the tears that fill the night sky. With the gift of the word, learned by their red markings, men became small.
Lifetimes passed, generations served and our monuments moved only within the area of each generation. Slowly these slates were pulled by our people and only after many lifetimes, the rocks found this peaceful resting place. The secrets written here at the base of this harvested cliff, are known only by those who moved these great stones– a people who spoke man’s native tongue and now, through reading, live again. New seeds of each generation planted the pillars of this endless story. Our children will carry these mountain stones for generations that follow until new eyes of a strange people steal from us as we have the gods.

This was our curse.

When the secret of the word is discovered by foreigners, no longer are we held in chains by those who live in the bright stars and move as wolves– the small men with large eyes who govern the heavens. They left behind a way out, just as the truth that they revealed to the Celts was a way out of the light for them, this secret is shared with our neighbors.

 

Our downfall was caused by the act of bloodletting upon these sandstone alters. We sacrificed many bloodlines upon these porous rocks in honor and worship of the small men who came from the sky.

Our blood has turned this green stone purple.

Blood pierced from the ears of women was rubbed upon this sacred alter at the beginning, when the sun was at its weakest. Faint words of the dead mumbled within the great rock as our women bled and listened here. Men of age with sharpened flint stones cut fore-skin and joined the women– opening themselves to spirits of the ancestors, shedding precious blood upon this rock in an act of loyalty to those who have passed on and live as wolves in the sky.

This is the only way for them to return– through shed blood.

This stone and these words are the light for those in the underworld. They follow prose when returning to life– the bloodletting brings them here and signs such as this give them hope.

The gods of the afterlife feast upon the blood of man and never drink of beasts. It was here, upon this great stone, where we made our annual sacrifices of blood from our children and learned of the burden of eternal life.

Root vegetables were carved and light was placed within the gourds on the eve of an annual celebration of the sun– a lesson for our children who shed blood each year and learned to understand that there is pain associated with eternal life.

They became men of the word and were taught that great pain comes with new life and new tongues. Our ancestors found redemption through our ceremonies and we bled here, as written words, upon this stone.
Root vegetables were carved upon this granite and the pumpkins were lit during Samhuinn as a reminder of the burning pain of the loins– these acts guided to Earth spirits of the dead who burn for new life through the valves of children.

The gods blessed man for our sacrifices and taught us to understand the power of written word—the crimson markings of offspring helped us to understand our path, as each year, the story of the sacred word was sealed with blood and re-written.

We were perfected upon this stone.

This tabernacle led to the way of the unspoken mind. It was with this new light that we guided our ancestors out of darkness, but we continued to grow small with each passing incarnation.

Never again will we shed our blood and let the dead return through our children, for now it is written and in the light, thus the written word was made law.

Woe to those who fail to understand the beauty of death. The tongue of the word must remain sealed until the end, when all there remains is the word, the markings of man and the light of the word.

Seal up these words now, shed this truth as was done upon this interpretation, and continue in the tradition of carving the fruit of loins as was taught by the rulers of the heavens.

Hide this text and burry these secrets deep again. Live life in paradise and avoid the burden of the word. This malediction is eternal until new blood is shed in the manner of our Celtic brotherhood.

This condemnation, as with the word, is released only when innocent blood is shed in tradition– when the secret of the written word and the path to new life is revealed to innocent eyes of a strange tongue.

As new blood flows from innocent youth and a strange people thirst for knowledge, the secret is released and life remains eternal. A path for our ancestors has been carved again as this knowledge burns in the light.

Our children are pure in the word.

Only when the light of life is kindled again will we continue to pass from the light, back to the mid-realm, until eventually, the word is known by all.

Even now, they have returned to live in what is yours, the reader.

Take on a new language and unmask in the words of this rock as was done through your discovery of this text. Lift this curse that is now within the blood that flows in you.
Write until you bleed– for this is the nature of the true word and the curse of Stonehenge.

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Mayor Michael Bloomberg must leave office at the end of his second term. Changing New York City’s charter to meet the demands of a wealthy ego is not democracy– it’s monarchy.

The Big Apple does not need to squeeze more cider from another sour billionaire just to fix the potholes on Wall Street. Don’t believe everything printed in the ‘New York Times’– term limits are what distinguishes democracies from private islands.

Tenants of this town have watched rent-control rights vanish under the clever smile of this “successful business man”, turned mayor. Where is the real estate crisis in New York City? Have we avoided the real estate crash simply because of the music played on Bloomberg Radio?

Michael Bloomberg, master and owner of much media, chooses words carefully and somehow manages never to be at fault for what the poor have lost during his eight years in office. The tabloids of this town fail to pressure this man as they did great Mayors, like David Dinkins.

It is time Michael Bloomberg starts taking the bus to his corporate office each morning, permitting the poor to follow the new underground railroad. Bloomberg is as sour as Senator Joe Lieberman and as desperate as this state’s former governor, who lost his second term by sipping on pricy prostitutes. It’s time to go, Mike. It is not kosher to re-write the rules of politics when one’s juice has turned to vinegar.

America didn’t want Bloomberg as an independent third-party candidate for president, nor do working class New Yorkers want to watch a rich, white dude ride the subway on the evening news for four more years. Bloomberg strap hanging rituals remind us of how unstable capitalism can be.

Even in the town of billionaires and hillbillies, one is never exempt from sales tax, the wrath of an honest vote, or the jealousy of another billionaire who wants to buy public office space and air time.

May Thomas Golisano’s self-financed media campaign designed to derail Bloomberg’s re-election plans inspire voters to go for the goal on this icy issue and not simply sit back and listen to Mike say he likes it.

New York City’s council should not be left to decide whether to extend term-limits either, considering they too benefit from such cheap- shots. Ignoring voter- enacted, term-limit rules is Lieberman politics as usual and horrifically whorish.

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The Blizzard of ’68

 

A blizzard brewed over the Keystone state like a steaming bowl of Quaker oats in early January 1968. Farmers reckoned the storm was going to be an intense ‘twig bender’ long before the ground was covered in a blanket of icy porridge. Through acute senses, an inner-knowledge of climatic events, and a peculiar ability to predict the weather by studying caterpillars, citizens of Central Pennsylvania understood what was approaching. An Arctic blast was being overridden by a warm breeze from the South. Orchard growers in particular sensed what was rolling over the Allegheny Highlands. As surely as the moon changed shape through various quarters, fading from a perfect silver dollar into just a sliver of light no larger than a trimmed toenail, the blizzard would serve as the land’s annual twig bender. As cultivators of fertile, ice- aged soil deposits, woodlet gardeners of the Appalachians had prophetic visions generated by the weather and understood how the atmosphere works in cycles. Everyone sensed the impending storm as barometric pressures caused phantom pains in legs and arms to flair. It was a blizzard of a generation, according to the most trusted publication to have ever reached the highlands of the Susquehanna plateau– ‘The Old Farmers Almanac’. The periodical predicted the date of the great 1968 winter storm with near- perfect, literary merit:-

“Deadly storm in the Northeast in early January marks the start an early Spring for West Virginia and Pennsylvania. Twig Bending and branch banishment is good news for apple growers and the lumber industry. A dry, cold January in the Southeast and the Plains…Time to start tomatoes indoors in the Carolinas…Epsom Salt removes the demons of winter backache… ”

Twig benders are nature’s way of pruning trees. Like hurricanes, twig benders are named, although not with an alphabetized eponym, but rather, with terminology that is characteristic of the damage done to forestry by these storms. Without such climatic events, hickory trees would produce flimsy branches, sassafras wouldn’t taste sassy, and evergreens would be less green. Forest limbs would not be strong enough to host baby birds in nests, without occasional cutting back. Without twig benders, hardwood trees would be suitable for nothing but making switches.

The powerful-pruning storms typically develop in the Gulf of Mexico in mid-March and spin in a counter-clockwise rotation; churning along America’s Eastern Seaboard as inverted hurricanes, stroking highlands and mountainous farming villages like Huntingdon with cumulus fingers wrapped in rings of abundant of moisture. The storm was driven by gale force winds out of the East and cracks of thunder harmonized with pelts of freezing rain and sleet, causing even snow bunnies to wish they were brown.

I was born during the Great Twig Bender of ‘68. The blizzard of January 9th created the heaviest accumulation of snow a generation of saplings had endured. Older folks were sure the end of the world had arrived because ‘Nor’ Easters’, like the storm of ‘68, typically only develop in late March and early April. The Old Farmer’s Almanac advised readers to buckle down, because typically, following the annual twig bender, land would soon receive the last frost of the season, and hard work associated with Spring planting was right around the corner. It was too soon for such a storm to strike.

Heavy amounts of snow were unleashed along the Appalachian highlands after the storm gathered moisture from Atlantic waters, just off the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The monster wobbled inland like a drunk stumbling to a bar at closing time, and last rounds had just been called. The Twig Bender of my birth spun endlessly. A barren tapestry of yellow grasses, brown leaves and naked branches of an unwhite Christmas that had just passed suddenly vanished.

 

“The snow up here is really deep, I’m scared” Lou, my mother gasped on the telephone to her sister, Roxie while holding my head with her hand in her stomach. She placed a pair knitting needles on her inflated stomach, slightly above her bellybutton, where my head still rested.

 

“I think the baby is coming today. I feel her moving down in me. She wants out. What am I going to do if my water breaks and Barry ain’t here? My little girl is coming today, I just know it. My water ain’t broke yet, but it’s too damn cold for that to happen,” Mom joked as suddenly, I was pulled like a storm riding the jet stream.

 

“Barry ain’t no damned good! Where is he? Don’t tell me he’s working today. What about Esther, is she home?” Roxie asked. I could hear the faint voice of my aunt on the wire even though Mom had the phone cradled close to her ear with her shoulder. A steady click of metal needles persisted as my ears were flooded with the pound of a nervous heart and a gushing flow of blood all around me.

“Yes. She’s in her trailer. I want Barry to be with me when I deliver this one.”

“I can’t believe Esther gave birth to all her kids without a hospital or a doctor. She was up there on that farm just like you are now–all alone in labor. At least she had a midwife. I told you not to marry Barry Taylor. That Taylor family is ignorant, if you ask me. Where is he, Lou? Out drinking? If you start feeling pains, call Esther. Don’t try to drive yourself into Huntingdon today. You ain’t coming down off that mountain today unless you are on a horse. Just hold her inside you if you can. Keep your legs squeezed shut. Don’t even pee if you can help it. You better hope that baby don’t come out today of all days. Are you sure it’s going to be a girl? Does it feel different this time around?”

 

“Yes it does, Roxie. This one feels like a girl. Dr. Shively told me it was going to be a girl. He has delivered babies at Huntingdon Hospital for over thirty years and pulled hundreds of them out. He should know what the sex is going to be!”…

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With the onset of the new depression, one must find ways to cut costs. Although I was smart and never invested, I know that eventually as sure as the Earth has eyes, that I will have to tighten my belt too during these times of economic crisis. During the first Great Depression, the Irish side of my family stepped in and rescued hungry bellies– not through stockpiles of gold and silver, but through common sense. My family survived on potatoes during the depression, so it seems fitting that once again, my family will stay afloat upon the tuber.

Unlike rice or maccaroni products, the potato does not cause obesity when eaten in excess, unless of course, one uses too much margarine like I do when mashing them with milk. There is more potassium in a potato than in a banana, and just one serving of the cholesterol-free vegetable offers 45% of the recommended daily allowance of vitamin C.

My family remained poor after the Great Depression ended. Perhaps the potato was to blame. We continued to grow fields of potatoes into the late eighties, despite the fact that by then, they were inexpensive to purchase and instant varieties were as easy to buy as shares in General Motors. Unlike other foods, one never grows tired of eating potatoes, especially when they are mashed. In Irish families, the potato is quite often the first real food eaten by  toothless infants. Having eaten them since I was a baby and still on the bottle, I find myself cooking them often. As a kid, we had potatoes for supper every night; not for their succulence, but for the way the vegetable sticks to the ribs.

Having lived with Black men for all of my adult life, I have found myself explaining my culture and its connection to the potato time and time again to the lovers who have fallen for me and my mashed potatoes–

“Why not just cook rice?” they have asked. “Are you going to sit there and peel all of those potatoes?”

“It’s really not that hard and it will only take a few minutes,” I say.

They’d blush when I’d pull out my hand-held electric mixer and toss in an entire stick of butter to my chunks of boiled potatoes, whipping our family staple to the consistency of sweet potato pie in a matter of seconds. Every man who has ever lived with me only to be kicked out after I have grown tired of them, like tomatoes, has taken a part of my culture with them– the love and respect for the potato.

“Black people eat too much rice,” I have explained to my boyfriends, “this is why you all have such big asses.”

They’d just laugh and remind me that I got a lot going on back there too.

Lovers have grown too attached to me and my ability to cook. Eventually I would have to let them go. Saying good-bye was never easy though, especially after all the last spoonfuls of spuds were shared from a wooden spoon. Kicking them out was like sorting through the potato bin, weeding out the bad ones, so that their rottenness would not spread. Like apples, one potato can ruin the bunch. When it came time to set them free, I’d make this dish and never have to say a word.

“No mashed potatoes tonight, sexy?” They’d ask.

“No, master,” I’d reply. “These are scalloped…”

“Chaz’s Scalloped Lovers”

Pre-heat oven to 350

You will need:

1 chopped onion

Half Stick of Margarine

1/4 cup of flour

2 ½ cups of milk

5 large potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced

 

Melt the butter. Toss in the onion and cook for four minutes. Stir in the flour and a little salt and pepper. Add the milk. Cook and stir until bubbles form and pop.

Place half the potatoes in a greased casserole dish. Pour in half the Chaz white sauce. Add the remaining potatoes and cover with the remaining milk mixture.

Bake for 45 minutes covered, then uncover and cook a half-hour more.

You’ll never be depressed with this dish, but your ex’s will and potatoes, like men, come a dime a dozen.

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The Icarus Bail-Out Plan

The $700 Billion rescue package was wrapped in a ribbon of mental health funding. With fears looming that the bill would not be approved in the House of Representatives, very little attention was given to the pork barrel project that was added onto the rescue bill prior to the second vote.

The last minute supplement to the stimulus package requires that insurers pay the full-cost of mental health and substance abuse treatment, with no caps on how long an individual can remain hospitalized or institutionalized, after losing one’s mind. In the past, if an insurer paid for just five weeks in an in-patient psychiatric setting, psychotic individuals or drug abusers were released from ‘treatment’, regardless of the state of their mental health, the moment authorizations expired, typically after five weeks. Now there is no escape from psychiatric Nazi camps.

With fortunes vanishing every day under the glow of streaming, negative red clicks on Dow Jones Industrial counters, an increase in mental health funding seems warranted under such societal duress. Individuals with private insurance who ‘hear voices’ must now be careful who they report psychotic features to. I’m convinced that if I was not covered under an Aetna policy during my incarceration for schizophrenia, I would still be locked away in a state regulated hospital, receiving electro-shock therapy for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day.

Individuals who do not hear and see things that are “imaginary” must also be careful under Congress’s new ‘bailout’ plan. We are all addicts to something or other. The plan is more of a bail-in, than a bail-out, in the eyes of most mentally unstable individuals. It appears, after the final bubble has burst and after every nine-to-five is gone, the power-shrinks of Wall Street will have the poor strapped to padded chairs, and we will all be forced to listen to Bloomberg radio while receiving Zyprexa injections for the sake of sanity and world order.

In an age of advanced technology, where machines and genetically engineered fertilizers feed the masses with very little man, horse, or ox- power necessary, it only makes sense that a capitalist economy would crumble in the end. It was not necessary for us all to work like dogs with so many machines doing the work. The world economy continues to melt like wax that glues feathers to the arms of the soaring rich simply because modern man does not realize he has yet to escape the delusion of wealth. We fail to understand art or how easy it is to fly like a bird near the sun by getting high naturally, with just our minds.

Under the new congressional bill and a reality of lost value, we will soon wake up in a state of panic realizing that it was silly to push piles of paper every day anyway. With retirement funds gone, why not just jump?

We’ll all need a straight jacket soon. There are not enough good books out to keep our minds occupied when we are not at work.

The truth is, we were all unnecessarily busy and stressed in a reality that does not really exist or require so much sweat on the brows of men and women. Perhaps powerful Wall Street tycoons noticed the trend of technology years ago and saw the problems of ‘lazy-assets ’ coming. They demanded the bailout so that they could prepare their accounts for the end of times that has fallen upon us.

What will the rich require of the poor in a society where there is no more supervisory structure or punch in clocks just to get us to bow down to them again? What will they do to us when we wake up to realize that it wasn’t necessary for us all to have ‘good jobs’ just to afford nice houses anyway?

They’ll sell us out to the concept of ‘delusion’ so at least they can bill foreign insurers for mandated mental health programs. They’ll psychologically chain us by our blue collars to the concept of a perfectly medicated world and force psycho-tropic drugs upon us.

I’m against “universal health care” and hard work. Just let me grow my own medication in the new world order. Imagine hybrid marijuana for the unemployed masses whose minds continue to soar like Icarus, despite what we have in the bank!

Sponsoring pork barrel projects for drug companies during times of economic depression is like pouring gas into Hitler’s war machine. Everyone is ‘depressed’ in a depression.

Think about it.

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The test of America’s true sprit of independence will surface again as it has twice in history before. To the aide of the downtrodden, our young men and women will flock, as seagulls upon oceans of religious delusion, diving headfirst into waves of lava, like hungry scavengers, not aware that within bubbling waters, churn the currents of manmade lies and eternal fortunes that burn in the name of God and country.

Finger-pointing pushes beyond politics. When it comes to coin and having the most, leaders of the world stop at nothing to remain cheif money changers– those who convert unkosher coin into a godly exchange. It is obvious to the free world now, in light of a Morgan Stanley takeover by Mitsubishi of Japan, that our elected officials have done nothing more for freedom than most ATM machines.

Israel proposed to Bush an attack on Iran. Bush denied the request and suggested that the state wait until his administration leaves office. Bush didn’t want blood on his claws.

When Bush has burned, a new world leader will emerge, harnessing the hate of those with so little or losing a lot, bringing to fruition, a cleansing of the way man conducts his business in the “free world”. Perhaps this time around, in World War III, our greatest fear will be that of an Asian, not a Jew, or even a homosexual, like Barney Frank.

“The money changers. The money changers. It is their fault,” the masses will yell, shouting from foreclosed rooftops in twisted tongues, towards the vast Pacific ocean that divides those who have and those who only wish to escape from such a hard-economic circumstance. Like the migrant Mexicans, we will pick their rice and our children will have their eyes surgically squinted.

Perhaps with Asia as the new world temple, there will be a new Holy Land. Iran will keep its oil. Mankind may turn to Japan for godly Kundilani guidance, and not that old, old story of Jerusalem that we have fantasized about for so long, making very little spiritual progress. We will awake from the boils of a rusted melting pot, realizing like a lobster, that we’ve been cooked, but by then we will just let go and let the gods of the East rise again.

America has been saved.

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Weekend Poetry Contest– Win $20

Poems must be less than 2400 characters and fit on one page at the craigslist writer’s forum.

All entries must be submitted without and handle

All entries must include an e-mail address at the bottom

Poetry Contest Ends Midnight Tonight

Winner will be announced tomorrow afternoon

Theme:  “Run on the Banks”

here’s a link to the forum–lots of great writers there

http://newyork.craigslist.org/forums/?forumID=27

POSTSCRIPT———————————————–

The finalists are in….

The letters within the following poems will remain as is, but only one poem will be republished in bold— the winner of the contest– to be revealed later today.

A special thanks to writers from the craigslist literary forum who entered this poetry contest:

 


Author Unknown

run on the banks
of the tigris, or nile,
or the old man himself
when the mud piles high

run on the banks
of the mighty yangtzee
on the yellow or peace
in pants rolled to the knees

run on the banks
of the skagit that cascades o’er head
or columbia, delaware,
saint lawrence or red

run on the banks
up the amazon basin,
aside euphrates, or ural
or the thames on vacation

run on the banks
with sand in your toes
cause our run on the banks
means the stores are all closed

 
 
 

 

 
By mckinney@tampabay.rr.com

The World Bank
Could actually tank
If the Contagion of Fear
Continues to propagate,
Replicate and Migrate
Like viruses of the mind.

Memes in situ or
Control through fear
“Crisis” equates to “fnord.”
Paulson of our Treasury,
Bernanke of the Fed May not be the vector
But through them it has spread.

We shiver as with AIG
Chilled by the thought
That our meager funds
And our Pensions could dwindle
As result of the swindle.
Before you make a run on your bank
Remember FDR’s words
“All we have to fear is fear itself.”

 

 

 

Broke and gettin broker,

Writing IOU’s to play strip poker,
Got little or nothing to show for,
Too many years caught in the daily grind,
Done spent my money,
Gave away my mind.
And what’s it all for anyway?
Pay checks gone, still got tax to pay.
Hey you, with all that space in your mind floating free,
If your not going to use it,
Why not lend it to me?
You see, believing she would deceive me as before,
I kicked lady luck out the door.
Life’s a bitch,
Woe is my mother,
Can you spare a dollar brother?

 

 

 
 

 

it was my mom’s birthday
that time of year
when I bought her a card
to let her know she was dear
at the local rite-aid
a nice card was a $1.95
but my leftover lunch money
this week did not survive

I went upstairs
to my bedroom bookshelf
to check out my piggy bank
for a loan to give myself

but the fat glass piggy
had nothing but dust
my usual source
had obviously gone bust

so I found those coin folders
of my coin collection
but they were empty
from a previous inspection

so I trooped on downstairs
to check the tin box
where dad’s emergency pizza cash
sat next to his clean socks

but this too was bare
had nothing but dust
was that deja vu?
yeah, I think so, it must

I knew mom kept some mad money
in an envelope in her room
but that thing was empty
like an Egyptian tomb

digging beneath the sofa cushions
I was getting annoyed
it’s tough for a small kid
who is unemployed

all I found was a nickel
and my missing game boy
so I spent the next hour
playing with that old toy
I finally realized
I had to do what I dreaded
and up the stairs again
to my sisters room I headed

when I asked her for a loan
she told me credit was tight
my skateboard as collateral?
not without a fight

I left empty handed
I was getting depressed
and that smirk on her face
I did really detest

I realized all the places
that I go for some cash
had dried up, gone empty
there was no more stash

so taking a page
from the federal reserve
I just printed my own card –
to mom from me, with the love you deserve

 
 
 

 

 

The Crucible
By dscotese@litmocracy.com
The crucible of regulated trust
Alloyed fiduciary obligation
To selfish risk-taking lust
And government sponsored entity legislation.

The invisible hand of
Self-interest lit the flame
And fractional reserve
Can also take some blame.

The brokers broke,
The lenders leaned, The taxpayers paid
Not enough, it seemed.

Rules on rules,
And rules galore;
The people screamed NO!
But the government did more.

We paid what we earned
And the crucible got hotter.
When we finally burned,
We noticed the water:

Sound money, hard currency,
And the freedom to trust
Each one on his own to
Go BOOM or go bust.

 
 

 

By
 

 

A chill, fall-day
student saunters by
on crowded brick streets,
“Wachovia” emblazoned white
on a hemorrhaging shirt,
ironic or oblivious,
bright red fading
into a crowd of business
as usual.

Yuppies in herds
wait to hear their leader
shout down suppurations
of doubt from capitol steps:
“Calm down, will you please?
It’s okay, it’s passed,”
while the rabble speaks softly,
It’s started, did you hear?
It’s started.

All the bankers,
scared of the man with no shirt to lose
staring from the mirror
in the homeless-shelter bathroom,
armed with 700 billion band aids
to combat the fear
of a mortal chest wound,
can’t stop the bleeding.

 


By cufflink@live.com

There was a time
I returned late, home
at an hour.

With no explanation
to be offered from within
a rain soaked peacoat.

And a smile
moved out from dead
lips, wet and trembling.

And the mice had moved
on from bare floors
of cupboards needing paint.

Watering the ice
cube in a pretty glass
of the last bastion.

To bemoan the absence of
instinctive mice who should,
did abandon ship.

Later it was
in the night behind my ear
that we heard.

The absent mice and I
the walrus swishing against our cellar door.

And we knew
this was the beginning
of something great.

We knew that
others had worn this coat
and held this glass.
early to rise
and I’m off, there they go
only one coffee
and I’m gone, baby
out the door
thanks to a new pair of shoes
my appetite has taken off
it’s voracious
there’s no time for the blues
I need to run and feel the fresh air
of somewhere spacious
so along the bank
and the expanse of the beach
is where I must be

it’s a joy and a freedom
that’s distinct and unique
thanks to the sea
it really does free
allowing the soul to escape
from the melee and heartbreak
of an uncertain marketplace
it’s my way of cutting loose
and untying the knot
that the intellect makes

the weather itself is irrelevant
whether it’s shining or not
I really don’t care any way to forget, is the goal
to put aside all worry
economic or otherwise
by watching all the creatures
whatever their type or size
they might be on four legs
or perhaps two
or maybe they use wings
I’d do almost anything
to get enough
yes, it’s true

I can’t resist
all the pretty things
to run on the banks
beside the ocean
on a windy and rainy afternoon
only wets the whistle
for a little more action
if I have to wait for the moon
to slowly undress
then I’ll be helpless
I’ll have no choice but to retrieve
that precious box
which contains the ultimate charm
none other than west coast lox
which is salmon, locally caught
it’ll make anyone believe
in the sport of running
the rewards are tremendous
more than worth the while
so come with me
let’s go for a jog
and run on the banks
of a stormy sea
jump on board
this cycle of pleasure
why not
it’s there for our enjoyment
let’s indulge
in this sacred treasure
let us be
let us soar

 

By Chuck Taylor

Winter’s icy hands
Slap rosy cheeks
Flushed in anger
Fuming
Fragrant oil

Tent cities
Popsicles

Hopelessness breeding fear
Empty breasts feeding hunger
Poverty stinks
Lick it up

Cities with no business
Ice cubes with no flavor

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