Hello America you’ve been screwed! Again!

Hello America you’ve been screwed! Again! That dirty little name that tells all has popped up again! Goldman Sachs rules the United States. The supposedly self-propelled independent candidate supposedly with the unexpected mandate to rule the country as rolled over faster than the HMS Hood! He has revered himself on every major issue that he had railed about as his platform. This makes even the perpetual horns waggling Obama seem more polite by comparison. At least he had the decency to wait until his first days to break the spell of Kumbaya before he reversed everything to a ‘super Bush’ globalist stance. I guess the name is the game? Trump. As in Trumped! All those truly downtrodden white Americans who raised their voices in a chorus turned out to be like any other inexperienced high school virgin feeling the effects from the previous night’s seduction by a film flam suitor? The system has been totally exposed as a sham. Prepare for an avalanche of more bullshit! Time for those who don’t want to shiver themselves to sleep in the oncoming chaos that once was referred to as ‘America’ to bed themselves with their fully-loaded AR-15’s tight within their grasp under the nightly covers. And of course to sell their own lives cheap in the hundreds of thousands of individual bewitching hour based struggles to come ala St Crispin’s Day. Yup America! Welcome to the Zionist’s dream! The coming third war of world conflict by the deposed kingdom of Christendom with Islam championed Albert Pike is in the offing! Your Chabad Lubovich masters to be are out purchasing leashes for those few beautiful blonde children of yours that they wish to keep in bondage as body servants (or household pets) when the smoke clears and the third temple to Satan stands in that little historical asshole of eternal useless conflict Jerusalem. Where are Titus Flāvius Caesar Vespasiānus Augustus’s legion’s when you really need them?

Advertisements

Irksome Dust

Prophecy is a situation oft claimed in hindsight but a phenomena that one not dare to be believed in. For if one surrenders to more than it’s remote possibility, then one’s life has seen its own story’s end.

For years I had a repeating dream of being late to depart for the airport in a city not of my own and having too much luggage. The luggage in turn taken from a forgotten attic of a collection of everything that I once owned much of which I once treasured. All stored in a second apartment that I had long ago rented but had forgotten about. Forgotten somehow to pay the rent to maintain and now at the last possible instant had found that everything I had treasured had to be abandoned for I not longer had the resources or even the title to reclaim it. And I having no money but simply a ticket to return back to somewhere nebulous that I had the vague impression I should call home. These vague but all so familiar objects that were keys to unlock viable recall of so many misplaced chapters of my previous existence. Items that I had purchased. Many others that were handed down as a legacy. All to be abandoned out of expediency lest I miss my flight. And I caught somewhere between clinging to them desperately and an equal apprehension of being lost if I did not leave them behind.

I have been a poor steward of such things in allowing unconscious fancy to finally descend to waking and become reality. So much that I have carried at great expense to both myself and previously to that of my family now on the chopping block. Unacknowledged by the rest of the world and in some way much like myself, unloved.

How much must one lose throughout life as it progresses? Fields and plains once seeming endless and solid now found to be little cubicles housing once familiar objects the door of which is now open to those who decide that it must join the age’s dust. All the things that you once thought so important to pass opportunities for joy and happiness for simply slag to the rest of the world having no intrinsic value to anyone else. Just another load to the tip.

And then the question of where does one go alone? Caught on absurd journey’s across thousands of miles taken impulsively and now unable to return in time for what? Another ending? For what? Another goodbye. The asset of one’s many feelings no longer fit currency to tide one along in the increasingly indifferent world around one. The fallacy of being recognized, and respected by those outside one’s own family circle. And that ever ongoing steely truth of no longer finding love save in the dim reelection of an illusory past. All this floating like oil upon the waters in an ancient stagnant harbor that is so easily replaced in the course of new arrivals by sea. The past like a floater bobbing just below the surface thoroughly drowned and beyond saving.

So tomorrow in truth of actual fact the first step in these repeating dreams comes to reality. I must girdle myself hard and tight for the task of playing Solomon and sorting what there is worthy of keeping in a smaller more remote ever more volatile location. A vault that offers spare visiting privileges. One that punctures hope of any discovery by the world in light of earthly resurrection. This storehouse of everything that I threw myself at with all I had to offer at times in over-layered times but failed to launch into the air. My legacy merely to become irksome dust on some stranger’s mantle.

Going Nowhere

There is a difference between entertainment and drama. Entertainment and scenarios that involve persons that are trying to convince those who witness them that their is a measure, great or small, within how they present themselves. Drama though it might be a key element in this can also be said to explain the combination of actions and reactions that embody the experience of life with both individuals and their interplay among themselves. When you live within a large expansive social unit that seems to exhaust your imagination with its unfathomable boundaries you become its inmate. A fully-consumed daisy that flies almost without substance in the wind with the hope of the renewal of life in the circumstances of where you might land. The trouble is that you might land in basically the same old place or probably worse? That transition from inception to conclusion forming the complete tale most times referred to as a human life.

Wherein entertainment the audience expects to see the characters revived in a sequel or a star based vehicle that continues a repeat of essentially the same elements of the initial drama, life in the two-legged human sense of same does not. You get pushed into the dance int he arms of whomever and you get your your chance, fail or flop, and hope that luck and happenstance are waiting in the wings. When you’re young and protected any acknowledgement of this outlook seems both dour and absurd! But as the experience of your existence within this conglomerate progresses pieces are chipped off like some ancient Greek statue long rescued from the rubble of ages past. Even in the most favorable cases where the few that seek to understand the impossibility of those times that only you could claim knowledge of the replacement of the loss of an alabaster arm or nose or head is futile. You remain on display safely sequestered from the world as it has evolved in the interim from that time that you lost track. And all of what once seemed normal was laid to rest beneath the dust.

The appreciation of truth and science are but fictions argued by those who wish to cling to something that in the present tense is still considered solid. The idea that at some point in the future close to your mortal end that you will still be able to comb your own hair or tie your shoe laces unaided. That in some way you have not lost your ability to be acknowledged by the fishbowl around you without the other younger members of your Picesian genus picking apart the best parts of what remains of what you personally ascribe as your better parts and then letting the remainder continue to fall to rot and be consumed by he passage of that abstract known as time. Though you personally may live in the eternal present all others can only see the shift that calls into mind a dwindling lack of future being pushed forward by a sluggish decelerating caterpillar inching forth a very ancient past. As far as you have traveled in a lifetime you are forever back where you started.

Political Disappointments

How does one make a success out of abject failure? Perhaps by redefining success to eliminate the possibility of going wrong yet again. Perhaps Mohammed does indeed need to step around the mountain rather than just simply wait there for the larger of the two exist the field. The worst of weather and moods suggest that a greater level of disappointment is already looming ahead? A regime change that more than likely will not c hang anything but see things get even worse out of the guise of extenuated circumstance. The choice of illusions being left up to those at ground level that may or may not have been bamboozled by the cleverness of the underlying ruse of two bad choices presented at the opposite poles as both ‘the worst possible and the doubly worst possible’ in terms of getting anything beneficially done. “How could one have been taken in so easily? Played for such a ‘rube’ one might ask? Again. The answer being that politics may not be your thing. Not be anybody’s thing. Just as in a like same manner as the common cold once referred to as ‘the grip’. So like the spectacle of the yearly ego boost of the ‘Bulls at Pamplona’ that young minded males at heart of decades too far past to be serious. Seriousness fades quickly after the momentary epiphany has dissipated. Realities fade back into the picture like cold water poured into a hot glass fresh from the dishwasher. The best result one can hope for is tepid at best.

All this sounds like the height of banality. And it is because in the view of the few who have railed on and on for year after tedious year about the artificiality of modern existence the little ‘we’ are all in a lifelong prison. Though this seems overly dramatic one might recall that Hollywood is a reliable mill for obfuscation and diversion. So much so that nagging impulse to retreat to conventionality is the biggest illusion that the movie industry has to offer. This fact alone turns the perception of this sort of interpretation into a conundrum. What do you choose to believe? And then of course do you have the right to put your beliefs above those of a that illusion of the consensus of the group and the way things are and possibly challenge the way things have always been. All of this being what it is. Or rather what one would have in their best sense of their conception of a perfect Utopia. Yet having been so accustomed to not having a workable reality for most of the entirety of their lives the question is what is reasonably attainable and even more important what can one live with?

Because of course all one knows is that this foreign illusion that inescapably defines one. How sad to think that the last real independent thought one might have had came format he confusion of youth at a time when one’s own life was as much a matter of accident as intelligible decisions. Perhaps that is why Millennial’s are so attracted to extreme bouts of ritual drunkenness? Their older siblings riding along the cliff in with shaky wheels close to slipping into an adjacent abyss. The abyss being the expected conventionality that one is so familiar with. The same conventionality that one’s parents and grandparents are attributed to have known all along. But then, could one really be sure? Maybe things in those years before were not different. But then again there is the possibility that all the nagging conversation about the way things once was. But having heard that same tract so many times growing up and ignoring it, can one faithfully recall it in detail? So far away from one’s consciousness that if one were in fact acting it out unawares due to familial connection. This is called ‘the double whammy’. Damned if you do or damned if you don’t!  This line of reasoning tiresomely leads back to the same basic conclusion. The fact of the matter being that one worries too much! That one cannot unravel things that one cannot change for the rest of the world. Simply, on the best whim of the current day, can one work in their own best interest in keeping with the morality of self. After all, it is you that creates the ultimate illusion.

Forever Witches Three

Why is it in the scale of one to ten
why is it tell me please
why is it in the course of any convivial night
that the best one comes in three’s?

So I may be as game a fellow as all the rest
cheery in social disquisition as any of thee
when the holidays descend about in yearly bend
it does send me off me knees

When the Winter wind doth howl outside
and a male needs some entertaining gin
to seek out the uplift of female company
to lull a lonesome feel betide of ancient cold within

And like magic does make in banter’s claim
an opportunity to enjoin some colloquy light
involving any willing maid or matron
to pass some time throughout convivial night

To conjecture about nothing to spare the mild
from topics blustery of one’s own unruly child
in meaningless hours of passing pleasantries
affably fending off topics too base or wild

But then like vague sorcery does out of thin blue air
to upset all current felicity in mortal stare
of bounteous curves and dark allure
a sultry eyed miss does thy wits inter

With no invitation beyond a playing card
to throw all current favorites over to mow this yard
a volatile fancy found by these other’s discard
in transience from the other two to three

In ephemeral attentions politeness begins to fail
a gulf of former engrossment quickly sails
the possibility of other absorptions coffin nailed
in more dangerous alleys of feminine wonder

The wolf inside does begin to howl
the less seemlier femmes leave throw in the towel
their departure deed when done bereft a growl
shifts all focus to this comely third

So then immediately as if rehearsed
across the room to another corporal body is quick disbursed
she abruptly takes wing in flight by some damnable curse
leaving me myself and I to shag thin air alone

These evil witches do oft abide
to form a recreant concord to inspire male suicide
by baiting one to the other to have another ‘him’ to slide
like a hapless puppet to and fro

Tis a mortal sin to abandon one
to deprive the others of continuing fun
the strangers three to quietly form as one
to exert their mutual powers by your loss

So fitful agitation in one does revolt
this underplay of baleful enchantresses focused dolt
to vy for territorial attentions before they bolt
by simple virtue of an uncontested better one

So it is this scale from one to ten
to please low egos of those never friends
why is it in the course of any convivial night
that the bested two so soon becomes the three!

A Barely Imagined False Step Of Former Passion

I once had a lover who was a dancer.
so long ago past that it’s now barely true
I once said I would one day gavotte for her
about a wood pile’s pirouette and forever make the ‘Grand jeté too

but I made a single stipulation to her fancy footwork’s game
that I must be a master of my own false step
where those hoofs fell and where they did not
a simple matter of my own heart’s rep

and in turn it did come from this own fatal flop
the wood pile’s flames raising into uncommon highs
that a cold blaze neither could soon find a stop
that inevitable exhaustion of our own false thighs

from its growing heat did out ashes spew
bearing no fruit for us as our phoenix flew
lost in mortal flame did we so soon disdain
this weakened bond between our natal two

and we went our ways through life’s endless plays
forgetting vows and vices our to own once great plans
where that Eden stood was now left naught but newly rotted wood
the remnants remaining to the meddle of some other’s hands

so these feet grew old and so much less the bold
a hobbled life misspent in incremental not big jumps
of stale static plans safe of any new indenture to fewer promised lands
a shored up existentialism’s hailed halt before its smallest humps

The Persistent ‘After’ Of The Party

He had met her at a party. He could not remember if it was a party that had happened in the future or the past. It sounded absurd of course because he was somewhere on the north side traveling home now at the largesse of friends that had offered to drop him off. They had a small apartment. At least that’s what he recalled from earlier in the evening. Or was it later. Some place in that part of town that had all manner of two and three bedrooms in pleasant old 1920’s ‘walkups’ that had a nice pleasant view of old public parks. It might have been a wine and cheese affair to celebrate the arrival of late Autumn’s bluster. That time when couples held each other tight as if it was the most natural mode of being before their guests who simply went on with the story at hand. It was odd how anyone could be in two places simultaneously so strong was the impression of him providing a pillow for her to lean up against and relish. His own arms embracing the softness of her abdomen as if in quiet celebration of an imaginary child to come within her that they shared together. His greatest offense to propriety being quite exhausted by the change of weather and its bite he was flat on his back with his head int he kitchen’s entrance blocking egress from their main lounge. It seems wonderful to feel her warmth radiating into his folded arms the two of them forming a cocoon or a jolly egg-like cradle.

The blur of events before the commencement of this seance suggested that he might have been a guest just recently invited that had grown endeared to one of the occupants of the premises? Or just as equally, this abode was in sole possession of just the two of them alone and this small enclave was one of those very pleasant but ultimately tiresome Sunday evening early get together’s where they as hosts would less than subtly set the tone of another early night in anticipation of a workday Monday for both of them. A long lazy embrace and pleasant collapse of both parties into polite intimacy a smoke signal sent forth across the empty plains of the sparely furniture lounge room. Everyone jovial and somewhat reluctant to leave the precincts of a good round of friendly conversation. Maybe this place was inhabited by neither of them? Perhaps they had met that very evening and with a coincidental offhanded glanced found a spark that had quickly raged into a flame in that unconventional manner that one only can know in their carefree late teens? The feelings appreciated were both genuinely warm and real!

Now of course he was approaching the small parking lot behind a likesame building in the dead of dark. His friends leaving him off their in expectation of him arriving in some place banally familiar. But he knew he had no key to any door that he could recall in any of the surrounding structures. The setting of lonesome cars all bunched into a silent gore under mostly nude trees shivering in the late evening winds presented a dilemma inquiring as to his state of confusion merely being a matter of the result of momentary drunkenness from the evening’s libations. Or simply the onset of absent mindedness come of so many nights not too dissimilar. He found what appeared to be his car it’s interior semi-lit by the near proximity of street lamps. And leaned against it with both hands on its passenger side front panel as if to steady himself in making a judgement as to what should happen next. It was a quiet night with the urban approximation of stars peeking through the serge blue haze of approaching midnight overhead. The nearby vicinity felt as if encapsulated by a hemispherical glass that one shook to vindicate the imminence of the possibility of snowy bluster. That me sense of perfection of solitude before one returned to the world of the living where one would be welcomed back into the mundanity of warmth and usual curt celebratory acknowledgement of another return. A cold larking hand on her warm cheek and a smile indicating that someone at least was happy to have him home so all could feel both cozy and safe for another evening,

But where then were his keys? The keys to what? That partially lit silhouette of an apartment looming before him some fifty feet ahead? The large four-door sedan whose cold metal that lay beneath both palms. At that instant a German shepherd came trotting out from the sidewalk beside the building and like some war pony sudden broke into a gallop straight for him. He hated these moments wherein such civil circumstance the prideful owners of such pets simply forgot, or refused to remember, that part of their pet’s play was an instantaneous show of aggression towards strangers. The damn thing was so enthusiastic that it took a flying leap at him over the fro of the auto. He instinctively ducked down behind the quarter panel as the canine went sailing overhead in a perfect slow arc that left it at what seemed almost twenty feet the other side of the vehicle. It’s two stewards no revealed in conversation with each other by the sidewalk walking leisurely unaware of their household guardian’s play.

He spun around rising to his feet to stare down the beast who was now circling back towards him as he wondered if it would made a short run up with another leap to tackle him or merely stop short with the challenge of husky declamatory barks. He hated this ritual of the insincerity of careless owners who seemingly unable to apply the security of a leash would no doubt apologize with the same initial fervor of feigned  concern no matter if the object of their performance had suffered a bite or merely a scare. Surely enough behind him over his shoulder he could hear one of the men calling out in what seemed more mock anger at the dog for its theoretical bad behavior. No doubt their overt performance a poor mask for some sadistic enjoyment of having a stranger at bay. The dog now joined by its mate, a Newfoundland black lab came up to him transformed into the model of canine felicity furiously wagging its tail like a drover’s whip both happily licking his outstretched hand.  His mind’s eye now done with this episode he returned to his own mystery and though again of the whereabouts of his supposed spouse? Was she real or just a fancy? He longed for that mental time machine to carry him back to that moment of exhaustion with her in his embrace. Or possibly forward? Whichever it was, or might have been.

He seemed turned over in his bed to gain better leverage of the covers. This might have been equally a competing fancy for he was in actual fact his own arms wrapped snugly one beneath the other upon his own chest. The darkness of the room not unlike the exit to the dark portal of nightly slumber and he unceremoniously detrained. One might have thought there would have been an instant flood of melancholy at the loss of the situation? Perhaps these moments inferred the sort of possible long filed experiences of the past wrangling with suppressed hopes for a overly long delayed future? But the physical sensation of this lost instant still held a hold of him like a mother with its infant within her clinging embrace. The kernel of the moment clear without the need for words that the sort of love he had just dreamed of was still possible?