Pascal's Prophecy...

"My New Order has attracted the attention of the press with the rise of Donald Trump as a candidate for President of the United States because his first wife Ivana Trump revealed that Donald Trump reads a book of Hitler’s collected speeches, My New Order, which he keeps in a cabinet by his bed. It can be seen that there are clear similarities between the speeches of Trump and the speeches of Hitler. Here are examples: They repeat themselves constantly, saying the same things over and over again. They never admit they have made a mistake, nor do they ever take anything back. To any criticism, they respond by insults and name-calling. They use a low form of language, with simple sentences, even a person with the lowest level of education or with no education at all can understand. Studies have shown that Trump speaks at a 4th-grade reading level. Most of the words he uses are only one syllable long. Researchers studying Trump's speaking style and searching for the reason it appeals to such a wide audience have found that most of the words Trump uses are only one syllable long. Almost all of the remaining works Trump uses are only two syllables long. Trump almost never uses a three-syllable word except when he has to, such as the word California." Amazon.com

Pascal’s Prophecy
(c) 27 December 2019, the Griot Poet

Adolph Hitler was a clown show.
So much so
Charlie Chaplin
In one of his rare talkies
Did a spoof parody documentary
Called “The Dictator”
For laughs.

So much so,
Chamberlain before Churchill
Thought nothing about concessions,
Sold them as cool
To Britain citizens because of the person
He thought he was dealing with was:
Disturbed;
Caricature:
Fool.

His brown shirts were
Barroom thugs,
Lugs semiconscious enough
To absorb every consonant and vowel
Of his disjointed diatribes
On AM talk radio.

This ninth-grade art school dropout
Had a faux halo as he
Harkened back to a
Mythical past when
Germany was “great again,”
Arming for the next great racial
Conflagration,
Harassing poets,
Scientists,
Intellectuals;
“Disappearing”
Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals
Caught...at the border.

“History does not repeat, but it often rhymes,”
Samuel Clemmons/Mark Twain
A quote that refrains
As we mark time
At this moment in history.

Fascism, like fungus, is exponential.
The gateway drug is the small things
Modern-day Chamberlains
Let you get away with.
Utopia literally means “nowhere place,”
As dystopias follow the Second Law of
Thermodynamics.

The electronics
Transitioned from vacuum tubes
To MOSFETs
As information sharing
Got faster,
The evolution to
140 characters were inevitable
And well-suited for a demagogue
That’s read Adolph’s speeches
More than the Bible;
Resembles Damien Thorn
More than Jesus
And not mistakingly,
Has loyalty to NO ONE,
Yet demands it
To the self-destruction of his minions.

George Santayana said:

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer,
Heeding the warning of Albert Einstein
And Leo Szilard

Could only tearfully quote the
Bhagavad Gita at the birth of the atomic age:

“If the radiance of a thousand suns
Were to burst forth at once into the sky,
It would be like the splendor of the MIGHTY ONE:
Now I become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

VOTE.

Let not apathy be our epitaph.

Blaise Pascal was a French mathematician, physicist, inventor, writer, and Catholic theologian. He was a child prodigy who was educated by his father, a tax collector in Rouen. Pascal's earliest work was in the natural and applied sciences, where he made significant contributions to the study of fluids and clarified the concepts of pressure and vacuum by generalizing the work of Evangelista Torricelli. Pascal also wrote in defense of the scientific method. Wikipedia

Carnage...

Image Source - Vox: Guns are the problem
America doesn’t have a monopoly on hate or mental illness. What it has is a lot of guns. German Lopez

(C) 4 August 2019, the Griot Poet

“Death is a sure thing but life is just as certain. Problem is you can’t know in advance.

We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.” Toni Morrison, February 18, 1931 - August 5, 2019

Fuck your “thoughts and prayers!”

“I... can’t... breathe!”

Between mass shootings
Not 24 hours after twenty souls were
Dearly departed
By another white domestic terrorist
In El Paso, Texas
Nine more suffer the end
To their existence
In Dayton, Ohio

America: you have a white supremacy problem!

And it has a commander-in-chief!

From Becky’s calling cops on families grilling
To the prequel killings at a Gilroy, California garlic festival,
From Eric Garner, Sandra Bland, Renesha McBride, Trayvon Martin

You slaughtered the Native American
Forced them on reservations
After forced marches and
Syphilis-blanketed “trails of tears”
Then after denying education and opportunity
To the people that got you through your first winter...
You decry them as worthless alcoholics!

You drug the African piled high
Like stacked sardines
In boats christened with the name
“The good ship Jesus”
Stole their religion, culture, language, wealth
Separating families like goods on shelves
(Replayed in modern-day kiddie concentration camps)

Brutalized them for bails of cotton that made you sultans and kings
Had Benjamin Bannicker design your capital
His cousins build your White House
Banned their descendants from reading, writing; arithmetic
At threats of castrations, cross burnings and noose...
And have the GALL to call their children’s children “thugs,” worthless: lazy!

Block their votes
With gerrymandering
And conspiracy theories of voter fraud
And deny them rightful reparations
For your crimes against humanity
And treasure you stole.

The toll is being paid in blood
By “chickens coming home to roost.”

After Sandy Hook, once we let them get away with “thoughts and prayers” for twenty babies and six adults, it was a wrap!

The GOP is bull crap,

They have always shown us what they are: soulless shills for big money donors thrills and corporate lobbyists

Bringing bags of money to the US capital, ALA Spiro Agnew for their political prostitution campaigns.

They refrain from real governance
That doesn’t line their own pockets,
Living in gated cul de sacs
In “master-planned communities”
Where their families and friends
Have never seen a lack

They have no sense of decency, community, common good or honor:

The NRA via Russian oligarchs, the KKK: it doesn’t matter!

As long as they can get the 2nd Amendment types to scream about “jackbooted thugs” after every tragedy, they’re fine.

They’re a dysfunctional personality cult masquerading as a political party that doesn’t give two shits about America or its own constituency.

They just don’t.

And we
Will naval gaze
And wax philosophical
As politicians and pundits
Skillfully don’t get to the root
Of the problem,
Faking
Just as they drive up Nielsen ratings

I implore any scintilla
Of decency left (if it EVER existed) in
Orange Satan:
The BIGGEST shit hole nation...
Is YOURS!

Open Letter to Millennials...

Open Letter to Millennials by Reginald L. Goodwin on Scribd

Party of Apocalypse...

Party of Apocalypse by Reginald L. Goodwin on Scribd

VOX: Normal vs. Abnormal...

Executions...

© 7 July 2016, the Griot Poet

“Racism has gotten worse under Obama,”

Because as “head negro in charge”

He was supposed to be
Their post-racial-society-in-blackface step-n-fetch

He was not supposed to comment on the conflicts that’s taking place
In streets and alleyways
Almost weekly and daily

Without skipping a beat:

After Alton Sterling
Was shot for selling CDs (not loosies)
Like Eric Garner in New York streets;
We couldn’t catch our breaths
Until another King: Philandro Castile
Was gunned down for a busted tail light
Both men carrying LEGAL concealed handguns
But, I guess not the “good guys” the NRA had in mind...

And like burning in effigy,
Their previous criminality
Is researched heavily
To justify
The public lynching
Of black bodies
On modern poplar trees bearing “strange fruit”;

We don’t have to look up in the sky
For Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind:

The transatlantic slave trade
Was the first “alien abduction”
Black bodies loaded into the bowels of mother ships
The inaugural christened “The Good Ship Jesus.”

Examined and prodded like cattle
Kings watched their Queens impregnated by hostile aliens;
Royalty watching their progeny sold off like furniture;
Their names, language, religion and culture
Beaten out of their appropriated bodies

By the vultures of capitalism
That refuse to pay reparations
For centuries of Jim Crow, sharecropping and free labor
For terrorism from the KKK and the NRA that inaugurated themselves on the SAME DAY!

Slave patrols being the progenitor of the modern day police force
Occupying lands stolen from Native Americans,
Policing the appropriated bodies stolen by their ancestors,

No: Obama didn’t make racism worse – he revealed it.

Every success despite regressive resistance to his presidential agenda
Was a slap in the face of their mother’s milk of white supremacy;
It’s a terrible thing when you see your god pulled down
From his lofty perch like an Ashtoreth pole

So, in a desperate move
Some have sold their souls
Pulling off their robes

To bow at the feet
Of a reality real estate tax cheat

That’s had more bankruptcies than marriages
Only topped by his “tough guy” five Vietnam draft deferments;

His “telling it like it is,” an abandonment of the gentile “Southern Strategy” wink-and-nod
That gave the party plausible deniability

Flashing small hand sets like a mad mime wasting our time,
Talking off teleprompter and laying out Word Salads
Not making any sense at all to his thronging herd worshiping

A demagogue,

Because hell-on-earth
Apparently has its worth
To the impotent!

Amadeus

© 24 April 2016, the Griot Poet

He prophesied of heavenly realms and afterworlds;
We partied like it was 1999 in 1982 with his lyrical missive: “parties weren’t meant to last.”
24 hours hadn’t passed
When the blood sport of trashing just dead icons began
A “save shot” six days’ prior
When your former heroin habit;
Conversion to veganism and Jehovah’s Witness religion
Were public record

We have to rehash as we trash
The idols we once built up
Because like parties, popular deities weren’t meant to last
Little mention of your gifts to Trayvon Martin, Jordan Davis and Eric Garner’s mothers
Your free concert in Baltimore;
You channeled pain that would fell normal mortals into madness
Into creative genius
Teaching yourself to play 27 instruments
Without formal lessons;
Singing lead and backup vocals
Arranging and producing all of your albums;
Playing 24 and 48 hour straight sets
In Paisley Park
Where they found you in the elevator
We “all went crazy” on social media
At the news of you
Having “punched a higher floor” leaked out…

Though your lyrics were decidedly heterosexual
Your androgyny and celebration of human sexuality
Freed many an LGBT teen
Before suicide and apathy claimed them.
Now since Will and Grace,
LOGO and Ru Paul;
This freedom has become cliché

The freedom you championed
With the tattoo “slave”
On your right cheek
Giving way to the Independent Artists movement
That aren’t waiting to get “discovered”
Or giving over their power and ownership of their works
To corporate conglomerates
That leave them penniless.

In many ways
You were our Amadeus:
Genius and malevolent;
Pious and irreverent;
Small in stature and giant;
You were mystery incarnate,
The question: “am I black or white; am I straight or gay?”
You posed in the song Controversy
And like a Zen Koan, refused to answer it.
You told everyone to hold their prayers
For a few days,
Knowing you’d prepared
Not an unmarked mass grave as your namesake,
But a private pious ceremony
Planned with no flash or aplomb
As your stage presence had been.

Your ashes – like Einstein – scattered to the winds
And we are left with, like him, the body of your many works.

Trench Coat...

Source: 7 Essential Items for Parisian Chic Style

© 9 February 2016, The Griot Poet

"Can you please take care of the check?"

Let me rewind how we got to that...

We meet for dinner.
We have a good time over food and atmosphere

You even pretend that my corny jokes are witty,
Your very presence has made me more giddy
Than the best dinner Moscato

You excuse yourself to go
To the ladies room

I stand at your departure
(another part of me stands as well)
and almost swoon at your walk:

graceful;
powerful;
confident.

I can't think of better time spent.

You return, not in your dress,
but robed in a trench coat,

I confess confusion: "are you expecting rain?"

You drop science in the vein
of the contents of your purse:

Your dress;
Your panties;
Your bra...

Wearing nothing else except your pumps and a smile.

I stare in awe at your audaciousness and guile,
You break the silence with:

"Can you please take care of the check?"

I am a nervous wreck,
Trying to appear cool driving,
as you direct me
to your apartment...

Pre-planned candles are lit
as my own clothes shed

In your bed
I kneel between the pillars of your altar to speak in 10,000 tongues
Careful not to miss a single one,
Palming your ass; kneading the nipples on your breast;

Savoring the flavor of your cum momentarily,
You draw me to your lips;
then into you

My incubus...my dominatrix...

Your legs wrap me
and whatever machismo
I've ever felt
melts away.

A haiku
my father would say
comes to remembrance
In my ecstasy and to my chagrin:

"my son, know this, a
man has 'caught' a woman when
she embraces him."

Near the Levee (repost)...

Architecture About.com: What is a Levee?

© 21 September 2005, The Griot Poet

Inspired by the article from Dr. Cornel West: “Exiles from a city and from a nation,” 11 September 2005.

Note: I corrected the spelling of levee in the title and text (it was originally "levy" as a double entendre). On reflection of the carnival barking political times we're in and to avoid the appearance of xenophobia, a preposition and country name were both exchanged from their original versions. The piece still hits powerfully, and clarifies instead of stereotypes, origin of the demand for drugs in this country is this country in total, and no one group in particular.

Dedicated to my cousin from New Orleans, John (Gus) Holmes, Jr., his beautiful family, and the survivors of Hurricane Katrina (note: they're all fine, and relocated to another state).

**********

“When you live so close to death”

You create songs in the French Quarter on Slave Sundays that follow no pattern.

Rhythm set by clap and tambourine; washboard and kettle drum,

Old people hum in accompaniment to a Constantine Christian jubilee celebration of no cotton bailed; no backbreaking labor toiled.

The one suit you own is spoiled from overuse, and your children’s children carry on the tradition of “dress up” to anesthetize their pain.

“When you live so close to death”

The Mississippi delta builds a sediment foundation for your tragicomic pain:

“Laughing to keep from crying” births the blues!

“When you live so close to death”

People of your hue fought and escaped the French back in the day, and each day are turned away each year as they try to escape the death-hole now known as… Haiti.

“When you live so close to death, you live (life a little) more intensely,”

You create order out of chaos, from Massa raping your sisters and mothers to slaves tipping with another man’s lover: “hey baby, can we JAZZ around a little bit”?

Fighting fiercely in mock duels modeled after “southern gentlemen,” feeling disrespected, passing it down from Jazz procreation to your Hip Hop great-grandchildren’s generation as being “dissed”: with the same deadly consequences.

“When you live so close to death”

What are scraps from Massa’s table become culinary creations:

- Craw dads;

- Jambalaya;

- Gumbo;

- Shrimp Creole

- And Etoufée!

“When you live so close to death”

Lead and pollutants they allowed for your kind to warp your minds & drive the I.Q.s of your babies down scarred your psychology

BEFORE the levees broke;

BEFORE the drug flights to America!

“When you live so close to death”

You are not counted; clouded – an invisible majority under the all-mighty shadow of insignificance: exiles in your own country, resembling from years of neglect more “third world” than ninth ward or US citizenry

Hence, their news media in their quest for a ratings spree mislabeled you “refugees.”

Now, suddenly they are on our side, “shocked and awed” back to the reality of their sacred duty to inform the citizenry of a democracy… neglected for five years.

Shocked by the sight of dead bodies marred by dogs and crocodiles, piled in stairwells like logs… floating downstream! It seems perceptions change once you’re beyond a sheltered, suburban political haze, and find YOURSELF for many days

Breathing the stench,

Your own eyes seeing,

Your own ears hearing the gunshots and screams… in this country,

You cannot believe you could stay reasonably SANE…

Living so close to death!

Open Letter to SAE...

© 13 March 2015, the Griot Poet

Dear Sigma Alpha Epsilon (founded in the Deep South; University of Alabama; “true gentlemen”):

Some history: a mystery to you, I’m sure.

The “Divine Nine”: Alpha Phi Alpha (1906), Alpha Kappa Alpha (1908), Kappa Alpha Psi (1911), Omega Psi Phi (1911), Delta Sigma Theta (1913), Phi Beta Sigma (1914), Zeta Phi Beta (1920), Sigma Gamma Rho (1922) and Iota Phi Theta (1963)

Each were founded in the 20th Century,
Spanning the breath of Civil Rights history
From the lynching era, through Jim Crow to right before the Civil Rights (1964) and Voting Rights (1965) acts,
I know you lack the knowledge
As you and your kind spent your time in college
You had, and have had privileges, not frustrations
Without the threat of your rights being stretched at the neck
By a long noose,
Nor your women raped;
Nor your men burned and castrated;
Except by faux boogie men you created
In blockbuster “Birth of a Nation” silent movies
That shouted volumes of disdain at the freest labor
This nation has ever had
That would bankrupt it and the whole world system
If they ever tried to pay reparations

Many like my noble founders in Kappa Alpha Psi
Were the servants in your frat houses that waited your
Tables;
Scrubbed your bathrooms;
And cleaned your floors;
All the while planning their own version
Of Pan-Hellenism
Our founders knew
Education was our key
To uplift and prosperity

Our leaders were trained
In Robert’s Rules of Order
And parliamentary procedures
To eventually elevate some
To the front of the bus
And the front of movements
Like Rosa Parks (AKA); Dr. Maya Angelou (AKA); Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (Alpha); Ralph Abernathy (Kappa); Jesse Jackson (Omega)
That would and still is changing America for the better…
Your little chant: you had decades of practice with that,
Rap music didn’t fuel the venom we all heard,
You’re sorry: because before I-phones and YouTube
You would have never been caught
Big brother isn’t just watching you,
That video came from a disgusted brother
Of Sigma Alpha Epsilon
That whatever “ideals” you once taught
You completely jettisoned
In a fortnight of utter error
For the pleasure
Of slapping every African American
Across the face,
Just like 47 senators sending punk letters to Iranian Mullahs
To openly disrespect and deplore a sitting president
In support of perpetual war
Please counter now with “you use it too!”
We’re aware of that,
But yet, when our founders formed,
Their Pan-Hellenic
Respectability wasn’t just “politics,”
It was survival,
So, we have no songs to rival
The casual poison you at least had
For an impressive instance

ON BEAT

So, I repeat:
The “Divine Nine”: Alpha Phi Alpha (1906), Alpha Kappa Alpha (1908), Kappa Alpha Psi (1911), Omega Psi Phi (1911), Delta Sigma Theta (1913), Phi Beta Sigma (1914), Zeta Phi Beta (1920), Sigma Gamma Rho (1922) and Iota Phi Theta (1963)

Each were founded in the 20th Century,
Spanning the breath of Civil Rights history
From the lynching era, through Jim Crow to right before the Civil Rights (1964) and Voting Rights (1965) acts,
I already know you’re “lawyered up,” and will likely escape
The fate that canned a broadcaster at Univision
For daring to reference our lovely “let’s move” FLOTUS and “Planet of the Apes,”
You’ll be careful; measure your words;
And hope to God you’ve never again have to publically recant
And, no other turncoat brother of yours
Is present at your next racist chant!

An ironic motto...

Cowards...

© 28 August 2014, the Griot Poet

I don’t hear Jay-Z
Or his soon-to-be-ex-wife Queen Bey
I don’t hear Nicky Minaj
Nor do I hear anything sobering from “Weezy”
And Kanye – nothing more brilliant than “George Bush don’t like black people”
In the “shock and awe” of Hurricane Katrina

Rhythm and Poetry – RAP
Was supposed to be the “CNN of the streets”
Telling you like Marvin Gaye “what’s going on”
To a hip-hop beat
Until the suits
From Wall Street
Started putting percentages
On how many
Times you called yourselves
Or our queens
Outside of our majestic names for a plantation profit

Giving us bullshit
Step-in-fetch minstrel lyrics
Pimping our ears
With destructive metaphors

Programming us to think
We can’t be scientists, engineers or educators

Programming us to think
We can’t be anything more than
Thugs and twerking video vixens

The blood of recent ancestors calling to us from the ground:
Trayvon Martin…Jordon Davis…Renisha McBride…Eric Garner…Michael Brown…

Yet,
Our so-called, from-the-hood “real deal”
Lyricists haven’t put paper or pen on first date
To comment on these public, serial lynching’s
And, like the NRA (which stands for “not responsible anytime”)
Who should have something to say about the “jack-booted, government Barney Fife thugs”
In Ferguson
Who after a nine-year-old girl
Blew the brains out of
Her Uzi instructor in Arizona
Just like them
I hear the same “substantive” refrain from our so-called rap artists:
.
.
.
Crickets!

Stage 1...

Source

© 11 August 2014, the Griot Poet

Stage 1: may last for five to 10 minutes. Many may notice the feeling of falling during this stage of sleep, which may cause a sudden muscle contraction.
Stage 2: The heart rate slows and the body temperature decreases. At this point, the body prepares to enter deep sleep.
Stage 3 and 4: During the deep stages of NREM sleep, the body repairs and regenerates tissues, builds bone and muscle, and appear to strengthen the immune system.
Ref: http://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/guide/sleep-101

It's like killing the dream before first REM stage.
Taking a page from Eric Garner: “I can’t breathe…”
This one – Michael Brown, eighteen – in Missouri
Visiting his grandmother
Two days BEFORE he was to enter college…
“Pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps”
That’s what’s said,
You can’t pull when you’re shot dead before life’s journey begins…

It's like killing the dream before first REM stage.
He’ll be vilified in public:
Just like Renisha McBride (knocking on the wrong door after wrecking her car),
Just like Trayvon Martin (wearing a hoodie; carrying skittles),
Just like Jordon Davis (playing loud music),
Just like Amadou Diallo (raising his hands; one with a wallet),
Just like Sean Bell (coming from a bachelor party before his wedding day),
Just like Barack Hussein Obama (“President While Black”)
Just like my sons, me and every black person
Whose ancestors were stripped from their mother continent for a
Trip on the "Good Ship Jesus"
Laying in bile and filth
Surviving a mind-numbing conditioning
That buried our native tongues and customs
In distant memories
We can no longer access
Disrespected
From slavery to Jim Crow to passed-over applications to disrespect
On elevators, escalators and department stores
Our queens treated like two-bit whores
And our princes gunned down like dogs in the streets
Channels my inner Pablo Neruda, and I find myself "Explaining a Few Things”
For anyone who’ll listen, and trolls who won’t

It's like killing the dream before first REM stage.
Stage 1: may last for five to 10 minutes. Many may notice the feeling of falling during this stage of sleep, which may cause a sudden muscle contraction.
I am falling…
Raging that I and my loved ones who’ve never broken a law
Cannot be LEFT alone
To live out our lives in grace, dignity and citizenry
Pharaoh always kills the young
My muscles contract in Rachel shouts and screams
I am sleep deprived…I cannot dream…

It's like killing the dream before first REM stage.
“I can’t breathe”…
“I can’t breathe”…
Eric: “I can’t breathe!”

Often...

Source: link

© 8 August 2013, the Griot Poet

I think of you quite often,
Body framed in sundress,
Bare shoulders, cleavage leaving just enough mystery
Eloquent and silhouetted next to Town Lake
Or Oasis sunset

I think of you quite often,
Sliding a supply of Shea Coco Butter ointment
To anoint your pedicured confidence
Slyly cradling your foot in my lap under clothed table
As we make appointment with our waiter…

I think of you quite often,
Reciting at a poetry venue
Thrilling audiences with your command of diction
Challenging the coefficient of kinetic friction
Where you have the proclivity
To line dance Electric Slide and “The Wobble”
In the denouement of festivities

I think of you quite often,
Saying goodbye at your front door
[You] Pretending to be in a hurry for an appointment
Wrapped in towel that you suddenly let
Fall effortlessly to your floor

I think of you quite often,
The cloth pallet at your front door
Might as well be adhesive spider web
And I, the fly, are caught in your spell
And any other appointment just lost meaning…

I think of you quite often,
Moving from the floor to the dining room table
Clearing the bar
Finally making it to your bed
Covered in rose petals and scented to fragranced bouquet…like you.

I think of you quite often,
As you “annoy me” when I’m trying to make us
Turkey bacon omelets
To the point I surrender and give obeisance
Turning aisles off
And using olive oil for a different lubricant
Kneeling to lift you on my shoulders as suddenly I realize I’d rather taste…you.

I think of you quite often!

Can't [Not] Be...

Source: here

© 8 August 2013, the Griot Poet

I can't not be your boogeyman,
When your self-esteem is fashioned
Around me accepting
Second or third-class citizen status.

I can't not be your boogeyman,
When your echo chambers are fashioned
By bloviating college non-graduates
Treating others' histories like they never happened.

I can't not be your boogeyman,
When merely my entrance on elevators
Elicit stares of fear, dread and shifted purses; staring at automatic doors;
Michael Jordan and Eddie Murphy treated to the [urban legend] buffoonery when requesting a
floor.

I can't not be your boogeyman,
Levar Burton has his own ritual
With the police that was obviously amiss
When NYPD stopped their plain-clothes police chief in a back-in-the-day "stop-and-frisk."
(No Christmas bonuses)

I can't not be your boogeyman,
When store detectives piled me
Bodily into a wall of toys
While he turned blind eye to four pairs of
Keds walking out on their "own" (4 white kids feet)
'Cause he *knows* NIGRAS steal!

I can't not be your boogeyman,
When you know George Zimmerman
On a first-name basis on an impartial jury
Of his peers with visits by B37's lawyer husband,
Manicures, pedicures, massages; movies
NY agent book deals
Dependent on but one outcome.

I can't not be your boogeyman,
When one out of 44
Causes some of you to lose your minds and common sense:
2.3% isn't statistically significant,
Everything in probability and physics
Tells us there's no such thing as 100% efficiency.
(That is perpetual motion - real or political - and violates the Law of Entropy)

I can't not be your boogeyman,
I will not put my hand on a burning aisle
And hope you crisp;
I will not drink the same poisonous vitriol
And hope you succumb to death's grip:

I will extend my open hand
As our ancestor's evolved the handshake
To represent no weapons and our shared fate:

"For he has made man of ONE BLOOD..."*

The choice is yours; karma pays in full
Because, you see

I can't not be your boogeyman!

*Acts 17:26 NKJV - "And He has made from ONE BLOOD every nation of men to dwell on all the face of the earth, and has determined their preappointed times and the boundaries of their dwellings,..."

America's Book of Secrets: The Drug Wars...

Carl Sandburg...Wow!

I bow to you, sir:

A REVOLVER

Here is a revolver.
It has an amazing language all its own.
It delivers unmistakable ultimatums.
It is the last word.
A simple, little human forefinger can tell a terrible story with it.
Hunger, fear, revenge, robbery, hide behind it.
It is the claw of the jungle made quick and powerful.
It is the club of the savage turned to magnificent precision.
It is more rapid than any judge or court of law.
It is less subtle and treacherous than any one lawyer or ten.
When it has spoken, the case can not be appealed to the supreme
court, nor any mandamus nor any injunction nor any stay of ex-
ecution come in and interfere with the original purpose.
And nothing in human philosophy persists more strangely than the
old belief that God is always on the side of those who have the
most revolvers.

From: Addicting Info