© 11 October 2005, The Griot Poet
We are “Amusing Ourselves to Death”
In pantomime rhythm with the mission of “big brother”: deception and derision.
Skull & Bone Trilateral conspiracies: a global, hydra hegemonic manipulation of presidential elections, like Jepetto played Pinocchio: heresy!
Each action of our so-called “democracy” is merely the bargain basement selection of the next “American Idol”: version 1.0 with southern drawl and sax, version 2.0 with southern drawl and cowboy hat!
Ahem: both graduates of Yale.
We got the “kissing cousins” in the last national fire sale; clever and blood lined to playboy Hugh Hefner.
And the elite has us railing at each other in arguments, speeches, threatening violence and chicken flinch (for them, people we’ll never meet) in a national and global application of the letter by Willie Lynch!
Our reality is someone’s Straussian fantasy.
And our “reality shows” a Faustian shell game,
With corporate owned news numbing us and dumbing down our minds
With the kind of control Hitler and Mussolini only DREAMED of!
Now, we can download our dogma and diatribes at light speed
Without the need to feel the least guilty for not using our gray matter
Feeding our thought process with the prattling manipulative chatter
Of radio talk show hosts’ diatribe rants,
Pushing agendas with repetitive chants
Using “bogey men” fears to quack us in our pants… to our chagrin.
As our way of life is in the warped justice balance of MADMEN!
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Near the Levee...
 |
| Architecture About.com: What is a Levee? |
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 in 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!
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Son of Invictus
© 25 August 2005, The Griot Poet
I am Invictus!
"My head is bloody, yet unbowed."
Two years removed from the game by
Downsizing,
Rightsizing,
Outsourcing
Have only revealed that I AM the source
Of my reality;
I AM the cause of my destruction or salvation.
I don't have to look beyond my own faith to know "every need is met"
Because
I AM!
I am Invictus!
"My head is bloody, yet unbowed."
Two years removed from the game by
Downsizing,
Rightsizing,
Outsourcing
Have only revealed that I AM the source
Of my reality;
I AM the cause of my destruction or salvation.
I don't have to look beyond my own faith to know "every need is met"
Because
I AM!
Friday, August 12, 2005
The Gunslinger
(For Cindy Sheehan)
© 12 August 2005, The Griot Poet
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." Stephen King
And, her face was grim.
Fixing her chin like flint,
Her silent vigil
Appealing to tens,
Then hundreds, then thousands…
Sitting in a lawn chair
Can cause such despair
To one who birthed war
And, ironically afterbirth
Aborted the lives of many.
Is it any wonder?
He sends lackeys
To answer her questions
While KBR, Halliburton
And Carlyle
Plunder
With the thunder
Of “shock and awe”
And the "iron triangle"
Of the military-religious-industrial
Complex?
Answer her questions!
She is the mother of loss, Casey, every mother’s son.
She has not crossed nor betrayed patriotism.
Those who suggest it with derision have no comparative, equivalent experience.
His unscripted comments are vexed,
Only mentioning her name
And taking flight in Marine One
For her guns are more lethal than his:
Birthed from a mother's burning love
For one she knew nine month's longer
Than even her son's best friend.
Yes, Stephen King:
"The man in black fled across the desert," to off-site meetings, to the White House "and the gunslinger [still] followed" him.
© 12 August 2005, The Griot Poet
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." Stephen King
And, her face was grim.
Fixing her chin like flint,
Her silent vigil
Appealing to tens,
Then hundreds, then thousands…
Sitting in a lawn chair
Can cause such despair
To one who birthed war
And, ironically afterbirth
Aborted the lives of many.
Is it any wonder?
He sends lackeys
To answer her questions
While KBR, Halliburton
And Carlyle
Plunder
With the thunder
Of “shock and awe”
And the "iron triangle"
Of the military-religious-industrial
Complex?
Answer her questions!
She is the mother of loss, Casey, every mother’s son.
She has not crossed nor betrayed patriotism.
Those who suggest it with derision have no comparative, equivalent experience.
His unscripted comments are vexed,
Only mentioning her name
And taking flight in Marine One
For her guns are more lethal than his:
Birthed from a mother's burning love
For one she knew nine month's longer
Than even her son's best friend.
Yes, Stephen King:
"The man in black fled across the desert," to off-site meetings, to the White House "and the gunslinger [still] followed" him.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Purgatory
© 30 July 2005, The Griot Poet
Eye am below Heaven and above hell
where familiar spirits dwell.
Teased between what appears to be
the "light at the end of the tunnel";
and the licking flames of discontent.
Oldies songs take me back to the seventies:
before sex;
before bills;
before marriage;
before responsibilities.
Eye remember
all eye ever wanted to do was to
make an honest living.
Somewhere in my story, eye discovered
[John] Milton's nine-level purgatory.
Vision... became lust;
"doing whatever it takes," violating sacred trusts.
If the soul is
the mind,
the will,
the imagination,
the emotions
and the intellect:
eye sold it!
When do visions become vain imaginations?
When does goal-setting lead to coveting?
Thrust into responsibilities before eye was trained and ready,
eye skipped down the "Primrose path" -- eye wide shut -- in "no mind,"
forgetting that
"action without thought"
takes prior planning
and much practice.
So, here am eye
at forty-three
feeling less like
Solomon
and more like
Ecclesiastes *
My prayers as the
vain repetition
of a heathen
Teased between what appears to be
the "light at the end of the tunnel";
and the licking flames of discontent.
*: Ecclesiastes 1: 2 Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all [is] vanity.
Eye am below Heaven and above hell
where familiar spirits dwell.
Teased between what appears to be
the "light at the end of the tunnel";
and the licking flames of discontent.
Oldies songs take me back to the seventies:
before sex;
before bills;
before marriage;
before responsibilities.
Eye remember
all eye ever wanted to do was to
make an honest living.
Somewhere in my story, eye discovered
[John] Milton's nine-level purgatory.
Vision... became lust;
"doing whatever it takes," violating sacred trusts.
If the soul is
the mind,
the will,
the imagination,
the emotions
and the intellect:
eye sold it!
When do visions become vain imaginations?
When does goal-setting lead to coveting?
Thrust into responsibilities before eye was trained and ready,
eye skipped down the "Primrose path" -- eye wide shut -- in "no mind,"
forgetting that
"action without thought"
takes prior planning
and much practice.
So, here am eye
at forty-three
feeling less like
Solomon
and more like
Ecclesiastes *
My prayers as the
vain repetition
of a heathen
Teased between what appears to be
the "light at the end of the tunnel";
and the licking flames of discontent.
*: Ecclesiastes 1: 2 Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all [is] vanity.
Friday, May 06, 2005
April 30, 2005
© April 30, 2005, The Griot Poet
April 30, 2005:
Thirty years after the fall of Saigon,
Now Ho Chi Men City,
Truth and Tet Offensives
Get kind of gritty
As political parties – Donkeys and Grand Old Parties both look like asses
Having their hands covered in the blood of saints that Pilate’s goblet
Cannot wash away.
Today, in 1945
A tyrant, still for strange reasons revered, killed himself most cowardly,
A bullet for him and poison for his 24-hour wife, Eva Braun,
A man who may have been secretly a closet homosexual
And openly killed his fellows, Gypsies and the relatives of his Jewish mother
In a six-million plus human slaughter
Encouraged by Ottoman efficiencies in the murder
Of Armenian Christians
And their wholesale “Ministry of Truth”
Treatment of Orwellian “un-person” histories…
This mystery of this iniquity
Can easily be solved:
When evil wants to rear its head,
It does so when activists and poets do not have the resolve
To declare the truth
And remove the spiritual scales from the eyes
Of the “bewildered horde”
“Entertained to Death”
By “fair and balanced” news and reality show media outlets.
April 30, 2005:
Is a date that spiritually resonates in our history
One of the four shortest months of the year remembered in the short ditty:
“Thirty days has September, April, June and November”:
If this is the end of April showers to usher in May Flowers
Then let our light sabers curse the darkness
And hear the words of poet prophets
And give land colonized by occupying armies back to the people who live on it
Replacing not one tyrant like Saddam with another like Ahmad Chalabi
Replacing not truth with lies about “weapons of mass destruction”
It is our function to purge the earth of Sith Lords that see life in black-and-white “us versus them” terms.
Shoulder shrugs from apathy are deadly!
I dedicate myself to this for as long as I am blessed alive…
For what will they say about us on April 30, 2035?
April 30, 2005:
Thirty years after the fall of Saigon,
Now Ho Chi Men City,
Truth and Tet Offensives
Get kind of gritty
As political parties – Donkeys and Grand Old Parties both look like asses
Having their hands covered in the blood of saints that Pilate’s goblet
Cannot wash away.
Today, in 1945
A tyrant, still for strange reasons revered, killed himself most cowardly,
A bullet for him and poison for his 24-hour wife, Eva Braun,
A man who may have been secretly a closet homosexual
And openly killed his fellows, Gypsies and the relatives of his Jewish mother
In a six-million plus human slaughter
Encouraged by Ottoman efficiencies in the murder
Of Armenian Christians
And their wholesale “Ministry of Truth”
Treatment of Orwellian “un-person” histories…
This mystery of this iniquity
Can easily be solved:
When evil wants to rear its head,
It does so when activists and poets do not have the resolve
To declare the truth
And remove the spiritual scales from the eyes
Of the “bewildered horde”
“Entertained to Death”
By “fair and balanced” news and reality show media outlets.
April 30, 2005:
Is a date that spiritually resonates in our history
One of the four shortest months of the year remembered in the short ditty:
“Thirty days has September, April, June and November”:
If this is the end of April showers to usher in May Flowers
Then let our light sabers curse the darkness
And hear the words of poet prophets
And give land colonized by occupying armies back to the people who live on it
Replacing not one tyrant like Saddam with another like Ahmad Chalabi
Replacing not truth with lies about “weapons of mass destruction”
It is our function to purge the earth of Sith Lords that see life in black-and-white “us versus them” terms.
Shoulder shrugs from apathy are deadly!
I dedicate myself to this for as long as I am blessed alive…
For what will they say about us on April 30, 2035?
Thursday, March 10, 2005
One Thousand Faces
© 10 September 2004, The Griot Poet
And yet another milestone crossed... 1,500.
One thousand faces
Stare at me from a web site.
One thousand smiles
Communicate hopes for a future, education, living standards, pride.
One thousand uniforms
Of various branches and ethnic stripes,
Spit and polished, strac and true.
One thousand families
Once beaming with pride,
Bury their heads in tear-soaked pillows
Photographer’s punished for letting them see their children’s coffins in the news.
I cry one thousand tears
And pray a single drop of moisture here
Will seed their resurrections.
“The day became a day of wrath, of trouble and distress, of waste and desolation. Darkness. Gloominess. A day of trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, against the high towers.
“We walked as blind men.
“Our blood poured out as dust and our flesh as dung.” *
One thousand faces
Attached to bodies
Charged into battle bravely,
For the charred remains of their brethren,
For a threat unrealized in ancient Babylon,
For their loved ones they’ll see no more.
For our country.
Demanding nothing more from
Their nation
Than: TRUTH!
* “That day [is] a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of waste-ness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, A day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers. And I will bring distress upon men, that they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned against the LORD: and their blood shall be poured out as dust, and their flesh as the dung.
” (Zephaniah 1: 15 - 17)
And yet another milestone crossed... 1,500.
One thousand faces
Stare at me from a web site.
One thousand smiles
Communicate hopes for a future, education, living standards, pride.
One thousand uniforms
Of various branches and ethnic stripes,
Spit and polished, strac and true.
One thousand families
Once beaming with pride,
Bury their heads in tear-soaked pillows
Photographer’s punished for letting them see their children’s coffins in the news.
I cry one thousand tears
And pray a single drop of moisture here
Will seed their resurrections.
“The day became a day of wrath, of trouble and distress, of waste and desolation. Darkness. Gloominess. A day of trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, against the high towers.
“We walked as blind men.
“Our blood poured out as dust and our flesh as dung.” *
One thousand faces
Attached to bodies
Charged into battle bravely,
For the charred remains of their brethren,
For a threat unrealized in ancient Babylon,
For their loved ones they’ll see no more.
For our country.
Demanding nothing more from
Their nation
Than: TRUTH!
* “That day [is] a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of waste-ness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, A day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers. And I will bring distress upon men, that they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned against the LORD: and their blood shall be poured out as dust, and their flesh as the dung.
” (Zephaniah 1: 15 - 17)
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Innuendo
© 19 February 2004, The Griot Poet
This piece originates from... a lot of pain. Pain I am growing out of daily.
I give to those who have suffered pain as I have suffered it at the hands of those whom you've placed your trust in. You are not alone.
I
did not know
the pulpit
was a
Weapon of Mass Destruction!
I
thought
it was your
function
to deliver
the Word of God.
I find
it odd that
intimate conversations
has become
your revelation
from on high!
I
pitch and
falter as
I spy
the altar filled
with gullible
souls
absorbing your
vitriol
as manna from
Heaven; your words
a bread of leaven.
Not knowing
you've thrown
down the
gauntlet in
a pitched
battle of
spoken words
like dueling
hip-hop
stars,
verbosity
slicing
literary
and literal
scars,
the by-product
of your
clever
shtick!
And,
I
don't give a
lick
if this hurts
your feelings:
since
your attacks
sent my senses
reeling;
as a writer
I OUGHT to
have FUN with
this!
I will not
chase your bitter
pill with the
putrid swill
of hate:
before my own
mother conceived
me,
I was known
and wonderfully
fashioned by
the same
Designer
whose Word
you TWIST
to berate me!
(Jim Jones would be so PROUD of you!)
I
did not know
the pulpit
was a
Weapon of Mass Destruction!
This is MY podium!
You
don't know
what you've
started!
As a writer
and poet filled
with aught,
I ought to
know also
how to
decipher
and use
INNUENDO!
This piece originates from... a lot of pain. Pain I am growing out of daily.
I give to those who have suffered pain as I have suffered it at the hands of those whom you've placed your trust in. You are not alone.
I
did not know
the pulpit
was a
Weapon of Mass Destruction!
I
thought
it was your
function
to deliver
the Word of God.
I find
it odd that
intimate conversations
has become
your revelation
from on high!
I
pitch and
falter as
I spy
the altar filled
with gullible
souls
absorbing your
vitriol
as manna from
Heaven; your words
a bread of leaven.
Not knowing
you've thrown
down the
gauntlet in
a pitched
battle of
spoken words
like dueling
hip-hop
stars,
verbosity
slicing
literary
and literal
scars,
the by-product
of your
clever
shtick!
And,
I
don't give a
lick
if this hurts
your feelings:
since
your attacks
sent my senses
reeling;
as a writer
I OUGHT to
have FUN with
this!
I will not
chase your bitter
pill with the
putrid swill
of hate:
before my own
mother conceived
me,
I was known
and wonderfully
fashioned by
the same
Designer
whose Word
you TWIST
to berate me!
(Jim Jones would be so PROUD of you!)
I
did not know
the pulpit
was a
Weapon of Mass Destruction!
This is MY podium!
You
don't know
what you've
started!
As a writer
and poet filled
with aught,
I ought to
know also
how to
decipher
and use
INNUENDO!
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Mourner’s Bench
© 18 January 2005, The Griot Poet
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
A beautiful sister on a microphone in long, flowing choir robes
Rears back and belts out a tone originating from the tragicomic pain of American blues.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
A people of differing tribes, customs and hues, herded through Goree Island gates; stacked end-to-end between bile and crates on slave ships
Subjugated by the threat of noose and becoming “strange fruit,” burning crosses, night raids and the incessant crackle of whips across backs stripped of skin – but not dignity.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
On the one day (with chagrin) massa gave us a measured freedom: a Constantine-ordained Sunday measured by massa’s presence, measuring each word of the “Word” from the pulpit for content;
Raised fingers to ask his permission to relieve themselves during services.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
As Invictus from William Ernest Henley: “their heads were bloody, yet unbowed.”
Bowed only to a God and a hope for a people they could not (yet) see.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
Laying on hands made sense, as we had no access to medicines other than folk remedies from Africa, forcing us into a deeper spirituality, speaking in unknown tongues in intimate communion with the ultimate reality.
As I am juxtaposed between here and then on the unbowed backs of women and men like: Phyllis Wheatley, Ida B. Wells, Shirley Chisholm “neither bossed or bought”; Barbara Jordan whose “FAITH in the constitution was complete and whole,” Zora Neal Hurston, Toni Morrison, Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, W.E.B. Dubois, Carter G. Woodson, Medger Evers, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr.
All this as I sit on the mourner’s bench, reciting the coded one-hundreds in unknown tongues giving the signal to Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman, hands laid on my countenance imparting to me the freedom cries of my ancestors!
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
A beautiful sister on a microphone in long, flowing choir robes
Rears back and belts out a tone originating from the tragicomic pain of American blues.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
A people of differing tribes, customs and hues, herded through Goree Island gates; stacked end-to-end between bile and crates on slave ships
Subjugated by the threat of noose and becoming “strange fruit,” burning crosses, night raids and the incessant crackle of whips across backs stripped of skin – but not dignity.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
On the one day (with chagrin) massa gave us a measured freedom: a Constantine-ordained Sunday measured by massa’s presence, measuring each word of the “Word” from the pulpit for content;
Raised fingers to ask his permission to relieve themselves during services.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
As Invictus from William Ernest Henley: “their heads were bloody, yet unbowed.”
Bowed only to a God and a hope for a people they could not (yet) see.
I hear the cries of my ancestors.
Laying on hands made sense, as we had no access to medicines other than folk remedies from Africa, forcing us into a deeper spirituality, speaking in unknown tongues in intimate communion with the ultimate reality.
As I am juxtaposed between here and then on the unbowed backs of women and men like: Phyllis Wheatley, Ida B. Wells, Shirley Chisholm “neither bossed or bought”; Barbara Jordan whose “FAITH in the constitution was complete and whole,” Zora Neal Hurston, Toni Morrison, Countee Cullen, Langston Hughes, W.E.B. Dubois, Carter G. Woodson, Medger Evers, Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr.
All this as I sit on the mourner’s bench, reciting the coded one-hundreds in unknown tongues giving the signal to Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman, hands laid on my countenance imparting to me the freedom cries of my ancestors!
Friday, January 21, 2005
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar
© 21 January 2005, The Griot Poet
Inspired by William River Pitt of Truthout: http://truthout.org/fyi/.
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar…
As I swallow the bitter swill of pundit largess: “free speech zones” for the restless peon hordes told to “eat cake” by Marie Antoinette administrations and BLOGS for the alternate press.
Watching his Skull and Bones fraternity brother mouth the Oath of Office stone-faced… for what could have been – without much difference – his place?
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar…
Jesus, blond-haired and blue-eyed moves stealthily under Iranian skies spying on the next spoke in the “Axis of Evil” wars without end.
Any Melanin-rich Aramaic representations of Him or His mother’s visage’s long ago conveniently PC’d and purged by Michelangelo’s genius.
“The poor you will have with you always” did not mean CREATE even more in the rape, plunder and murder for 2nd and 3rd world resources from Malthusian slaves for cell phones, pagers, computers, TVs, Nikes, blue jeans and SUVs.
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar…
We are a hare’s whisker from totalitarian rule, in the image of “We” by Zamyatin and Orwell’s “1984”; one more terrorist attack from a Declaration of Independence and constitution also seeming “quaint” and inconvenient… like Geneva conventions, reducing the ideas of deistic founding fathers to the dreamy wishes of idealistic fools!
As I search in the political and spiritual darkness for my epidermal RFID chip (used for tithes and offerings at certain Constantine mega churches and approved by the current FDA)
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar!
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
”To the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
”Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Inspired by William River Pitt of Truthout: http://truthout.org/fyi/.
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar…
As I swallow the bitter swill of pundit largess: “free speech zones” for the restless peon hordes told to “eat cake” by Marie Antoinette administrations and BLOGS for the alternate press.
Watching his Skull and Bones fraternity brother mouth the Oath of Office stone-faced… for what could have been – without much difference – his place?
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar…
Jesus, blond-haired and blue-eyed moves stealthily under Iranian skies spying on the next spoke in the “Axis of Evil” wars without end.
Any Melanin-rich Aramaic representations of Him or His mother’s visage’s long ago conveniently PC’d and purged by Michelangelo’s genius.
“The poor you will have with you always” did not mean CREATE even more in the rape, plunder and murder for 2nd and 3rd world resources from Malthusian slaves for cell phones, pagers, computers, TVs, Nikes, blue jeans and SUVs.
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar…
We are a hare’s whisker from totalitarian rule, in the image of “We” by Zamyatin and Orwell’s “1984”; one more terrorist attack from a Declaration of Independence and constitution also seeming “quaint” and inconvenient… like Geneva conventions, reducing the ideas of deistic founding fathers to the dreamy wishes of idealistic fools!
As I search in the political and spiritual darkness for my epidermal RFID chip (used for tithes and offerings at certain Constantine mega churches and approved by the current FDA)
On the Occasion of the Inauguration of Caesar!
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
”To the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
”Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Sunday, January 16, 2005
In Tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
These are two tributes to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. They are written with the hindsight knowledge of Dr. King the man: preacher, teacher, prophet, adulterer, sexist, misogynist. I do not say these things lightly.
I prefer the whole package with all its strengths and flaws. I prefer to think of Dr. King as a man and honor him with these pieces. It takes away our excuse to be "perfect" before we get to the task he set before us.
April 4, 1968
© 4 April 2004, The Griot Poet
America deciphered: “I am race,”
Skated the slate of liberation,
Twisting freedom via litigation,
Stating we were three-fifths human.
The delusion kept alive from a pulpit
For Sundays and centuries
From slavery and bitter memories
Until a vilified, controversial
Whore-mongering warrior poet
Would take the stand.
After Rosetta Park’s
Defiant, seated stand
Put boldness in backbones
Stooped by noose,
Night raids,
Razed townships like:
Rosewood;
Greenwood, Archer and Pine
(Black Wall Street before the GAP Band)
Jim Crow and burning crosses.
He
Would put into practice
Philosophies
By Mahatma Gandhi
And Palestinian Prophets
Taking action against
Pharaoh’s factions
Daily hurtling
Towards being a noble sacrifice.
April 4, 1968:
Bethlehem Community Center
In East Winston-Salem, North Carolina…
Teachers sat down a kindergarten
Class relaying the sad news
That their Moses,
Who had “been to the mountaintop…”
Died.
Urban children,
Spread three-to-five
Shed hot tears
In an understanding
Beyond their years
Until time for
Their 11 o’clock
Nap.
After that,
Recess was recessed,
The slow build never
Really got to the
Typical level of activity
We enjoyed.
Confederate flags
And pick up trucks
Rode through our
Section
Honking,
Cursing,
Hoping
To start
A ruckus.
No joy
In the usual
Toys; no joy
In parent pick up:
My father
Solemn
And red-eyed.
I held him tight with
Five-year-old
Arms,
Needing his strength on
The day
Moses
Died.
Mountaintop Sermons
© 14 January 2005, The Griot Poet
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
But, I want you to understand,
I was just a man
Just as flawed, just as human
Prone to mistakes
And at times, degraded women and my own race
In unintended ignorance
Playing a slave singing dark ditties
In Margaret Mitchell’s film version
Of the novel “Gone With the Wind.”
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
But, I want you to understand,
I was just a man
And don’t take this day
As a day off
But a day ON
Do the marches; sing the songs
Don’t go back to “business as usual.”
You see,
If you let them
They’ll make a symbol out of me,
They’ll use select verses of my
Most heart felt sermons
To propel a commercial agenda
And a political bent
Which is meant
To keep you behind a neon
Mental sign of exclusion
More powerful than the ones
I viewed
On water fountains and theaters saying:
Whites only; Coloreds only
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
And, I want you to understand
I was just a man
Like David,
A man after God’s own heart
That if he lived today
Would be vilified
On 24-hour news stations diatribes
Before this and every nation
Until he
Abdicated dignity and civility
In costly impeachment investigations
You will see
People still trying to vilify me
Years after I’m gone
Fallen by natural causes… or other means
Using FBI tapes and illegal wire taps
I was just trying to follow Jesus
The living revolutionary
Who told me in His sermons “they will hate you, as they hated me.”
But that didn’t stop His march to Calvary,
And it didn’t stop my march in Selma,
It didn’t stop my march in “Bombing Ham” for four little black girls,
It didn’t stop my march in Atlanta,
It didn’t stop my march in Chicago,
It didn’t stop my march in Detroit,
It didn’t stop my march in Washington, DC!
It won't stop with YOUR march...
You see,
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
If you really want to honor me,
"Try to love somebody,"
Be a "drum major for justice,"
And realize,
One person
YOU
Can make a difference!
I prefer the whole package with all its strengths and flaws. I prefer to think of Dr. King as a man and honor him with these pieces. It takes away our excuse to be "perfect" before we get to the task he set before us.
April 4, 1968
© 4 April 2004, The Griot Poet
America deciphered: “I am race,”
Skated the slate of liberation,
Twisting freedom via litigation,
Stating we were three-fifths human.
The delusion kept alive from a pulpit
For Sundays and centuries
From slavery and bitter memories
Until a vilified, controversial
Whore-mongering warrior poet
Would take the stand.
After Rosetta Park’s
Defiant, seated stand
Put boldness in backbones
Stooped by noose,
Night raids,
Razed townships like:
Rosewood;
Greenwood, Archer and Pine
(Black Wall Street before the GAP Band)
Jim Crow and burning crosses.
He
Would put into practice
Philosophies
By Mahatma Gandhi
And Palestinian Prophets
Taking action against
Pharaoh’s factions
Daily hurtling
Towards being a noble sacrifice.
April 4, 1968:
Bethlehem Community Center
In East Winston-Salem, North Carolina…
Teachers sat down a kindergarten
Class relaying the sad news
That their Moses,
Who had “been to the mountaintop…”
Died.
Urban children,
Spread three-to-five
Shed hot tears
In an understanding
Beyond their years
Until time for
Their 11 o’clock
Nap.
After that,
Recess was recessed,
The slow build never
Really got to the
Typical level of activity
We enjoyed.
Confederate flags
And pick up trucks
Rode through our
Section
Honking,
Cursing,
Hoping
To start
A ruckus.
No joy
In the usual
Toys; no joy
In parent pick up:
My father
Solemn
And red-eyed.
I held him tight with
Five-year-old
Arms,
Needing his strength on
The day
Moses
Died.
Mountaintop Sermons
© 14 January 2005, The Griot Poet
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
But, I want you to understand,
I was just a man
Just as flawed, just as human
Prone to mistakes
And at times, degraded women and my own race
In unintended ignorance
Playing a slave singing dark ditties
In Margaret Mitchell’s film version
Of the novel “Gone With the Wind.”
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
But, I want you to understand,
I was just a man
And don’t take this day
As a day off
But a day ON
Do the marches; sing the songs
Don’t go back to “business as usual.”
You see,
If you let them
They’ll make a symbol out of me,
They’ll use select verses of my
Most heart felt sermons
To propel a commercial agenda
And a political bent
Which is meant
To keep you behind a neon
Mental sign of exclusion
More powerful than the ones
I viewed
On water fountains and theaters saying:
Whites only; Coloreds only
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
And, I want you to understand
I was just a man
Like David,
A man after God’s own heart
That if he lived today
Would be vilified
On 24-hour news stations diatribes
Before this and every nation
Until he
Abdicated dignity and civility
In costly impeachment investigations
You will see
People still trying to vilify me
Years after I’m gone
Fallen by natural causes… or other means
Using FBI tapes and illegal wire taps
I was just trying to follow Jesus
The living revolutionary
Who told me in His sermons “they will hate you, as they hated me.”
But that didn’t stop His march to Calvary,
And it didn’t stop my march in Selma,
It didn’t stop my march in “Bombing Ham” for four little black girls,
It didn’t stop my march in Atlanta,
It didn’t stop my march in Chicago,
It didn’t stop my march in Detroit,
It didn’t stop my march in Washington, DC!
It won't stop with YOUR march...
You see,
“I’ve been to the mountaintop…”
If you really want to honor me,
"Try to love somebody,"
Be a "drum major for justice,"
And realize,
One person
YOU
Can make a difference!
Friday, January 07, 2005
Pastor Feel Good
© 6 January 2005, The Griot Poet
Since when did the disciples rock mansions and Bentleys?
Wed million-dollar Barbie-doll models (on their second or third marriages)?
Tele-evangelists fleece their flocks of millions of desperate souls
That no pundit pollster is LIKELY to poll
Sending silver and gold “Reverend Ike-like” prayer cloths tracing my hand and foot for a two hundred buck investment into your 50-foot yacht – WHAT?
Pastor Feel Good:
How do you sleep damning the memory of Palestinian Prophets receiving a Roman “empire-strikes-back” beat down and rusty nails in His hands and feet?
“Depart from me, you workers of iniquity” was preached when the Hebrew sect called Christianity did not exist – YOU were on that list!
They say “war is a racket,” then church is a hustle!
And the bustle to merge the twain that never should meet frees us of the guilt of stealing civil liberties in
Guantanamo;
Afghanistan;
America and Iraq.
Torture memos disavowed by the author of the same in confirmation investigations;
Having corporate selections and calling them elections.
Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. had to go!
“Their dead bodies lying in the streets of the great city spiritually called Sodom and Egypt.” (Rev 11:8)
Because the beast could not suffer the truth told by servants humble, humanly flawed and meek.
But each, as Ozzie Davis said of Malcolm, were seeds planted in the ground nourished by their own blood coming up not just as “trees planted by rivers of water” (Psalms 1:3),
But like Langston, just as deep and resurrected in spoken word prophets: some Christian, some Hebrew, some Muslim, some Buddhist, some Atheist, and some Anarchist,
Spoken word prophets preaching peace to power in venues instead of pulpits where TRUTH can’t be warped, spun or STOPPED!
Since when did the disciples rock mansions and Bentleys?
Wed million-dollar Barbie-doll models (on their second or third marriages)?
Tele-evangelists fleece their flocks of millions of desperate souls
That no pundit pollster is LIKELY to poll
Sending silver and gold “Reverend Ike-like” prayer cloths tracing my hand and foot for a two hundred buck investment into your 50-foot yacht – WHAT?
Pastor Feel Good:
How do you sleep damning the memory of Palestinian Prophets receiving a Roman “empire-strikes-back” beat down and rusty nails in His hands and feet?
“Depart from me, you workers of iniquity” was preached when the Hebrew sect called Christianity did not exist – YOU were on that list!
They say “war is a racket,” then church is a hustle!
And the bustle to merge the twain that never should meet frees us of the guilt of stealing civil liberties in
Guantanamo;
Afghanistan;
America and Iraq.
Torture memos disavowed by the author of the same in confirmation investigations;
Having corporate selections and calling them elections.
Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. had to go!
“Their dead bodies lying in the streets of the great city spiritually called Sodom and Egypt.” (Rev 11:8)
Because the beast could not suffer the truth told by servants humble, humanly flawed and meek.
But each, as Ozzie Davis said of Malcolm, were seeds planted in the ground nourished by their own blood coming up not just as “trees planted by rivers of water” (Psalms 1:3),
But like Langston, just as deep and resurrected in spoken word prophets: some Christian, some Hebrew, some Muslim, some Buddhist, some Atheist, and some Anarchist,
Spoken word prophets preaching peace to power in venues instead of pulpits where TRUTH can’t be warped, spun or STOPPED!
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
One Third Were Children
From my good friend in poetry, Thom the World Poet, http://worldpoet.blogspot.com/
The numbers of dead still shocking-
what struck to the bone is this
one third of all dead were just children
who could not escape this
Not boys in body bags from wars still boiling
not child soldiers in wars still fighting
more those poor you see in all Third World photos
born into life as short as they are
gone from us.Never known now.Mass graves,ungrieved
buried at the speed of waves rising on blue days
in random numbers.Held under in waters
rising above their small sizes.They could not run
fast enough away.Their bodies matchstick stay
until burial among all the detritus of this day-
Kyoto Protocols,Global Warming,Greenhouse Effects
and every scientific warning (posthumous)
which locates the source of the wave
and the cause of their graves
in those First World emissions
from SUVs and coal mines
denuding of forests
black strap highways
cities of heat emitting waves
that drown our own children
make Third World slaves
of a dinosaur lifestyle.
They died out too(over time)
Time has run out for our children
and that fossil fuelled motor engine
THOM GRIEVING DECEMBER 29,2004
The numbers of dead still shocking-
what struck to the bone is this
one third of all dead were just children
who could not escape this
Not boys in body bags from wars still boiling
not child soldiers in wars still fighting
more those poor you see in all Third World photos
born into life as short as they are
gone from us.Never known now.Mass graves,ungrieved
buried at the speed of waves rising on blue days
in random numbers.Held under in waters
rising above their small sizes.They could not run
fast enough away.Their bodies matchstick stay
until burial among all the detritus of this day-
Kyoto Protocols,Global Warming,Greenhouse Effects
and every scientific warning (posthumous)
which locates the source of the wave
and the cause of their graves
in those First World emissions
from SUVs and coal mines
denuding of forests
black strap highways
cities of heat emitting waves
that drown our own children
make Third World slaves
of a dinosaur lifestyle.
They died out too(over time)
Time has run out for our children
and that fossil fuelled motor engine
THOM GRIEVING DECEMBER 29,2004
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Bohemian Groves
© 12 December 2004, The Griot Poet
Santa’s tree land…
Row after row of phalanx symbols…
The prophylactic bedecks the representative
Fertility symbols in Trojan ribbed silver and gold.
A pentagram affixed
Atop the green Richard
Plants the seed through
The obligatory
Orifice Holly Wreath
Under the aphrodisiac
Mistletoe.
Flip the script
On the ‘n’
In Santa’s name:
You get the adversary
Up to the same old game
“He comes as an angel of light.”
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzon,
And Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer:
All just Pan without Peter on
Four instead of two cloven hooves,
The messenger, Gabriel
Gave the news to Mary
Of the virgin pregnancy
In the sixth month
Of ELUL,
Superimpose the Hebrew
On the Julian
Calendar – we’re talking
August – September.
Unless
We believe Jesus was a “premi”
That puts the divine birth
In May or June!
This
Is a ritual, kept alive not to pay homage
To Palestinian Prophets
Or Saturnalia:
But to Mammon and to
Maximize to gorging
Fourth quarter corporate profits!
We cannot rail against
Skull and bones
Selections
Masking as elections,
Against world elites
Hiding in robes,
Sacrifices of children
In effigy “cremations of care”
And Iraqi reality
To Moloch’s
Flames
If we are not
Willing to dismantle
Our own
Bohemian Groves!
Santa’s tree land…
Row after row of phalanx symbols…
The prophylactic bedecks the representative
Fertility symbols in Trojan ribbed silver and gold.
A pentagram affixed
Atop the green Richard
Plants the seed through
The obligatory
Orifice Holly Wreath
Under the aphrodisiac
Mistletoe.
Flip the script
On the ‘n’
In Santa’s name:
You get the adversary
Up to the same old game
“He comes as an angel of light.”
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen,
Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzon,
And Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer:
All just Pan without Peter on
Four instead of two cloven hooves,
The messenger, Gabriel
Gave the news to Mary
Of the virgin pregnancy
In the sixth month
Of ELUL,
Superimpose the Hebrew
On the Julian
Calendar – we’re talking
August – September.
Unless
We believe Jesus was a “premi”
That puts the divine birth
In May or June!
This
Is a ritual, kept alive not to pay homage
To Palestinian Prophets
Or Saturnalia:
But to Mammon and to
Maximize to gorging
Fourth quarter corporate profits!
We cannot rail against
Skull and bones
Selections
Masking as elections,
Against world elites
Hiding in robes,
Sacrifices of children
In effigy “cremations of care”
And Iraqi reality
To Moloch’s
Flames
If we are not
Willing to dismantle
Our own
Bohemian Groves!
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Opportunity
© 21 October 2004, The Griot Poet
I have the ability to teach martial arts and life’s lessons.
I deliver poetry pieces with the fervor of the preached Word.
Yet, my confession is, when I’m stressing I find the opportunity to stray within reach.
I’d just have to stay mum, publicly treating my undercover like my female chum.
By vanity, I’m flattered that at forty-two, I’ve “still got it.”
My past reality is the memories of empty one-night stands,
Bland pick-up lines that most likely NEVER worked!
Sleeping with the wives of 7 men: one the wife of a very close friend, causing much hurt.
Feeling like a curse or worse, I painted over each reflective surface of my living space with the color of my soul’s mood: black.
For I lacked spiritual insight, as my third eye was blind: “eye wide shut.”
So, I know before we chance this intimate dance where this broad road leads.
Though an affair would renew me; sooth me, like crack cocaine, your pheromones will map their way to my brain, wrapping my medulla oblongata with the “one more hit” refrain, driving a brother insane.
I have a woman that despite these faults truly loves me!
Now, I’ve planted the seeds of men and I want to lead them by my example.
I want to metaphysically pry open their third eyes with ample amounts of Living Water Visine ® – I want my sons to be FREE!
Though by vanity, at forty-two I’m flattered that I’ve “still got it,”
I say this with all sincerity, ignoring my smaller head’s testosterone masculinity as I say this through gritted teeth spirituality:
NO!!!
I have the ability to teach martial arts and life’s lessons.
I deliver poetry pieces with the fervor of the preached Word.
Yet, my confession is, when I’m stressing I find the opportunity to stray within reach.
I’d just have to stay mum, publicly treating my undercover like my female chum.
By vanity, I’m flattered that at forty-two, I’ve “still got it.”
My past reality is the memories of empty one-night stands,
Bland pick-up lines that most likely NEVER worked!
Sleeping with the wives of 7 men: one the wife of a very close friend, causing much hurt.
Feeling like a curse or worse, I painted over each reflective surface of my living space with the color of my soul’s mood: black.
For I lacked spiritual insight, as my third eye was blind: “eye wide shut.”
So, I know before we chance this intimate dance where this broad road leads.
Though an affair would renew me; sooth me, like crack cocaine, your pheromones will map their way to my brain, wrapping my medulla oblongata with the “one more hit” refrain, driving a brother insane.
I have a woman that despite these faults truly loves me!
Now, I’ve planted the seeds of men and I want to lead them by my example.
I want to metaphysically pry open their third eyes with ample amounts of Living Water Visine ® – I want my sons to be FREE!
Though by vanity, at forty-two I’m flattered that I’ve “still got it,”
I say this with all sincerity, ignoring my smaller head’s testosterone masculinity as I say this through gritted teeth spirituality:
NO!!!
Monday, November 29, 2004
Fond Memories
© 10 September 2004, The Griot Poet
A open letter to the president and his political opponent:
I have fond memories of Vietnam.
I was too young and protected from harm
Of the draft and a war
Started on the “lie of Tonklin”
From another Texas president.
I have fond memories of Vietnam.
I was too young and protected from harm
Yet: my brothers, cousins were not as fortunate
To have family connections
With Lieutenant Governors
For “Champagne Squadron” appointments.
I have fond memories of Vietnam.
I was too young and protected from harm
I have the vivid memories of mothers’ tears;
More that one Rachel crying: “my babies not here!”
While you missed
Legal drills,
Your opponent, frat brother and blood relative
Swift-Boated the Mekong Delta
Four months
For thrills,
Medals and
Future political
Appointments.
Not a gray hair
On either of you is out of place,
Yet, no space in print or cyberspace
Mentions long Skull and Bones
Affiliations of the country’s
Next president.
Connie Chung, anyone?
My cousin Willie
Came back from ‘Nam
Staring into space,
LSD addicted,
With three personalities.
My friend Cleo
Died from leukemia
From Agent Orange
Defoliation not long
After my 16th birthday.
An open letter to the president and his political opponent during this “lie of Iraq engagement”:
I was too young to go and protected from harm,
But, I have very fond memories of Vietnam!
A open letter to the president and his political opponent:
I have fond memories of Vietnam.
I was too young and protected from harm
Of the draft and a war
Started on the “lie of Tonklin”
From another Texas president.
I have fond memories of Vietnam.
I was too young and protected from harm
Yet: my brothers, cousins were not as fortunate
To have family connections
With Lieutenant Governors
For “Champagne Squadron” appointments.
I have fond memories of Vietnam.
I was too young and protected from harm
I have the vivid memories of mothers’ tears;
More that one Rachel crying: “my babies not here!”
While you missed
Legal drills,
Your opponent, frat brother and blood relative
Swift-Boated the Mekong Delta
Four months
For thrills,
Medals and
Future political
Appointments.
Not a gray hair
On either of you is out of place,
Yet, no space in print or cyberspace
Mentions long Skull and Bones
Affiliations of the country’s
Next president.
Connie Chung, anyone?
My cousin Willie
Came back from ‘Nam
Staring into space,
LSD addicted,
With three personalities.
My friend Cleo
Died from leukemia
From Agent Orange
Defoliation not long
After my 16th birthday.
An open letter to the president and his political opponent during this “lie of Iraq engagement”:
I was too young to go and protected from harm,
But, I have very fond memories of Vietnam!
"If"
© 3 August 1999, The Griot Poet
If I could...
I would break down the wall of expectations
And limitations between us as I listen to your voice caress English prose.
If I could...
I would touch you and allow your touch on me
Igniting electric currents birthing Goosebumps on brown skin hot for such
A touch.
If I could...
I would have us spill into an embrace that would allow our heartbeats
To synchronize their rhythms into one pulse, one hum...
If I could...
I would pull lips into a sweet caress that would last for hours and breathless days
As we melded into each other's visage, the lines an indistinguishable pretzel...
If I could...
I would rip off my garments in rash abandon at your invitation to love
Anoint your skin with edible oils and fragrances - manicure your fingers - pedicure your toes
And bless each one with a kiss,
My actions a gift: "This is my body I give unto you..."
If I could...
I would sip sweet wine on weekend mornings lying naked by you reading Voltaire, Tolstoy and Blair,
Engaging between chapters in acts making the Kama Sutra pail in passion's compare.
If I could...
I would spend an eternity - treasure a moment as eternity feeling your body tremble,
Hearing the sweet voice of... your climax.
If I could...
I would make myself a rich and perfect man, giving myself to you fully and
Count it a blessing that the last sound in this life be the laughter of children, the music from your speech.
If I could...
I would write a poem of prose for your clitoris, caresses for your gifted mind that would make love to your vicariously
Since your employment and mine allows us not such freedoms,
If, only...
If I could...
I would break down the wall of expectations
And limitations between us as I listen to your voice caress English prose.
If I could...
I would touch you and allow your touch on me
Igniting electric currents birthing Goosebumps on brown skin hot for such
A touch.
If I could...
I would have us spill into an embrace that would allow our heartbeats
To synchronize their rhythms into one pulse, one hum...
If I could...
I would pull lips into a sweet caress that would last for hours and breathless days
As we melded into each other's visage, the lines an indistinguishable pretzel...
If I could...
I would rip off my garments in rash abandon at your invitation to love
Anoint your skin with edible oils and fragrances - manicure your fingers - pedicure your toes
And bless each one with a kiss,
My actions a gift: "This is my body I give unto you..."
If I could...
I would sip sweet wine on weekend mornings lying naked by you reading Voltaire, Tolstoy and Blair,
Engaging between chapters in acts making the Kama Sutra pail in passion's compare.
If I could...
I would spend an eternity - treasure a moment as eternity feeling your body tremble,
Hearing the sweet voice of... your climax.
If I could...
I would make myself a rich and perfect man, giving myself to you fully and
Count it a blessing that the last sound in this life be the laughter of children, the music from your speech.
If I could...
I would write a poem of prose for your clitoris, caresses for your gifted mind that would make love to your vicariously
Since your employment and mine allows us not such freedoms,
If, only...
[Badly] Needed to be Said
© 28 June 2004, The Griot Poet
"I think that most of my colleagues felt that what I had said badly needed to be said, that it was long overdue."
VP Cheney, defending his use of vulgarity in remarks to Democratic Senator Patrick Leahy in the Senate chamber.
Fornication
Under
Consent
of the
King... George W. Bush
and his
"Fellowship of the Ring"
of Ali Baba thieves
Conceived a
Project for a
New American Century
That needed
No ties to
Reality or
Democracy
In the hypocrisy
Of FOX-y’s
“Fair and Balanced”
JedI
Mind trick
Declaration of
The latest KKK
Florida
Election
Fix!
We were
Dick-ed as
Harris, Jeb,
Baker-Botts
And Cheney
Fixed some election
Chicanery
Tossing out the
Sons and daughters
Of former slaves
Ballots
That weren’t going
To vote for them
Anyway!
Yet,
These are the
Adults
Who
Promised
“Honor and integrity”
And a return to
Civility
After a
$54 million dollar
Kenn Starr
War
Witch hunt
That took our eyes off
The ball of
Twin tower
Fires planned
By former
Bin Laden
And Saudi family
“Friends”
Closely tied
In oil business
And government
Cabals.
“We the People”
Have no right at all
To read those
Who YOU felt
Needed on
Energy policies
WE pay for!
I deplore
Garrisoned
Governments with
Snipers on the
People’s house
Resembling
Ancient & fallen
Babylon governments
Making death
Covenants
With
Orwellian
Perpetual wars
And bogeyman
Threats.
Yet,
These are the
Adults
Who
Promised
“Honor and integrity”
And a return to
Civility…
I have not
Found the
“F-word”
In the
66 books of
The canonized
Bible.
Yet,
You
Vet vulgarity
Without libel or
Apology,
As my brother and sister
Astrologies
Put star dreams
On hold
Fighting over
Sands of Eden
For an ancient
Resource: OIL!
Yet,
The party that
“Co-opted God”
Won’t apologize
Or recoil
From the obvious
Avoidance
Of Halliburton
Contrivance
In no-bid
Contracts.
Since
“Honor and integrity”
Are locked away
On a dark shelf:
Mr. Cheney -
Why don’t you
Make a plaster cast of
Your
Napoleonic,
Less-than-an-inch long
Insignificant
Male member,
Pull your pants
Down in your
Secret bunker
And joyfully
SCREW yourself!
"I think that most of my colleagues felt that what I had said badly needed to be said, that it was long overdue."
VP Cheney, defending his use of vulgarity in remarks to Democratic Senator Patrick Leahy in the Senate chamber.
Fornication
Under
Consent
of the
King... George W. Bush
and his
"Fellowship of the Ring"
of Ali Baba thieves
Conceived a
Project for a
New American Century
That needed
No ties to
Reality or
Democracy
In the hypocrisy
Of FOX-y’s
“Fair and Balanced”
JedI
Mind trick
Declaration of
The latest KKK
Florida
Election
Fix!
We were
Dick-ed as
Harris, Jeb,
Baker-Botts
And Cheney
Fixed some election
Chicanery
Tossing out the
Sons and daughters
Of former slaves
Ballots
That weren’t going
To vote for them
Anyway!
Yet,
These are the
Adults
Who
Promised
“Honor and integrity”
And a return to
Civility
After a
$54 million dollar
Kenn Starr
War
Witch hunt
That took our eyes off
The ball of
Twin tower
Fires planned
By former
Bin Laden
And Saudi family
“Friends”
Closely tied
In oil business
And government
Cabals.
“We the People”
Have no right at all
To read those
Who YOU felt
Needed on
Energy policies
WE pay for!
I deplore
Garrisoned
Governments with
Snipers on the
People’s house
Resembling
Ancient & fallen
Babylon governments
Making death
Covenants
With
Orwellian
Perpetual wars
And bogeyman
Threats.
Yet,
These are the
Adults
Who
Promised
“Honor and integrity”
And a return to
Civility…
I have not
Found the
“F-word”
In the
66 books of
The canonized
Bible.
Yet,
You
Vet vulgarity
Without libel or
Apology,
As my brother and sister
Astrologies
Put star dreams
On hold
Fighting over
Sands of Eden
For an ancient
Resource: OIL!
Yet,
The party that
“Co-opted God”
Won’t apologize
Or recoil
From the obvious
Avoidance
Of Halliburton
Contrivance
In no-bid
Contracts.
Since
“Honor and integrity”
Are locked away
On a dark shelf:
Mr. Cheney -
Why don’t you
Make a plaster cast of
Your
Napoleonic,
Less-than-an-inch long
Insignificant
Male member,
Pull your pants
Down in your
Secret bunker
And joyfully
SCREW yourself!
Chagrin
© 3 February 2004, The Griot Poet
Lady Justice and Janet share the same sin:
A bared breast causing much chagrin.
The first not animated; the second broadcast live,
in a bump-and-grind seen on MTV, BET and "Sex in the City."
The self-righteous, ultra-right in Ashcroft's vein use the timing to shout their disdain
despite the bared breast in Somalia, Mogadishu, Iraq and Afghanistan
that can no longer nurse without the fear of passing the curse of
depleted Uranium, diarrhea and Kaposi’s Sarcoma... from war.
World Bank and IMF looting leaving children without parents;
mothers without life-sustaining AIDS vaccines to sustain their lifeline.
We build oil pipelines to sift/thieve oil from the Congo;
we search lice and WMD in the head of that louse Saddam: a strongman long ago.
To steer clear of prewar intelligence inquiries,
we pretend to despise what caused most men watching the staged conflict to shout and grin.
Janet and Lady Justice share the same sin:
A bared breast causing much chagrin.
Lady Justice and Janet share the same sin:
A bared breast causing much chagrin.
The first not animated; the second broadcast live,
in a bump-and-grind seen on MTV, BET and "Sex in the City."
The self-righteous, ultra-right in Ashcroft's vein use the timing to shout their disdain
despite the bared breast in Somalia, Mogadishu, Iraq and Afghanistan
that can no longer nurse without the fear of passing the curse of
depleted Uranium, diarrhea and Kaposi’s Sarcoma... from war.
World Bank and IMF looting leaving children without parents;
mothers without life-sustaining AIDS vaccines to sustain their lifeline.
We build oil pipelines to sift/thieve oil from the Congo;
we search lice and WMD in the head of that louse Saddam: a strongman long ago.
To steer clear of prewar intelligence inquiries,
we pretend to despise what caused most men watching the staged conflict to shout and grin.
Janet and Lady Justice share the same sin:
A bared breast causing much chagrin.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Doublespeak Good
© 20 November 2004, The Griot Poet
Inspired by Jonathan Schell article, “What Happened to Hearts?”:
http://www.tomdispatch.com/index.mhtml?pid=2014_
we will fight
with the steadfast resolve
of an unusual, artful draft dodger-in-chief
along with his veep
who both couldn't be bothered
when they were young men
to shed blood
for a war in Vietnam
that they steadfastly
believed…
in others bleedings.
we will fight
with strong delusions
guiding our common sense,
lies becoming truth
as greater than seventy percent
still believe Saddam was a threat
and involved in the attacks of 9-11
despite his rival Osama
referring to him
as an infidel.
oh, well!
we will fight
the constitution
with Patriot Acts I, II, and III,
calling it democracy.
we will fight
and twist words of peace
from Palestinian Prophets
into what Cornell West would call
"Constantine Christian"
diatribes, slogans and dogmas
to shepherd
Noam Chomsky's
"bewildered herd"
into the accepted
brainwashed,
corporate-controlled
network germ:
"war is peace.
"freedom is slavery.
"ignorance is strength."
we who bubble forth like fountains
see George Orwell's prophesy
becoming reality,
and General Tacitus'
observations
becoming most poignant in this season:
"they made a wasteland, and called it peace."
Inspired by Jonathan Schell article, “What Happened to Hearts?”:
http://www.tomdispatch.com/index.mhtml?pid=2014_
we will fight
with the steadfast resolve
of an unusual, artful draft dodger-in-chief
along with his veep
who both couldn't be bothered
when they were young men
to shed blood
for a war in Vietnam
that they steadfastly
believed…
in others bleedings.
we will fight
with strong delusions
guiding our common sense,
lies becoming truth
as greater than seventy percent
still believe Saddam was a threat
and involved in the attacks of 9-11
despite his rival Osama
referring to him
as an infidel.
oh, well!
we will fight
the constitution
with Patriot Acts I, II, and III,
calling it democracy.
we will fight
and twist words of peace
from Palestinian Prophets
into what Cornell West would call
"Constantine Christian"
diatribes, slogans and dogmas
to shepherd
Noam Chomsky's
"bewildered herd"
into the accepted
brainwashed,
corporate-controlled
network germ:
"war is peace.
"freedom is slavery.
"ignorance is strength."
we who bubble forth like fountains
see George Orwell's prophesy
becoming reality,
and General Tacitus'
observations
becoming most poignant in this season:
"they made a wasteland, and called it peace."
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