American expertise the blame game. Follow the Money.
The famous science nerds whistle blowers are bored and tired
of making there claims, as if to say “So what, IT'S over
anyway.” They can't begin to really speak their truth
to the actual audience that must understand what they are talking
about.
The children right now we have a death cult running the show.
We need Sponge Bob and others to explain to the simple folk what it
is they actually face with cartoons and music so it will say this
is what IS, this is who did it, this is how this is.
Why, the old saying “the living will envy the dead" should be
saying “the living will HONOR the dead” AND HOW!! Put
that on the dinner plate of the 1%. Let 'em eat Yellow Cake.
“Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by
the president or any other public official, save exactly to the degree in
which himself stands by the country. It is patriotic to support him
insofar as he efficiently serves the country. It is unpatriotic not to
oppose him to the exact extent that by inefficiency or otherwise he fails
in his duty to stand by the country. In either event, it is unpatriotic not
to tell the truth, whether about the president or anyone else.”
—Theodore Roosevelt, 26th President of the United States
Palliate, v. tr.:
1. To make (an offense or crime) seem less serious; extenuate.
2. To make less severe or intense; mitigate.
3. To relieve the symptoms of a disease or disorder.
RED PLAID SHIRT FATHER LOSES #4 TRAIN DAUGHTER. A tall man in a funny red plaid
shirt was screaming. Crying at the top of his lungs, he might as well have been
under water. No one could hear him. That disoriented man should have shouted,
EVERYBODY, PLEASE BE STILL AND HELP ME FIND MY BELOVED BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OR I
WILL DIE!!!
Me, watching him through the dirty train window pulling out his hair in bloody
clumps,landing on the already filthy reinforced cement festooned with multicolored
detritus of other humans, excreted in years past like lost notations of our trail
markings, wave after wave of heedless impersonal hermetic near soulless automatons
saw it.
Debarking digits, cyphers A to Z. The disgorging of our dimly illuminated cattle car.
Pause a pico-second in a hive mind paroxysm, psychically xeroxed the entire platform as
if to test the air for city plethora of neurotic Olio margarine. Fresh Halicarnassus or
tears we are all dying of.
Esperanto…no, not one of us GIVES A FLYING FUCK ABOUT HIS LITTLE GIRL. Hey,
Mack,…you fucking crazy. Move it. I got shit to do. What the heck is this
guy on…CRACK?!!! Just my luck. A hick from the sticks. Move it, mister.
Excuse me, please…My daughter is missing and she was right there a heart beat
ago! PLEASE. STOP EVERYTHING NOW AND GIVE HER BACK.
This was at 42nd Street at 6:23 pm before the poetry and all the celebration. And I
recall I wanted to speak of this unspeakable dread of loss and why new borns cry
like they really wish they weren't gonna have to speak of witnessing such indifference.
A human herd, farting itself as though nothing really matters. Shitting itself as a
species as the God Cesium 137 etches itself into every accessible DNA, RNA niche
potable. Death does not take notes. Death just takes lives.
Poor dad, poor kid, poor still. All of us dim bulbs. We are battered and in a rush of
cold darkness no more. Amen.
Oh, there you are in profile…You didn't look at the cameras that were
looking at me. The Hollywood version. At least we have each other. NEW YORK NEW YORK,
it's a heck of a town.
—Charles Mingus III June 7, 2016
Edited by LKM, June 9, 2016
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