Out of Order and Under The World Tent Pole Holder
“America is the tent pole holding up the whole world of order.”
New Straits Times Online; Op-ED, Thomas Friedman, August 25, 2014
Disoriented with the world's orderly disorder,
Mr. P.T. Barnum, “Freedom Circuses Corporation”
C.E.O. and majority Tent Stock Holder,
sat alone, nearby screaming ape cages.
Barnum chugged Bailey's Irish Cream
while he tried to figure-out how best
to finesse downsizing jihadist, zapatista,
tsarist, and part-time fruit picker clowns –
without (of course) resort to either starving
or killing them all.
Empty whiskey glass dropped to concrete,
and the smash alarmed a panda and bear
while they conspired quick exit from the tent.
“O fuck... after all that investment,
why can not they behave like Kurd camels
and Brit fox hounds?” thought Barnum.
The Show must go on, money must be made –
Barnum seized the central tent pole,
boarders were disordered,
he cracked escapees bellies until
cage order and circus prosperity RESTORED!
Midnight, no moon no stars, and
back behind bars, parallel to one another,
the discouraged bear fretted and cursed
in the code-tongue of Saints Cyril and Methodius.
Wrinkled brow, he whispered to the panda,
“Do you think they'll let me call a White lawyer?”
“Nope,” replied the beaten panda,
“The U.N.'s All State Family Injury
and Tent Damage Insurance Plan
only covers legal fees for white One Worlders...
uh, those with the right General Dynamics values.”
(Sigh) “O well, I'm just a pissed-off and left-footed
dancing bear once again.”
Notes From Beneath San Francisco Underground
Look see..., 6.1 MAG quake, walls move,
animals on run, police rotator lights beam,
multi-color demon skin dreams come true,
spare Napa Valley's olive oil and wine,
and San Fran's sewer is safest place in town.
Old child, young child, each hurt a little bit,
they huddle together upon trolley car floors.
Myself, an earthquake epcenter,
I should take cover among beasts,
knowing The Animals might have had it right
long ago, about when to get out of Vietnam,
“on a warm San Francisco Tet night,”
into which (today) I tremor a thousand miles
above the USA on “Trans Love Airways” –
Bread falls from stewardess's tectonic plate,
crumbs drop into a lucky old beggar dog's bowl,
on way to Lombard Street shelter.
*In 1967, Eric Burdon released the beautiful song San Francisco Nights which still tends to make some people rock with peace.
The Banal Beheading of Heretic Journalism
A skilled mechanic, “to fix or not fix?” –
that was the Neo-Comstock interview question,
answered confidently by the executioner,
“Action affirmative and competent, Sir!”
And soon after Michael's Mercedes departed median,
US passport tossed by wind,
the executioner returned home,
tucked kids to bed, said prayers of petition,
“... and keep us away from the Evil One, amen.”
He put brightly decorated kiddie room light-out.
descended spiral staircase,
It hurt to even think of it...,
Hastings, afraid to drive own car,
he worried about chopper surveillance.
He knew what he knew, what he planned to report.
The executioner looked at hallway night light,
“how god works in covert ways, ” he thought.
Soon, odious job memories shall fade away;
forever extinguished, that flash of light
in Hastings' Mercedes Coupe, the explosion
heard “nevermore” before crash into L.A. tree.
Traumatic head injury, medical marijuana
roach found in ashtray, Death by Hellfire –
The executioner's (State of Art) tools-of-choice,
Empire Dealey Plaza Rules of Engagement,
all too strong for embedded Clark Kents to crack.
The executioner's remorse?
There, latent, but not there yet..., Simply put,
conscience vanquished, Hastings was officially
“NOT kept safe from mechanical car part failure.”
Well compensated, safe from the evil one,
he went to bed with Salome.
He showed her police sketch of Hastings pre-I.D.'d head,
“Michael's deep cut brow needed Botox treatments,”
remarked Trophy Wife Salome.
Big screen T.V. played,
re-run of Charlie Rose interview with Bashar Assad;
he denied poison gas use against troublemakers,
and the executioner remarked, “same-old-same old...,
'plausible deniability' always there for regimes in need.”
Salome removed orange and black striped
Victoria Secret thong, she “never lost her
head, even when she was giving head,” *
and the executioner lay back, stared at cathedral ceiling;
fingers touched hot gizzum upon Egyptian cotton sheets.
Indifferent, he sighed, “Oh, those ISIS hit-men?
Amateurs... just Bush Leaguers.”
And while unarmed and vetted Salome slept,
erotic schemes danced in his head –
The executioner figured, “someone had to do it,”
and his grisly job actually made
for less trouble for tomorrow's Breaking Empire News.
*Unorthodox but culturally popular lyric from late-Lou Reed's song, “Walk on the Wild Side.” Look close, you might see ghost of Michael Hastings cross Highland Avenue, L.A., Sodium Penathol in back pack, and hitch-hike his way across shadowy USA.
“... And Deliver Us From Ferguson, Amen.”
I am Janet Reno, god told me
Waco Branch Davidians had to perish,
and I did nothing when many did.
I am George W. Bush, god told me
Saddam planned 9/11 attacks
and I did nothing when truth prevailed,
kleptomaniacs attacked the Constitution.
I am Obama/McCain, and god told me
to grow-up, stop whining, pay attention,
“The market must be saved before all else!”
and Wall Street laughed at me
after they got all the homeland's money.
I am U.S. Armed Services,
god told me it's alright when innocents
are killed in humanitarian wars,
and I did nothing but fret when
US government financially compensated
assaulted Muslims who lost loved-ones
I had never met.
“One law for the Lion and Ox is Oppression,”
said William Blake.
He'd probably be screwed for saying that now.
Tonight, I am Michael Brown,
I shop-lifted cigars from local store,
god told me, “smoking's not so bad...
except for what exhales from one's mouth,”
and I smoked until security cameras caught me.
I am the Officer who shot Michael Brown,
and god told me “Big Mike” should never
reach hands inside parked cop cars!”
God advised “always hedge your bets,
stay on safe-side with police,
stand above Blake's One Lion and Ox law.”
I thought of Officer J.D. Tippet's death photo,
Oswald probably had something to do with it,
so I donated my oppressed life-savings
to Scranton Fraternal Order of Police.
Forgive me Father, something's very wrong here –
Yes, yes, I understand, I understand,
“You are in me, I am in you,”
and National Guard's in Missouri streets.
I know what good I do, I know what evil.
I do not want to be “brother's keeper” anymore,
I have better things to pursue; for one example,
learn how to drive armored Bearcat
on pizza delivery missions to Sherman Apartments.
And tomorrow (sigh),
I want to march in Ferguson anguish,
breathe police tear gas too toxic for health,
disperse the 1% god-fearing in me.
I am Eric Snowden, one would never believe
I am Made-in-the-USA, 1952,
but classified “damaged-goods” by N.S.A.
There's Death by Patriotism, Celebrity Hang Man,
its dangerous to walk streets while low income black,
and Mother Russia had nothing to do with it.
It's years since I prayed (face-to-face)
to Deputy Attorney General Eric Holder.
I pleaded for answers as to why
a presidential pardon granted to
“King of Commodities,” USrael's
Most Favored Sinner, Marc Rich.*
I am a 500-pound time bomb,
I stalk D.C. Holy Land tourist sites in
“Neighborhood Watch,” Salvation Army shoes.
Abraham Lincoln thinks I look quite goofy,
but I am Saudi Prince Bandar in crude disguise –
Father forgive me, hallowed be thy real name,
and can Blake's diabolical god please
tell me which way the Lion and Ox go to Ferguson?
*To date, I did not forget Attorney General Holder's past role while administering stilted “Lion and Ox” justice, and one can read about such travesty in Salon, article titled,”The real reason Bill Clinton pardoned Marc Rich.”; January 16, 2009.