Dedicated to: #Julian Assange; #Barry Grossman, Esq., and Chris, Esq.; Capt. William F. Macomber; Hesham Yehya; Daniel C. Davis; Capt. Arthur E. DiPietro, Esq.; #Richie Stallcup; #Dr. David DeSante; #Ed Snowden; Dr. Mahmoud; Professor Richard Alford; #Tom Hayden; #Congressman Michael P. Forbes; #President Jimmy Carter; Peter Knoll; #Poet Sherif el-Hakim; Thomas D. Field; John G. Clancy; Esq., Private First Class #Manning; #Leonard Peltier; Trustee Billy Pell; #Russell Means; Kirk MacDonald Park & Lisa; Jato; Nizar; Benjamin Runkle; Joel H.; Audrey Davis Stephenson; Patty Brown Carrillo; Frances W. Macomber; Rodeina Sheety Davis; Randa & Natalie; John Wesly Stephenson; Aida Kosseim; Barbara Latimer; Valerie Henshaw Gilbert; and, the crew-who-knew and knows, and still do what I ask.
You are each, in your revered vision and sacred deeds, or not, my preferred cloistered heroes – sequestered in my far-out heart.
Dateline: Today, June 14, 2014, Finca Vigia, Alfombra, Costa Rica
It is the murky edgy ages of the digital techno post millennium. Here we wobble with flickering LED light nearly beaten into what might have been glory yet turns out to be a non-civilization of gratuitous greed and instanced insecurity. Over the eons, whatever humanity learned as regards survival is neither positive nor negative. It is a push – no gain yet riddled with pain. Strapped to whirling fake golden rings treated as violated baboons we roll through a shadowy gloom, attached by a global necklace of shackles and shingles. “Shadows never seen to fade away, and the sun don’t shine no more and the rain falls down on my door.”
Every morning the empire launches its next sinister turf war plot to own and pervert Earth. The elite meet to eat to possess each other through fundraisers in The Hamptons summer fading sunshine or they slurp wines and tasty treats sitting inside The Laundry in Napa Valley. The familiarity of guilt stenches these feigned elegant airs yet the oblivious ones of our species feel no remorse for babies nailed to posts in Syria, dolphins slaughtered in the cove, or hundreds of thousands of humans driving across the desert of Iraq to escape they know not what.
The sovereign nemesis of unholy Homo sapiens sapiens = what is mine is mine, what is yours is mine, and to hell with you, as my duty is to protect my own, and you are not my own.
Nothing spoken on the corporatocracy’s piddle stream media has one iota relationship to fact or meaning. Violence is shoved down the throats of TV cartoon watchers dressed in Baby Gap and young lovers brand their bodies seeking tenderness on a date to a movie show or a dope shooting gallery. Quietly, with neither fan fair nor Miles Davis notes, our species plummets further and further down slippery slopes into the abyss of apathy.
Heroin, grown in Afghanistan, guarded, and gardened by New Order World camo dressed killers, is shipped into the bowels of the Midwest of America or the dens of Bangkok. Smack steals former vestiges of kindness and awareness and gives back oblivion. Ayahuasca is drunk in sacred circles by Whities thinking they are finding God when in fact what they are doing is feeding their ids to the point the ego is endless. The insufferable me generation hides away inside the DMT haze to insure nothing changes if nothing changes, but they eat organic and they live close to the land. The paradox is never noticed or articulated.
Potheads, daily smokers, and the cancerous ones cannot wait to line up for their nearest and dearest govt. approved allotment. The empire grins with glee wondering why it waited so long to build generations of stoned zombies with glazed eyed, stupefied giggling and wholly lacking ambition or awareness of what is being done to them. Clever in its massaging the message millions rail across social media in favor of Mary Jane never cognizant this is exactly what the empire wants.
Big Pharma produces as quickly as cad cam possible the next happy pill and the last death delivering injection of morphine, while telling us to eat Aspirin that bleeds our guts and Violox that destroys our hearts. Every second of every moment synthetic lethal maiming poison soups are dumped, sprayed, inhaled, and exhaled across the only planet. Those busy sense no consciousness and no conscience. Corn grows taller than ever intended, bee populations collapse, and dead birds are racked into roadside ditches, forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, and out of soul.
Some of us are detained in Gitmo or in an Ecuadorian Embassy in London or in a dungeon in Cairo. The rest of us are trapped on balconies inside corrupt systems so effective in destroying the will for liberty and justice even those with a vision must spend most of their time re-igniting the fire of freedom in the belly within. Millions of us turned into lemmings are huddled together in refugee camps while the empire pits one religiosity against another to embitter civil disorder so magnanimous, no one except the slave traders in the global casino take notice. The smartest guys in the room only perceive dollar signs to envision their next trip to Sodom and Gomorra Rio, or purchase a larger yacht as another escape hatch.
Yet, the call of wildlife from nature proceeds in almost every instance against odds in the human card game being dealt. Life in its remarkable intensity means preying mutated wolves roam the Chernobyl wilderness where no man woman or child can for the next 20,000 years. Nesting birds, once numbering in the billions, are rarities as migratory pathways are littered with human endeavors from transmission power lines, fields of poisoned ‘food’ stuffs, to cell towers, to glass fitted skyscrapers. Those who make the journey find little habitat and food for their young yet they persist in the regeneration of life.
Guided by human ignored planetary magnetics melted to the placement of the stars feathered creatures fly right into infrastructures of humanity to die in mass. Birders go out into the field dressed and armed with over the top expensive optics equivalent to a campeniso’s three years of hard hard work to grow and harvest coffee. The same coffee dilettante birders, Target workers, and schoolteachers sip to jump-start their mornings. Rez Indians, ghetto Blacks or faux ones in the White House live an existence with a ring in their noses, their souls neutered.
Millions of marine mammals have their ear bones cracked by military underwater sonar and submerged deep dragging of seismic bombing so dirty disgusting oil can find more of itself so it can drill more of itself to make more of itself so it needs more of itself and then must go and find more of itself.
I sit in my Malabar woven comfy chair, drinking ice cold coconut water, munching on Mennonite-made homegrown popcorn drizzled with their jungle finca grown raw sugar and butter. Butter churned from pretty tropical cows they tend and adore.
My suffering is above the fray centered in empathy. Personally, I agonize only in my wailing heart and sunk soul. Somehow, I broke-out from the plantation.
Amongst many sobering dreams and clean and non-mean concerns saturated in consideration and intellectualization, I hope and pray my out of control compassion makes a difference. Words are benign swords. Phrases are turns and twists to deliver understanding probably known yet cast aside in the mud and scum of nadakind’s next 24 hours.
God brings the sun up in the East and sets it the West. Is there any greater iconic symbol of our outcome? The moon phases and the tides expose, spit and roil. The planets spin on their axis in sync to our solar system in a vast cosmos connected rotating within the spirally Milky Way. Is there any greater iconic symbol of our beginning with a near end? The Milky Way every moment is consumed and integrated into a far larger galaxy. Is there any greater iconic symbol of our outcome, or karmic return?
Our species is a failed experiment listening to The Band sing Up on Cripple Creek. We traipse across the land and motor across the seas in near 100% arrogance. The aura dust behind us is toxic, the watery wake behind us churning with pollutants both chemical and vibes.
Machines we drive in pre-dawn scoop up the never-ending garbage on the beaches of Bali so as not to disturb the illusion the privileged’s holiday world is perfect and pristine.
Under the Indochine sky corruption not only rules it is a primary economic generator. In an archipelago of 13,000+ islands where sixty bucks a month is a generational guarantee of poverty, palming off $700,000 over eight years to the police, the govt., and the gluttonous judiciary keeps a truly good man tied down with his family in shame and his business inoperative. This is regular style not only in Bali. It is a global dis-ease our species depressed by its own dysfunction and avaricious, sinks itself, taking all with it.
Now crank up The Band’s The Weight, and remember I do love this life, I truly adore the wild creatures. Without the sustaining joy of nature and a shit load of help from my friends, I would have gone before the age of twenty.
There is a handful few of you I would lay my life down in joy if it would mean our species finally got it. If this is surrender, it is cloaked in love. You guys do not need to ask, cause I know, “you need to take a load off for free and ya can put the load right on me. There is nothing you can say. Luke is just waiting on judgment on day.”
Van sums up the biggie for us.