Jerry’s Eulogy

 

The deciduous green has come with lilacs blooming in moist May rain.  In a few weeks the peonies flowers will be as gaping wounds.  It is always a nagging thought; will the wound turn gangrenous?  The trenches are muddy and feel empty.  Everybody’s face is new, the old have rotated out one way or another.  The officers are untested.    They cannot be trusted to keep you away from them.  You know that officers are put there to give orders, orders that are expected to be obeyed.  Let the young go over the top, the old who have lived know how to stay out of the rain, and we have learned to not whine about the trench-foot.  When we whimper, it is with the rumble of thunder.  We wish that we could become the destroyer of worlds, yet we know that is the them who he kept us away from.

He was the barrier between us and them.  Here in the trenches of the war on garbage, he kept us from going over the top and charging the Browning water-cooled machine guns.  I found the manual for one of those once.  The party is over, and I cannot stay here because the war never ends.  There are always casualties in wars, innocent bystanders caught under the steel tread. Not heroes, not soldiers, unknown workers who walk through the days and have grown familiar with the cavalry support of War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death.  Professionals because we get paid, get paid, grow old and die.  It is just a job, we did not volunteer.  Nobody volunteers for the war on garbage, they are drafted by economic necessity.  It is the glamour of the youthful illusion of climbing the ladder to a better job.

There is no better job.  One day you realize you are the last man standing in the war.  Taped to a cupboard door, from nine years past is a yellowing article taken out of a local rag on death and jobs.  The war on garbage is number seven.  We made it to the top ten for slipping under the wheels.  The machines have to be fed.  That is on the job.  The life itself, the war sucks your soul because it can never be won.  It can poison you as it did with Jerry piece by piece.  The core issue remains.  We are professionals; we get paid to fight the war.  But the party is over, and I cannot stay here.

 

 

 

 

 

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Vitriol

Yes, El Presidente is a repugnant human being.  He has the morals of whatever low life vermin you care to compare him to.  Anybody who has been paying attention to him over the last three years since he slid down that escalator, thinking that it was a badly phrased joke, a vainglorious bit of thrill seeking and hucksterism, has learned just how low America has sunk.  We found out just how unhappy Americans are with the system.  No sane person who even had a tiny hint of this moronic buffoon’s history would have put him into his current position.  There really are a lot of unsatisfied Americans.  He is in his late sixties, still fancying he is cute, childlike, and obviously suffering from some form of arrested development.

But he is just a hand puppet of whatever group of people who put him there.  Most leaders at the top rungs of a hierarchy are just positioned there by power brokers, especially when that hierarchy is governmental.  Let us face it, long gone are the days when physical prowess and blood snatch the crown off a fresh corpse.  El Presidente’s attention span is easily disrupted by any bauble, fast food, or flesh pot.  Some handler kept him on track; the forces behind most Presidentes guide their strings with care.  Their handlers have profit margins to look after, stock holders to please, products to move, laborers to manage.  Those laborers have to feel safe to go out and buy the products they are enticed to need.  They have to be convinced that they are in harms way, somebody out there is coming to take their stuff, so they buy weapons.  When you probably have the most heavily armed civilian population on the planet, why do you need the largest military budget as well?  Is it some weird redundancy plan for when your military fails?

If it is not your neighbor who always has the better toys, it is people who are on the wrong side of the tracks, or off the rails clambering to get into your country clubs, coming to take your wives and daughters.  It might be those people from the next state, province, or country.  And when all else fails, Mars needs women.  Some strange mutant has risen from the swamp.  Something, besides Death, is coming to kill you.  Have you planned for your funeral yet?  You do not want to be a burden on your family.  Life insurance, health insurance, auto insurance, legal insurance, you will need all of those as you are never going have that several million dollars to pay off anything that comes your way.  You are never going to have that money that is making money, so you never have to get a job.  Surplus income, what is that?  And if you do not have that you are entertaining yourself too much.   But eat all you want, we will just make more.

Most Presidentes traditionally get to wear a manly military uniform, but our current one only has a tacky suit and golf togs.  His only battles have been trying to not get the clap.  We do not know if he succeeded as his personal physician’s records have been seized and squirreled away.  I believe it was Wilde who said golf is a good way to ruin a perfectly good walk.  We really need a manly test to see if this current role model gets to pretend to be El Presidente for four more years: not golf.  He is reputed to cheat.  Let’s put him in a boxing ring with his leading contender.  He is a brave Presidente.  After over two years of this crap without anybody laying a glove on him, at least to my satisfaction, I want to see this one beaten to a bloody pulp.  I have never felt this way about a sitting El Presidente before.  Sure, prison or a firing squad, but not beaten to a bloody pulp.  My Bad.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ROLL-OFF REFLECTIONS

ROLLOFF REFLECTION

Sunlight reflected off broken mirrors in metal roll-off lid.

Hiss

 

Saruman, Satan, and psychopaths

surround us every day.

These characters, protagonists, and pathologies

keep my hopes at bay.

Vampirism

Sometimes I feed off people; sometimes they feed off me.

When it is time for my coffin; I wish they would leave me be.

 

Beltane

Out of sight, out of my mind as the end of April brings up images of lions and lambs, trying to remember how the month began.  Magnolia, crab-apple, cherry trees are flushed with white, pink, and purple blossoms on their naked gray branches.  They reach their dendrites shamelessly to the sun in the azure sky as islands of white and black drift by overhead.  You can see and hear outlines of Persephone and the Dark Lord in their embrace from the gusts of wind surrounding those dark islands the same way the mariner can hear the breakers on the reef.  These zephyrs, dust devils, and jinn are outlined in petals of passion’s colors, soft on the cheek, riveting to the eye.  What will the Mayday bring?  Dances about the pole? Workers uniting? Laws being respected?  Or will those that have been waiting, sharpening their knives into a deadly gleam, burst forth to ravine across the blood red seas of war?

It is the month in which the carrion crow black against green, feathers akimbo, tussle in the grass together before they are seen bearing sticks for their nests in the trees.  It is the time when the syringa leaf out, but before the cones of lilac, amethyst, and white carry the hedges in to June and the heat of summer makes one lethargic.  The winter wheat has begun to sway in the breeze.  What snow that remains is almost lost in the purple haze gathering in the hills.  Treasure calls in the gullies, washes, and ravines.  A gentle nudge and the crystals are reveled.

So as the blue moon wains and the bull’s nostrils wander over his pastured herd, the gyre of ribbons dances away the last days of frost, attracting the numen to the coming new moon.  The chill that has allowed the walls of marble to be filled with laborer’s silver and be guarded by the lawyer’s laws may be dissolved in sour wine of our passions.  Perhaps in the lattice of the patterns of those streamers, weaved in the hands of the young we may divine the overseers who tempt those with gleaming knives with shiny silver, gold, and jewels.  We may bind the paymasters so that the labors-of-blood yield nothing but the sterile result of an empty belly.

 

 

The Last Boy Scout

 

That’s the title of an old Bruce Willis movie.  I’ve probably sat through it twice.  Not sure if I will ever go back.

I failed as a Boy Scout, but some of the knowledge still is in me.  It was a whole embarrassing rebellion of an immature mind thing, and I am not sure if I have matured all that much. The imprinting rises some days, the oaths.

“I will do my best to do my duty to God and Country.”

I am not sure if that is accurate, and I’m not going to go back to find a copy of the Scout Manual.  I don’t have one on the shelf.

Every time I see a person disrespect the flag by giving it a big hug it raises alarms.  Especially when they have a shit-eating grin on their face, like they have pinched the bottom of a waitress.  I’ve more respect for a crowd burning the flag on the street.  At least that is in the manifesto of retiring a flag when it’s done its duty: Fire.  Trust me, I really learned to love the flag coming back from in country.  Remember, I failed as a Boy Scout.

I also took that damned oath of “to protect and defend from all enemies foreign and domestic” when I picked up my official passport.  That ghost has come back to haunt of late, or should I say that old dog has come back to rest by the fire.  It snarls in its dreams and twitches its legs as it hunts.

I am about to retire.  I expect my government to remember the New Deal, the one where I worked for it.  I picked up their garbage; I helped educate their children.  I want to be that old dog by the fire, however the old enemies, foreign and domestic, are still there: the evil things people do.  Since there will be no more work-week, it may be time to whimper and whine by the door to get out, poke my nose into the smell, to hunt.

It is hard to recall the other oaths that I have taken, there have been some.  I suppose they will come back to roost in their own good time.  Oaths, admonitions, guidelines from the loa, the diableros, the fragments of the Golden Dawn, and always to try at least to do no harm.

Dogs

Pekingese dogs

Donald J. Trump is the Deep State’s Pekingese, and Junior is just their bitch.

 

 

Its Political

 

What’s the difference between Terrorism and Mass Murder?

Politics.

What’s the difference between War and Mass Murder?

Politics.

What’s the difference between Ethnic Cleansing and Genocide?

Politics.

What’s the difference between Abortion and Self-defense?

Politics.

What’s the difference between Freedom and Slavery?

Politics.

What’s the difference between Right and Wrong?

Politics.

 

Or is it?

 

What’s the difference between Terrorism and Mass Murder?

Property.

What’s the difference between War and Mass Murder?

Property.

What’s the difference between Ethnic Cleansing and Genocide?

Property.

What’s the difference between Abortion and Self-defense?

Property.

What’s the difference between Freedom and Slavery?

Property.

What’s the difference between Right and Wrong?

Property.

 

Or is it?

 

What’s the difference between Terrorism and Mass Murder?

Money.

What’s the difference between War and Mass Murder?

Money.

What’s the difference between Ethnic Cleansing and Genocide?

Money.

What’s the difference between Abortion and Self-defense?

Money.

What’s the difference between Freedom and Slavery?

Money.

What’s the difference between Right and Wrong?

Money.

 

Or is it?

 

What’s the difference between Terrorism and Mass Murder?

God.

What’s the difference between War and Mass Murder?

God.

What’s the difference between Abortion and Self-defense?

God.

What’s the difference between Freedom and Slavery?

God.

What’s the difference between Right and Wrong?

God.

 

Or is it . . . . . ?