Minority Report
Surveying, sifting the same old shit
evidence is what we agree on the record of shit a hit a broken piece of vinyl we depend on it holding up like robbers evidence like women who make the case for men against them set free or afire connect the dots find the drops loosen the spanking belts of conviction evidence is what we need to put stock in some kind of corral a pen for maniac men a wazoo storyline backpedaling trumps lies evidence has to do with why we bother keeping track or score who questions who you do cuz Bible or no Bible oath or no oath evidence holds water no holding by the throat to have is to hold those feet to the fire or some other factual practicum we admire evidence of fiction as fact when no is yes today's predilection for sex slaves is what happens to the compost of the future you are evidence of the circle of strife around the world little boys and girls cha-ching pop stars chart toppers fast cars honey talks money struts and sings stalks the hard sweet dope-fellatio meat evidence is just a game for blabbermouths and complainers reporters the nitpicking snoops the fucking know-it-alls of misunderstandings where we begin swimming the stream dead men float that ocean of lies deceptions misdirections those smiling shazam shit slides evidence is buried deep still out like the jury who can't agree about sunup or sundown so take care of it baby going underground on that my way highway to his Hell beware the evidence of danger ahead flashing eye daggers or too much thigh lollygagging in the comfort zone of so much for nothing that bitchin' reward old pyramids of self-actualized pain evidence we are spoiled rotten to the whore consuming barrels of fun the apple pie in the sky is done baked as Uncle Sam red-eyed hysterical and wanting you not to Bogart the pickle jar roll another one since he still needs the army of us eight billion robots gettin' 'er done providing the best dope evidence everything is fine and dandy ripe as compost in the sun pass the candy load the gun things will be great again and again the world spins the spin of what we've done how far we've come and we insist we're having so much fun forever young and hung in the closet or out to dry your honor please consider her her testimony and all the fucking evidence
Trump wins the hearts and minds of American voters! Where to begin. I find myself at odds with the majority of Americans once again and coming to grips with the fact that I don’t know who my fellow “Montanans” are anymore. I’m an old fart at this point, and things have changed on many levels. I catch myself saying “I’ve aged-out” over and over when I see what’s happening in this state. And I don’t want to spend a lot of time here issuing my analyses and “opinions” because they are all over the map. but I remember when McGovern was hammered by Nixon in 1972, how union guys I knew voted for Tricky Dick, and how waves of young, first-time voters like me cheered Nixon on chanting “four more years.” Their smiling shiny-white faces with their short, tidy haircuts, let me know I was in a minority. From my first election I learned how to carry on as a wounded but hopeful loser. I knew all I could do is deal with life as it came to me.
War Dogs – for Stephen Stills One biting October afternoon the coaches ordered us to smear goofy Edgar for dogging it on a kickoff drill, teach a lesson we’d never forget. They made him hold two footballs, blew their whistles & grinned. Twenty guys hit Ed at once. I watched him go down. The pigskins popped loose, wobbled on the ground. Edgar’s knee bent back the wrong way. The coach screamed, “Get up & do it again!” Ed moaned & rolled on the turf. The song, For What It’s Worth, pounded inside: there’s somethin’ happenin’ here. Call it mutiny. Call it treason. What it is ain’t exactly clear. I picked up the footballs, took Edgar’s place, curse-spit on the coaches’ military bullshit, called them pussies & fuckin’ Nazis. When the crimson-faced coach blew his whistle, I threw the balls high in the air, drove my fists, my helmet into the reluctant pie-eyed rush. Going down I grunted & heaved, grabbed masks, kneed, elbowed & punched, raked my cleats across the shins of my friends. They looked lost, dazed by my wolverine rage. Did they discover my secret, bittersweet truth that day: that I wanted to kill them, punish them for their weakness? Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong, but if everybody’s right, nobody’s wrong. We are the heroes of our own bloody dreams, strutting the dark night like wolverines, rooting out & pissing on the enemies we need to let slip our dogs of war. We love to do it, to settle the score. It’s what we do that we don’t understand . . . and it’s time we stop. Children what’s that sound? Everybody look what’s goin’ down.
Nixon and his partners in crime: Agnew, Mitchell, Laird, Erlichman, and Halderman all (looked and) behaved like Nazis. This was just 25 years after the end of the Third Reich and the Holocaust. And we had people in American government who’d fought the Nazis, acting above the rule of law and lying to us about it, doing whatever they could to stay in power. So, I know that we have been in dire straits before: Reagan’s interference in the Iranian hostage crisis, Iran-Contra; GW Bush’s weapons of mass destruction lie that plunged us deeper into the hearts and minds of Iraqis, Afghanis, and most of the Arab world where we were already being burned in oily effigy for our sins. Then comes the phenomenon of Trumpism, the ultimate cult, and what it says about Americans. To Reagan’s credit, he had a background in public service. He didn’t just walk off the set of “Bedtime for Bonzo” and into the White House. Trump is the poster-boy-pin-up for ignorance and big-daddy-populist-bullshit; he is “The Big Lie.” Trump himself doesn’t scare me as much as the citizenry who elected him and those “brown-shirted brown-nosers” who are willing to do his bidding for a piece of the action. What a sad commentary on US, we the people.
Still, I don’t believe that the country is doomed because of this election, but we are in for a better organized assault on our democracy than we saw the last time from him (probably because of the pandemic and the fact that he was surrounded by people who weren’t willing to throw the constitution under the bus). So, we are on alert (like I haven’t been . . . all my fucking life) and intensely so this last decade. The future’s uncertain and the end is always near, Jim Morrison told us, an undeniable truth and a good thing to remine ourselves of whether we are frantic with fear or drunk on power. In this latest shitstorm the drama meter is off the chart! Hang on for the ride. It’s almost like the whole world is tweaking on crank. I’m personally determined to slow down, pay attention to actual events, not all the folderal around them, and do what I can.
Who Arrrre You-You-You? Life is a narrative you tell and listen to. You search for knowledge, desperate to hear. Beyond that, the exercise of kindness, your attention to now, how you feel, you call love. That silence—simply being— can't be explained. You attempt to theorize what you make of “it.” Sadly, the only place you can go is back to the narrative, your imagination, make up a story, do what you know— Language. Copy, repeat. Play away. Spread it around, spit out words, echo sounds. And after the story is told As your voice dies in sleep, your mind still creates fractured scenes stitched together in the dark corners Of your dreams from stored images torn and haphazardly reborn as poems or nightmares to fill that silence Always waiting here, ahead and behind, reminding you again of that void inside Mourning Doves asking who you love. for Susan Carlson
I know Mother Earth and Father Time will take care of everything. Until then it would be great if we could look out for one another and pick up after ourselves. Why not play nice and be kind? You’re going to be dead in no time. Maybe go outside and check out your immediate environment, feel the importance of the moment, being alive, calm yourself, read a poem, get some rest. You know there’s a rough ride ahead.
Melancholy Romance Rattling dry leaves flit and fly, Music played by the gusting breeze. Sometimes November afternoons Dance out sunny and sixty degrees. A charcoal sky holds atop the eastern ridge line, yet smiling blue peeks Through overhead clouds rushing West furiously toward the mess Unfolding, blooming into the gray- Black looming cinematic above Mount Sentinel. I feel like singing “Mariah” To the cat on my lap. Wind tousled, He springs to the picnic table-top, Lies in the sun. A jet descends Toward the airport, reminding me People are still engaged in business Unusual. We're waiting in fear to Hear who was elected president As the pandemic notches record Numbers of dead, old farts like me. Again clouds have masked the sun. It must have dropped five degrees. And I think back to being fifteen, Raking wet-matted cottonwood leaves, Dark by dinnertime. I remember as A kid going outside into that early night To roll and play in the leaf piles, then Nose the dirt-musty ground, dig my Fingers and nails into it. My favorite Season is fall, that contemplative calm When we slow down and prepare for The long, cold days of night, that time When nostalgic melancholy reigns— Putting our feet up, watching the fire. I love the quiet romance of being Alone . . . before winter buries us all.
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Wonderful. Thank you.
Tin soldiers and MAGA's coming...