Spring Memory.

Play of sunlight across a tile floor,
scent of drying grass and nectar barely tangible in the morning breeze.

You with your sundress,
flowing, gossamer, caressed by the breeze,
delicately plastered across arms and legs and breasts and back as you spun and danced and laughed and sang.

Me, dowdy and brooding as always,
clutching crippling crutch and trying to appear stoic and manly,
yet finally coaxed to laughter by the scene.

All pretense overpowered by the dance, the jovial company, a compassionate companion and the beauty of the day.

"We call it progress son..."

Remember who went before?
Implacable swarm,
emptying a thousand prisons,
asylum stench in the breeze?

Strange beasts and walls,
gnawing tooth on undraped bone,
unknown tongues hollow and chittering,
rolley polley pyramids before the gates of silent cities.

Saw tooth tide ripping in from beyond the wastelands,
sweeping across all that is sacred,
liberating the holy from those to whom it was given,
red calves for the beginning of the end.

Cross the firmament,
their destiny manifest,
booted heal and blood of the lamb,
rape and razing of Eden.

Of gifts from the new world,
corn, potatoes, coffee and democracy.
In return, of the old world,
small pox, sin, syphilis and God.

Loadstone of progress,
drawing us toward some inevitable,
unknown and terrible,
marvelous and profane.

Minor misunderstanding,
ancient tactics and modern weapons,
sweeping the last vestige of honor,
neath the blanket of unbridled ambition.

Again the swarm,
lockstep and jackbooted.
Testament to purest efficiency,
sanitary detached metallic clicks.

In darkness cried, "Never again!!!",
eyes averted, ears muffled against screams,
bonfires beneath the canopy.
Landmarks in another green hell.

Demented mantra, "the needs of the many",
LSD in water mains,
draw the curtain Jimmy, save your classmates,
volunteer or be volunteered.

Facedown in mud,
awakened a normal day,
took a corn knife to four million neighbors,
bloated and corpulent in the noonday sun.

Again it takes shape
birthing a million eyes and a million ears,
censoring, stifling, twisting and restricting,
caging the lucky free to protect them from themselves.

With the fading light we see smokestacks on the horizon,
dogs, concertina wire, gun towers and sirens.
Incinerators churning out effluvial midnight,
obscuring the dawn of our great potential.



The man said, "History doesn't repeat itself. It rhymes."

An interesting quote.

Just an interesting perspective on the freedoms we enjoy in this country by someone who helped secure those freedoms.




Our Revolution commenced on more favorable ground. It presented us an album on which we were free to write what we pleased. We had no occasion to search into musty records, to hunt up royal parchments, or to investigate the laws and institutions of a semi-barbarous ancestry. We appealed to those of nature, and found them engraved on our hearts. Yet we did not avail ourselves of all the advantages of our position. We had never been permitted to exercise self- government. When forced to assume it, we were novices in its science. Its principles and forms had entered little into our former education. We established however some, although not all its important principles. The constitutions of most of our States assert, that all power is inherent in the people; that they may exercise it by themselves, in all cases to which they think themselves competent, (as in electing their functionaries executive and legislative, and deciding by a jury of themselves, in all judiciary cases in which any fact is involved,) or they may act by representatives, freely and equally chosen; that it is their right and duty to be at all times armed; that they are entitled to freedom of person, freedom of religion, freedom of property, and freedom of the press.

Thomas Jefferson
June 5 1824
Letter Major John Cartwright

Just the two of us?

Too many mice, too few hawks.
Too many servants, too few instigators.
Too many snails, too little salt.
Too many followers, too few dissidents.
Too many sheep, too few wolves.
Too many rulers, too few representatives.
Too many rabbits, too few coyotes.
Too many rituals, too few questions.
Too many small deaths, too few called to answer.
Too much, too soon?
Too little, too late?
Too small?
Too big?
Too many words, too little being said.
Tonight?
Did they get to you too?
Too bad.