She expected to die laughing. Instead she died singing.

< ..>

o what to sing?
“The 1st species who self-immolates”
or
“Be careful who you kick on the way up”.

Orcas threaten to send battleships down
the Suez Canal – ordered to do so
by Sub-Humans,
to stir the pot, boil to bubble.

if you thing he’s a saint he probably Is
if he’s wearing raggedy baggedy cloths
and sounds a little bit crazy.
be careful who you kick
on your way up.

“Sing it now, my baby
sing it now.”

if you read news somewhere that
Muslims are marching on Washington
take a deep breath
and another
then find a second news source.

what do you say Hewie and Dewey
where did you leave Louie?

last seen she was calling on
grandpas and grandmas
great, and great great et al
to come to the aid of our children.

Oh National Savior
being damned if you do and damned if you don’t
may the Holy Peace Doves
be your guide and comfort
forgive those who lose hope
as we learn to embrace those
who still hate because they still fear
the boogie man with bogus one liners
that appeal to our baser instincts.
Amen.

full moon full of Georgia’s kind a’clouds

full moon full
of Georgia’s kind a’clouds
it’s 6:31 am and still 15-20 degrees
from sliding from my horizon
into yours
how much future
does a little planet need
to complete the cycle birth/death?
how soon ya think Arabs
will throw out the Saudis?
Tut Tut little despot
even if the people’s will
is not answered this round
He knows now
and the whole world is webbed
wired and transmitting
Saudi cruelty

tiny bits of pink sky
behind the Georgia clouds
pretty moon
now playing hid/peek
oops! get ready
it’s on it’s way over
quite a Lulu last night
full of young artists
celebrating
a collage of doers
allowed to view a tad
of conscious raising
efforts
rewarded.

Dear Daddy Long Legs

{..}

did you ever get back to
Iran to see your mother?
has my blue tree
gathered dust?
of Paris
does she still applaud
your efforts?
here across the ocean
we are fed:
)Letters from Juliet
fueling the forlorn
still dreaming
“happy together
ever after”
)pimping
botox
wrinkle removers
hair replacers
et al ad nauseam
youthenizers
superficial beautyizers

your stupa appears
time worn of usage
in consciousness rising
where once Summer
and River played catch
with precious gems
across and mid construction
when Jasun & Katie did
a hooligan dance

will Arbie produce the play
where saints go marching in
led by Christina Green
and nary a named saint
among them?

how am i? good
having just mastered the art
of only one beep instead of five
from my microwave
a little one more step
a little better to hear
silence
.

“To Be AND Not To Be.” THAT is the answer.

{..}

everything’s all about me
everything’s not all about me
everything’s all about you
everything’s not all about you

her heart thrills at the view
he feels the thrill
forget valentines
love is a verb

jailed he missed most
her smiles and laughter
a living valentine
beyond his departure

if the final words
he/she has to say are
“he/she was a good person”
i think we can make it…

.

It’s Really Scary When You Have Something Real to be Scared About!

< ..>

“I don’t wanna be there when
those wicked politicians
get their just rewards!”

in the beginning was the word
in the end crooked politicians
used the word to motivate others
to kill for them, having been
led to fears created:
today’s boogie man
Egypt

once they were shrewd, prudent and expedient,
discreet and diplomatic,
artful, crafty or cunning

their drawers are dropped
their creations exposed
still they boogie woogie
till the last pin drops
connect the dots…

It’s Really Scary When You Have Something Real to be Scared About!

Reagan: Killer, Coward, Con-man

< ..>

The Observer London
by Greg Palast
Monday, February 7, 2011

You’re not going to like this. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But in this case, someone’s got to.

On the 100th Anniversary of Ronald Reagan’s birth, as we suffer a week of Reagan-kitcheria and pukey peons, let us remember:

Reagan was a con-man. Reagan was a coward. Reagan was a killer.

In 1987, I found myself stuck in a crappy little town in Nicaragua named Chaguitillo. The people were kind enough, though hungry, except for one surly young man. His wife had just died of tuberculosis.

People don’t die of TB if they get some antibiotics. But Ronald Reagan, big-hearted guy that he was, had put a lock-down embargo on medicine to Nicaragua because he didn’t like the government that the people there had elected.

Ronnie grinned and cracked jokes while the young woman’s lungs filled up and she stopped breathing. Reagan flashed that B-movie grin while they buried the mother of three.

And when Hezbollah terrorists struck and murdered hundreds of American marines in their sleep in Lebanon, the TV warrior ran away like a whipped dog – then turned around and invaded Grenada. That little Club Med war was a murderous PR stunt so Ronnie could hold parades for gunning down Cubans building an airport.

I remember Nancy, a skull and crossbones prancing around in designer dresses, some of the “gifts” that flowed to the Reagans – from hats to million-dollar homes – from cronies well compensated with government loot. It used to be called bribery.

And all the while, Grandpa grinned, the grandfather who bleated on about “family values” but didn’t bother to see his own grandchildren.

The New York Times, in its canned obit, wrote that Reagan projected, “faith in small town America” and “old-time values.”

“Values” my ass. It was union-busting and a declaration of war on the poor and anyone who couldn’t buy designer dresses. It was the New Meanness, bringing starvation back to America so that every millionaire could get another million.

“Small town” values? From the movie star of the Pacific Palisades, the Malibu mogul? I want to throw up.

And all the while, in the White House basement, as his brain boiled away, Reagan’s last conscious act was to condone a coup d’├ętat against our elected Congress. Reagan’s Defense Secretary Casper the Ghost Weinberger with the crazed Colonel, Ollie North, plotted to give guns to the Monster of the Mideast, Ayatolla Khomeini.

Reagan’s boys called Jimmy Carter a weanie and a wuss although Carter wouldn’t give an inch to the Ayatollah. Reagan, with that film-fantasy tough-guy con in front of cameras, went begging like a coward cockroach to Khomeini, pleading on bended knee for the release of our hostages.

Ollie North flew into Iran with a birthday cake for the maniac mullah – no kidding – in the shape of a key. The key to Ronnie’s heart.

Then the Reagan roaches mixed their cowardice with crime: taking cash from the hostage-takers to buy guns for the “contras” – the drug-runners of Nicaragua posing as freedom fighters.

I remember as a student in Berkeley the words screeching out of the bullhorn, “The Governor of the State of California, Ronald Reagan, hereby orders this demonstration to disperse” – and then came the teargas and the truncheons. And all the while, that fang-hiding grin from the Gipper.

In Chaguitillo, all night long, the farmers stayed awake to guard their kids from attack from Reagan’s Contra terrorists. The farmers weren’t even Sandinistas, those ‘Commies’ that our cracked-brained President told us were ‘only a 48-hour drive from Texas.’ What the hell would they want with Texas, anyway?

Nevertheless, the farmers, and their families, were Ronnie’s targets.

In the deserted darkness of Chaguitillo, a TV blared. Weirdly, it was that third-rate gangster movie, “Brother Rat.” Starring Ronald Reagan.

Well, mis amigos, your kids can sleep easy tonight. The Rat is dead.

All week you’re going to hear about how Reagan restored America’s sense of patriotism – as if heartless slaughter, Club Med wars and making racism respectable are patriotic . (When they said “small town values” you know the color of the town, don’t you?).

I wonder if the Reaganauts can recognize any of the weapons they sold the mullahs when they see students gunned down in Teheran.

I do plan a memorial, for the victims, not the victimizer.

Please join me in commemorating the ill star that brought us a celluloid cowboy on his movie-set horsey by lighting a candle for a mom from Chaguitillo.

******

This obituary was originally published in The London Observer on Reagan’s death in 2004.

The author received close to 150 death threats and suggestions for acrobatic acts of intercourse with beasts and relatives.

Therefore, we have reserved a special email, deaththreat@gregpalast.com just for your next threats.

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