a european tour

i deserve to be taken to Paris, Rome,
and Italy, on a stipend,
or a grant,
it's there i will settle things,
and arches will appear
in the wake
of each of my 
fresh remarks
on how stately and old
and venrubble
it all looks
to this humble american,
for whom a usable
rail system
is a wondrous marvel

About a One-Eyed Cat named "Nothing to See Here, Move Along"

 (Goya's painting of the Elder God, Kronos, or Saturn, god of the filthiest portion of the weekend, eating his children. The myth has particular, archetypal relevance to our happy discussion. Time eats its own product, i suppose. Search me. But I do know the God of the Norsemen, Odin, has one Eye.)

NPR intoned this morning on the drive to work that today is the 2-year anniversary of the purported and yes, quite mysterious, violence at Newtown, CT that killed 20 very young children and several school employees.

That morning was bleak and discouraging for me. I had a sick, enraged, premonitory feeling as the news broke on the TV attached high to the wall of the tony breakfast delicatessen where i dined with my good friend, Michael. In my expensive guts I always knew it was coming, frankly. There had been so many butcheries of young people in their classrooms and school hallways, already, and America in the New Millennium is a zone for upping the ante at an exponential rate. Some people have already established with real certainty, moreover, that many of the Columbine-style massacres featured a manifest shadiness, as far as indications that the twin devils of Abstract Conspiracy and Social Engineering were at play among the kids, in precisely that place or battleground where the carnivorous state had them most under its thumb and care. You fuck with the children and the people will always react on an atavistic and fear-disoriented level. They look as ever before to the State and to authority for protection, and the family itself withdraws into itself and away from the community, which is always, seemingly, the directive of a healthy state, with its healthy bottomless appetite for control. No community for us, only a place in the beehive, as directed.

But there always seems to be other, darker levels in matters like these. Just as with the Sandusky scandal, or the Isle of Jersey child abuse and murder non-scandals. Places where good, civic-minded, reasonable people don't often find themselves, and might be embarrassed to visit. It is a fact that a yet more abstract-minded community of people had even further established with their own grave certainty that some and even many of these literally countless school shootings which mushroomed after Columbine bore the hallmarks of occult workings, or the "ritualized murder" of youths. You do not have to be an occultist or a cultural anthropologist to know of the ritual importance of sacrificing children in the ancient and darker religious systems of the world, from the East to the West, and from the West to the East...When a child was burned or strangled in Lebanon and the Levant, or in Germany or the British Isles when these practices are accepted as having been normal thousands of years ago, this was also social engineering. An act that affected the Public Mind and Guided society in some prescribed direction, one desired by the priesthoods, our old benevolent minders and caretakers and oath-takers. Think of Waco briefly, why did all those children have to be burnt to death when the government had full control of the situation and knew of its essential diciness? Why not wait it out if the world was watching. Maybe it was precisely Because the world was watching, that it ended like that? And that the dates echo other dates, like Columbine, and the ritual day of burning, 4-20. Regardless of whether you agree or not, there are millions of intelligent people who have researched September 11 to an academic degree who now accept as plain and provable fact that the day's slaughter was Ritualized, and the world was Made to Watch, and watch again and again and again. As if we were all part of a mass Wicker Man conflagration spectacular. So mesmerizing and deafening to the mind and soul that hardly anybody could in real time question or scoff at the hallucinatory absurdity of those buildings collapsing and disappearing like some outmoded Vegas Casinos.

I explained in a bit of pointless writing some months ago how i've come to believe that the insulting collapse of WTC7 (Salomon Brothers Building) was intended in part as mystical allegory, specifically as a reference to a parable about King Solomon that appears in the texts of the Abrahamic faiths. Until I happened across a totally unrelated (non-conspiracist) account of this story about a 2-headed demon-spawn that beseeches Solomon for double the inheritance he, the demon-spawn, was trying to cheat himself into, I had like everyone else thought that the greed of the Silverstein Holdings corporation was simple, quotidian greed of the kind that makes financial capitals the venom-filled cesspools which they are, wherever they're found. (These real estate developers who had clearly been favored by the Port Authorities of both NJ and NY in their recent leasing deal, infamously sued for more than double the insurance payout by arguing that two planes constituted Two separate terror attacks, and did indeed make more money back than they should have, as measured by the ethical standards of non-bankers and -lawyers) This discovery into Solomonic jurisprudence was a major part of my religious education, you see. Of my growing understanding of Kaballah.

Almost everyone you know whose minds do not subsist purely on intellectual similac is aware that there is a vast web of theories about the less than authentic-seeming circumstances surrounding the Sandy Hook massacres. (Just as with the September 11 attacks and the Boston Bombing and the Kennedy assassinations, most interestingly.) We can leave aside the simple but arguably esoteric facts that the author of The Hunger Games (a book about ritualized child murder carried out by the State) lives in that small town, or that she has a unique pedigree, or that this same exact town had an already-known reputation for containing a community of active Satanists and is even the location of a Church of Satan materials distribution office/chapter. Ignore for now the twilight language of some of the participants' names, or the street called Yogananda or where it might lead your research into false and mesmerizing gurus from the enlightened East. Disregard the old Masonic Lodge right near the school. I would simply suggest watching a documentary called "We Need to talk about Sandy Hook." I haven't even watched it but I know it is highly recommended and runs over 2 hours, and I happen also to know there is enough foul, rotten meat for purchase in the whole event, to require at least that much investigative film. I've already watched many hours of film and read many more hours of speculation and straight reportage, and of thorough, logical criticism of it all. It stinks like poisonous shit and horror show levels of evil, all of it, from horn to hoof.

It stinks in the following ways: You have a practically non-existent lone nut outcast nerd shooter (Central Casting) that nobody can really identify or has seen literally in Years; he had no verifiable web presence, a virtual impossibility for a basement-dwelling online video gamer, as the official story describes him. You have the now-traditional inconsistencies and anomalies with forensics, gun usage, and logistical access to the scene by the alleged, dead shooter (always they are dead after rampaging, unless they are so observably lunatic they are like wild-eyed human putty). You have the by-now common synchronicity of and cloudy info regarding Preparedness Drills. You have the unprecedented and patently anti-protocol behavior of the medical and other authorities, in their treatment and removal of the bodies of the victims, and in their callous and uninformative assessment of the carnage, in their public forums. Yes, you have the greatest, and i daresay the most ludicrous and obscene clusterfuck of a public official's sideshow-performance that has been witnessed in the television era. Meaning the antics of the laughing and baby-skinned Medical Examiner in the affair, who gave the press conferences phalanxed by gruff state troopers, which event made everyone vomit and recoil and which you must view if you are to have any legitimate understanding of it all. That bald, jocose motherfucker is as crooked and shady as anyone I have seen in hollywood movies, but his inappropriate mannerisms and nonchalance are actually matched by several of the victim's surviving relatives and parents, who are now widely, literally believed by your average skeptical investigator to be "crisis actors." His name is H. Wayne Carver. Research his recent career before the massacre and his publicly documented actions, and see if you do not recognize a nasty but commonplace odor. You have the anomaly of the apprehending of the Lanza Brother in another state, and some strange business with an alleged ID card mix-up of some kind between the brothers, and you have the fishery with the number of men actually filmed running into the woods behind the school, with only one apparently being reported as brought into custody, and few subsequent details that anyone has been able to locate regarding this. You have some police radio chatter about a purple van occupied by some nuns.You have very little, in other words, when it comes to Sandy Hook, but a lot of nakedly worthless television-style news reporting, and the howl of the idea, at least, of many dead children. You simply have to be satisfied looking at the face and the crappy speech-making of the creepy light-hearted father of dead Emily who will not be named because the motherfucker likely is not real or who he says he is. It is all deeply unsatisfying, even before coming to the sickening clean-up job those disgusting whores from the Hollywood acting corps did with their vile Public Service Announcements crying about "Not one more child! Disarm! Disarm, you filthy gun-owner." Deeply, horribly unsatisfying even before you get to old Gene Rosen, his yellow, toy-stocked gingerbread house, and its overall, child-friendly decor.

Gene Rosen is the kindly jewish fellow, a bit on the simpering, feckless, traumatized side, who was lucky enough to be at hand to offer aid and succor to six of the children who escaped the school and ended up on his lawn. He fed them juice and cookies and allowed them to play with a variety of his stuffed animals. He also has other sorts of dolls, and the kind of treacly bric-a-brac clutter approach to home decoration that offends the eyes and forces one to speculate about things like pedophilia and a form of ho-hum paganism whose taste for pentagrams and crescent moons and Teutonic Santa Klaus icons may disguise actual Luciferianism of the german death cult stripe. Then there is that creepy-ass painting of a white toddler boy sleeping with a doll of a smaller black boy, under a rainbow blanky. Gene is the consummate liberal. He even keeps and loves at least one disfigured familiar, I mean Pet, and it is a one-eyed cat that may or may not be named "Beelzebub," or "Azrael," or "Abraxas." Though there are many AP-bandied photographs of Rosen cuddling this tabby cat with one unsettling black orb in place of its right eye, I don't ever recall reading any cuddly comments about this feline disability, from Gene or any reporter. It's just like its own astoundingly rich sub-theme, or meme, meriting no comment because tragedies do not conscience trivial details, anecdotes, etc.. And this is presumably why no respectable journalists have bothered mentioning that the last occult-tinged Christopher Nolan Dark Knight production (consider: Dawn's association with Lucifer; the Aurora late-night movie premier massacre of mostly youths, which featured a preview of the film Gangster Squad wherein moviegoers were shot to death from the movie screen by gangsters; Principal Dawn Hochsprung, Heath Leger, Philip S. Hoffman, Robin Williams, rabbit-holes, ahem...) included a very bizarre map showing a location of mass destruction marked, "Sandy Hook," that had been re-named from existing Batman-universe geographies. One does not ever wish to address Black Magikal Social Engineering if one wishes to keep their august position in the trenches and behind the bylines of Received Wisdom.

Here is a curious quote from Caretaker Rosen, from when he was being interviewed during the fallout of his nauseating moments of fame, under a deluge of calls and messages from angry "conspiracy theorists" who thought he was clearly full of shit, an actor or kabalist, or worse. He appears to be fulfilling some role in the second sentence of a kind of official mouthpiece, as to the murky behaviors of the Medical personnel during the event and its aftermath.

“There must be someway to morally shame these people, because there were twenty dead children lying an eighth of a mile from my window all night long … And I sat there with my wife, because they couldn’t take the bodies out that night so the medical examiner could come. And I thought of an expression, that this ‘adds insult to injury,’ but that’s a stupid expression, because this is not an injury, this is an abomination.”

                           Incantations in the Land of the Dolls!, or, One-eighth Mile from Terror

There must be some way to morally shame these people... I like the way Gene Rosen, or whoever he is, thinks. So I'm going to wrap it up here and tell you what i think i may have learned by interwebbing this morning, about the Sandy Hook Situation: or, The Case of Whether or Not The Thing was a Satanic Hoax. Owing to its anniversary theme, i wanted to do some more reading on the event as it happened, some contemporary reports which I may have even already read. I assure you I am already well-familiar with the host of logical inconsistencies, the bizarre forensics and featured figure profiles, the cute weird stuff about how many of those families lived in Newtown for less than one or two years before the massacre, the fishy house-ownership documentation...just as i'm steeped in data and speculation about the potential occult, ritual nature of this tragedy, so strangely similar to the occult information and themes of the Non-11 attacks. Even so, in a way that won't be immediately apparent to the exoteric thinker, figures like Elisa Lam and the beltway sniper John Muhammed both play roles in the Newtown passion. What we seem to be dealing with are "simulacra" of ritual events that have larger, magical, archetypal significance. The Chilean Miners' saga was a ritual of Rebirth, looked at in this way, as were the probable murders of Heath Leger and Philip S. Hoffman, who were both "reborn" in films they were making as they died, in one case with other actors, in another with computer-generated effects. Terry Gilliam has a smaller budget, but sufficient cache with the artist/acting community, you see. As a rule of thumb, keep your eyes open for flagrant astrological symbolism, and tarot cards, if you want to be exposed to the alternative take on these amerikan/anglo-saxon-judaeo brands of evil goings on. Proceeding from this practical theorem, we learn to look for certain kinds of quotes, anecdotes, and details that are perhaps placed in press accounts, as cues or "tells" for those with Eyes To See. Yes i know, please pardon me.

As i was saying, I did some retroactive account-reading, and found a generic, "real-time" NY Daily News article. A surviving child told the intrepid author of the piece that they had been watching "The Nutcracker" in class when the shooting started. Which version of the timeless classic was being shown was not stated. I had just seen the ballet form of "The Tale of the Hard Nut," an ancient nordic fable, during last Christmas season, or Yuletide mid-winter festival, and so i recalled that Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite dealt with themes like dolls coming to life and anthropomorphic Mouse Kings doing battle with gingerbread soldiers, and general levels of homey European folk-sorcery and faery mysticism. So we have our pagan/mythical Norse imagery and context, check. But of super-great interest to me was the character of Drosselmeyer, the sorceror-godfather-"public official/councilman" figure who brings the magical, life-invested dolls and toys to the children of the home/castle and to its protagonist especially, the young girl or Princess. This sage and mystic and public official, Drosselmeyer, has only One Eye, and he is tasked early in the fable with rounding up and punishing/killing all the offending Mice, who ate the King's precious cake of blue cheese, and possibly some coveted gingerbread. I wonder what Mr. Rosen named his cat.

So to be perfectly clear, I do not but wonder, as I am a logic-minded person with an interest in crime and mysteries and ethics and the well-being of children, even drowsy white toddlers with unusual affections for black babydolls, (Black-white dichotomies, and Root Race Theory and Race Warfare, and ritual pedophilia, and the alchemical symbolism of rainbows do indeed figure importantly into well-recognized occult systems and occult political movements, you know) i say i do not but wonder that Gene Rosen is meant to be some kind of physical symbol or allegory of the more bloodthirsty aspects of pagan, ritual life. He is like the Chitty-chitty Bang Bang "Child Catcher," or possibly the warlock in the inviting gingerbread house. The fact is that I think many "coincidences" are only called thus because people tend to be dumb and unimaginative in proportion to their level of fear and discomfort with a subject, force, or mystery. The term "conspiracy theorist" itself, I hope you know, originated among journalists with a rather quaint universal spontaneity following JFK's death. In other words, there was no state-sanctioned or CIA-Operation Mockingbird (look it up..)-sanctioned terminology available until that time of drastic public contempt for the fishiness of the president's overtly ritual-seeming public murder (The King is Dead. Now to Kill the King.)... And therefore one had to be created and written down by the solemn and believable pens of journalists, academics, and the other smarmy gate-keeping classes. And now we can't get Rid of that shapeless, shiftless bastard of a term. It's everywhere curiosity has the outcast, lone nut, profligate dignity to tread or stumble. It's a slander to the free mind to even utter it. If you are not today in your life a conspiracist, then you are either asleep to an important reality, or part of its manifest evil. The sort of evil i feel we are all made---mostly indirectly---to be a part of is symbolized by the not-quite subliminal theme of Gene Rosen. As with the disgusting, amused "father of Emily," they wagged Rosen shamelessly in front of us, they were not even embarrassed or afraid and they showed us his home; in the classrooms on that day as it happened, they showed the kids The Nutcracker, (according to the news-casted story at least..) and the reporters wrote this fact down and sent it out to the world. All of these kinds of things to me look like magical simulacra or "workings," an effort at what might be called "sympathetic black magic," but only because they conform much more to those rituals than they do to the surely fraudulent and hole-filled story we have been fed. Negative, "black magic" is reputed to make use of a principle whereby the victim is lewdly shown the efforts taken against them, right in their face, symbolically, to reduce their power and render them more into a sheep-like state: if it is right in front of you and you still do not know it or counter-act it, then you deserve your fate, so the reasoning is supposed to go, and the power of the offending party is augmented. A kind of magical Darwinism or fascism, or, in intelligence parlance, something akin to a "limited hangout." One of the few obvious things is that the massacre was a timely Christmas massacre, a massacre of Christmas, and it involved a good bit of dialectical, bloody, furious Odin/Santa Klaus imagery. Also, Heroes are only one letter removed from Herpes. It is an irrefutable scientific fact and you can verify this in any number of ways on the internet.


** Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Ballet apparently winds down with a set-piece of terpsichorean metaphysical substance: Something about the dancers all being arranged in the form of a beehive. In this vein of Masonic/kabalist thinking, I am within my circumspect rights of Reason to wonder if Drosselmeyer was a jewish sorceror, i.e., a Kabalist. And I wonder what King Solomon would do with this information.

** From Wikipedia, (emphasis added by conspiracist):

"The Nutcracker, Clara, Pantaloon, Trudy and Marie arrive at the Land of Dolls on flying swans, passing forests of Christmas trees and arriving at a palace made of sweets."

** And then there's this upsetting speculative piece about the background and possible linkages in Rosen's life. Take it for what it's worth: as reporting that someone was not Paid to do.

http://www.aangirfan.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/rosen-worked-at-fairfield-hills-cia.html

 (Notice the dolls on their very own chair in the living room, and the Odin Klaus portrait, and the Benetton Boys in Bed painting. There are four magic, lively dolls in the Nutcracker. Dolls and Disney Fantasia Nutcracker Suites: seldom good signs. I'm not interested in counting Gene's, in any case. Next is a photo of Gene clutching a stuffed frog in what is either a reasonably inconsolable grief and anguish, or an attempt to recall some precious detail which might lend an air of credibility to the number.)

                         A Blazing Star of Sirius for each victim, put atop the infamous Firehouse.

The Gorgeous Black Vortex of Starbux

My views on this particular chain of coffee makers
are well known among my friends.
I've prattled a bit about what the logo means,
who the corporate owners are and what
their politics tend towards.

Their java is bitter and has the staid and
predictable taste one might associate with
the business model that produces
the cloned, reptile-brain-prodding flavor of Mack Donulds.

But i kept going back to see her,
pulled into that collapsing dark-colored beautiful space
in the nocturnal middle of campus.
I'd write a thousand poems about the girl
working there at night,
with the super sable glowing skin
and the colored eyes i only just
found out were marked with such a unique hue..
now that she doesn't wear glasses,
now that she looks at me a bit cross.

One thousand and fifty poems, fuck it.
I'm up to the task, you see.
Because I've not seen anything like her
and she can't possibly be faking that sweetness and those
intelligent exotic eyes whose color i
probably won't ever know,
now,
since i applied my cunning expertise
once again to the job
of fucking shit up
before it started.

Dystopia

i shake my head in disgust
at my kitten,
she is stupid,
and irritating, and irresponsible and mean.
her name is Sweet-pea and
she came about as an imposition,
like my other cat,
who is also dumb,
but vindictive, older,
and crazed, to boot,
and who lurks about with
dark erratic intent
that nobody who enters my apartment,
no matter how dull or disinterested,
will fail to observe as sort of unsettling.
Hers is a retarded stolid stupidity
mixed up with bitterness.
her name is Maga
and no amount of sweetness ever
bloomed in her big neurotic eyes or
influenced her naming.

They hate each other
because they are both female,
and confined,
and what more is there to say,
except that
my living space is dominated by these hissing,
fit-throwing little Empresses,
who demand to be fed continuously,
and piss for any number of reasons,
for pleasure or spite,
for need, for boredom.
They are piss factories.
I shall discover a vital human need
for catpiss
and become rich.
If they could shit as much as they piss,
they would,
but i do not feed them enough.

the way they inform me
that the shitbox is full
is by shitting outside of the box,
which is not as clever as it sounds.
the only intelligence they have
ever demonstrated is in
the artful positioning
of these renegade shitpiles
precisely in magical zones
where i can
neither see nor avoid
treading through them.

they excrete and execrate and loathe each other
and screech about all over the wooden floors
with their floppy dewlaps of flab
wabbling crazily from their domesticated bellies,
and mostly end up atop my
prized material possession,
an elegant folding table
of beauty
past human description
that is now ruined by
many hideous little scratches.
Sweet-pea lies in wait for Maga,
and attacks her
severally throughout the day,
while Maga waits for
Satan to repossess her old bones,
and occasionally lashes back
psionically with the
tentacles of the wounded octopus of her soul.
They are the best room-mates
I ever had or imagined.

Shutting up like pot-bellied mice-men

there comes a time when all of us must shut the fuck up,
and quiver quietly like mice
with no way out.

roll the dice
and hope for the slightest possible agony
and shame.

Do this: roll about and pray in
your helpless,
narcissist way.
sit in the pew and
freely breathe your stink
and the stink of things like
God and Government
and whatever produces
the horrors of television.
All the minor humiliations you
have suffered,
you must embrace and appreciate,
because they are as nothing to the
suffering of the children
of the Congo, or the Sudan, or Rwanda,
or Cambodia, or Vietnam,
or Guatemala, or Iraq,
or the poorer sections of
America and Europe.

We must all pray,
or else we should
all shit
upon ourselves,
quite seriously,
at some crucial point, my friend...
out of need, justice, or humility,
out of brotherhood with the,
well, the lesser.
in personal moments we must do it
because we are all family.
The key is to approach this
droning, mindless ritual
or this self-soiling
seraphic state with some degree
of humanity or humanness,
as if heated by the burn of our essential spark.
That is to say, we must
look forward to whatever
life brings us with a
cunning, secretive lust
for the profits that
can be won from the situation,
and a shrewd eye
for the weaknesses of
our companions.

morning is the best time of day, except for noon and night

morning is the best time of day.
idling in the fresh
goofy glow of the reborn beams,
slurping under Heaven's vault
one's galvanizing cup of drugs,
a breeze rifling through the skirted flirty trees,
now the lingering horrors of
the backbreaking cycle of yesterdays
are blown away,
and the sweetest things are imagined
with an air of conviction
and chanciness.
It is the spirit's
Get Back Up generator,
its magma core
of optimism,
and the clay body's
brief shot
at a hope
for daily renewal,
and that's why we say
morning is the best time of day.

Noon is the best time of day.
though the mass of toilers and office-pets
may only know it as the
half-hour slit or sliver
between underpaid misery
and cheap agonizing servitude,
when one may furtively gobble
a poisonous hamburger sandwich
or squat in the public park with
a genetically modified salad,
or recover bits of dignity over
one to three beers with one's fellow miners
or policemen,
really that may be enough.
But noon is also when the sun is highest,
and therefore provides the most light, truth and
biologic efficiency,
when it can power all flesh batteries,
all sun-drinking creatures
with the most vitality....
and at mid-day, we can
by the clock more reasonably look forward
to the redeeming comforts of home,
to pleasure and ease.
that, alone, could be enough to say
that noon is the best time of day.

but evening is the best time of day,
when the horizons are again painted
with garish inhuman colors,
and the wind might babble and heave
with added poetry and meaning,
and words like "gloaming" may be used,
and "twilight," and evening.
Even
the lowest plow-beast
gets to sleep,
eventually.

..and at this punctual darkening of day
we may safely remove our clothes in the company
of one another,
we may guzzle evil spirits without shame
or dire social consequence,
and we may plunge ourselves into the ten thousand things
that relieve us from
the grim plan of living...
into our wives and husbands and children,
into the orgy of hope and pleasure that is a New romance,
into our gardens and flagons and garages,
into ourselves where it is quiet and we
may comfortably fail to meet all expectations,
Ourselves where we are not like
shabby and disappointing strangers,
ourselves where we may always
find the gentle,
unhurried,
hypnotic embrace of nothing.
so evening is the best time of day,
and so,
everyday
must be the best time of life.

The Rent Collectors

she is at least 63 years old.
it is suspicious that
she still has
red hair.
florid marks of some
kind speckle her face,
enough to notice.
many people have probably
assumed or hoped they were
the result of some creeping disease
of a spiritual, moral origin.
her wide-opened,
powerful, business-like eyes
greet you with undeniable
southern and matronly cheer;
they are practically agog
with superficial southern cheer.
from behind the big silly glasses you would expect worn
by a woman
of her station
they gog at you
and expect a satisfying monetary exchange.
they oversee my district
of the Realty Trust,
a vast gang of cutthroats known to every land
throughout time and memory.

she tries to be nice
she is a Christian,
and, I Believe,
one of the Jehovah's Witnesses.
she has witnessed,
and every month religiously
she takes, my meager offering
of rent money,
and witnesses that
it is late without fail,
but within the bounds of christian charity
as well as
the terms of our contract,
and she takes it and is kind
and thinks quietly
of the times she nearly expelled
me for too-late-payment,
and of her patience and charity
beyond these two unpleasing events,
those two doughty smack-downs
i delivered to the Realty Trust's attempts to evict me.
they tried,
but were not equal to my sweet-tongued pleas,
and the promise of more bundled bills,
with interest.

but yes what power she possesses,
this glass-eyed woman
who twice abused my self-esteem
and peace of mind
by almost evicting me.
Twice i had to sweet-talk
the blotched and slack-faced buzzard
with sugary believable
lies that make the skin crawl
and the body shudder,
but we are talking about roofs over heads here,
and Jehovah's witnesses,
and the sordid fact that
i paid and
will continue to pay,
with my fealty
to the land-owners
and my guilt
for lying rather shamelessly to
a quite gentle woman.