Lauren reads to me a story of how the late pop star, “may be worth more dead than alive,” then another about Kenyan witch burnings ,and I finally sit down, that old familiar disgust rumbling in my gut, like a chicken trying to fight its way out, and attempt to inscribe some of my thoughts on the current state of the world, and how it applies to the situation of resistance and suppression in Iran;Or, the reality war.
And as an American, I too sit dialed in, guzzling green Koolaid, or whatever dismissive and dangerous platitude you want to attach at the end of that. Watching along from a living room, feeling trapped and helpless that all I can feebly think to do is comment aloud, “That’s a chilling thought, aye? That if the entire world saw your own government cracking open your skulls because you were asking for a change in the way in which you were being handled by your policy makers, that the rest of the world would do little more than set their profile background colors to green, or, at most set up a proxy server, though far more likely just leave a “comment” out their somewhere in cyberspace, a footnote at the tail end end of someone else’s opinion; while still further, the majority will do nothing at all.”
I sat a few weeks back under a Tennessee tree, smoking weed with a large group of WE. Until, and of course, the cops came and immediately arrested one of us, as all the rest sat on their hands, pretending not to see, or more exactly, that there wasn’t any reason for the police to pay any attention to them. I again wondered aloud to the crowd something similar to, “why is it that we do nothing when another of us is being persecuted for doing something in which enough of us partake, that, if, and all together, we said, no, enough, no longer, that the policy makers could say or do little more than to actually serve and protect?
“I mean, I understand voting Republican as a tactic.” the man we got a ride out of somewhere in Texas said to us this winter. “The guy in the street, you and me, we can fight a corporation by just not choosing to shop there, but the government has missiles.”
or Batons; pretty stark.
I mean, is the rhetoric, actions, or ideas of these people so dangerous that it, or they, must be suppressed at all measure? What messages must these brown desert hands holding green banners in the far off sand be bound from sending to the rest of the world,…as idle we stand waiting for our own policy makers to somehow make it right.
Or is it all, and hopefully, more simple sinister. One group of parasites so determined to keep a tooth into their citizen host that they would club and shoot a few of the louder, prouder, less likely to remain in the yoke, to prove to the rest of their citizens and the world that it will hold whatever power, by whatever force it deems necessary.
It is with bad paranoid thoughts that I wonder how all this petri-dish resistance must look to the eyes at the right end of the microscope lens; as I find it hard to stretch a weary over tired imagination over the idea that the world would rush to niece or nephew Sam or Samantha’s sides if our own uncle were to once again get a bit drunk on power and knock a few of us into, or right out of the line.
But who of the lower classless hasn’t seen that look in the eyes of police over on this side, hacking through the crowd with batons as if trying to cut down a forest full of heads. I mean, even my own friends, ones I once thought had the potential to change the things in the world in which cynically they felt were always against them, now making little jerk off motions in their head when I tell them about how last summer in the woods of Wyoming the police opened fire with rubber bullets on a group of citizens in peaceful protest of federal corporate super national policy strict bureaucracy for all!
I would yell from the roof top like a cannon if I thought anyone gave a fuck.
When to get hung up on opinions,….
and when to consider.
The police agenda is to collect on a debt. Made by their higher ups, with unlimited kick downs.
The lapdog mentality, as scraps of viscous fat fall from the table. Seeing red and smashing Jesus into them, one haircut at a time. This is still 1969. It never died. Or maybe the time when the ghost dance died, when we lost the innocence to fall as one into a trance and dive into the calm sea of self and harmony, in painful reflection of the ones who had died. ….Though some how not forgotten, never died. This nation loves a biography, but just try and say something while you are alive and they will throw you head first into the fire; the world is in disorder when those that should, would never, and those that should never, do decide they know best how to polic(e)y you.