Bullet the Blue Sky
2:57 am. April 28, 2017. Atlanta, Georgia.
The strains of music lace through the open night
first a drum, then bass
then piano and guitar and vocals and the rest
and all around me
the sky begins to glow
people look up
The first wave comes up over the mountains , out towards the peninsula
and the second follows, tracing through the air
smashing into metal and steel and killing soldier and sailor and innocent bystander
the third comes soon after
burning the ground
The inevitable war
waged upon innocents
They send the poor
load them into transports
drop them into the battleground
march them into minefields
line them up on the shore
and our army and navy advance
We do what we’re told.
6:35 pm, April 5, 2017 — South Miami Beach, P.O.D.
South Miami Beach glows in the Florida Sunset. He’s turned the radio up really loud, windows open, cruising. The neon lights reflect on the hood of his car. He’s driving near the Parisian and she walks by. She’s wearing a black, sheer dress. She’s wearing high heels. She’s walking with her head up high.
His heart stops for a moment. He can’t breathe. He’s listening to P.O.D. He and his son are heading back to the hotel, and the lights of South Miami Beach are glowing brighter. Everything looks better. He was standing on a living planet while she was alive.
Whatever is broken with our country, we can fix it.
7:01 pm, June 7, 1942. The Valor of Ignorance.
My grandfather fought in the battle of Midway. When his ship went down, he regretted one thing and only one thing lost in all of his possessions. A book went down with his ship, and he never found it again.
He flew in World War II as a gunner on the dive bomber that led the first flight of the Battle of Midway, alongside Ensign Charles Lane. From the Yorktown, this flight of SBD Dauntless Dive Bombers struck the first blow in the battle of Midway, destroying the Akagi, and Kaga — and lit the Japanese Aircraft Carrier Task Force on Fire, destroying three out of four carriers. He never returned to his ship. A Japanese Submarine I 168 located his ship and sent her to the bottom of the sea along with 141 souls and my grandfather’s book on board.
The book was called “The Valor of Ignorance” by Homer Lea. My grandfather said he never found another copy of it and , when the newspaper interviewed him , he said “ I was told it was required reading or all Japanese Military Officers. In it they talked about attacking Pearl Harbor long before it happened”.
Thanks to the miracle of being able to type something into a search engine, seventy years later this forgotten book was found by a grandson to have had introductions by Admiralty, and Generals and indeed had expressed the foresight we would have needed to defend ourselves against Japanese attack. It contained insights into our country and its defenses — From the text..
National existence is not a haphazard passage of a people from an unknown beginning to an unforeseen end. It is not an erratic phantasm of dreams that has fallen upon the sleeping consciousness of a world; but is, on the other hand, a part of life itself, governed by the same immutable laws.
No state is destroyed except through those avertible conditions that mankind dreads to contemplate. Yet nations prefer to evade and perish rather than to master the single lesson taught by the washing-away of those that have gone down before them. In their indifference and in the valor of their ignorance they depart, together with their monuments and constitutions, their vanities and gods.
In the works of many philosophers, the birth, growth and decay of nations is made analogous to the life history of individuals, wherein they pass
from the cradle to manhood, expanding in intellect, accumulating vigor and strength until, in due time, they grow old, die and are forgotten, down in the
deep, vast ossuary of time.
This similarity in the lives of men and nations is in actuality true, although it should not be precisely so. As the body of man is made up of volition-less molecules allowing the natural course of age, disease and decay to destroy it, the body politic of a nation is an aggregation of rational beings, atoms supposedly
possessed of the ability to reason, and who should, if they are obedient to laws governing national growth and deterioration, prolong the existence of
a nation far beyond the years and greatness ordinarily allotted to it.
The analogy, however, contains this melancholy truth: that only so long as a man or nation continues to grow and expand do they nourish the vitality that wards off disease and decay. This continuous growth and expansion in human beings is their childhood, youth and manhood; the gradual cessation of it, old age or disease; its stoppage death. But among nations, though the progress and
consummation are identical, we take but little note of it and name it not at all.
As physical vigor constitutes health in the individual, so does it among nations, and it is exemplified by strength among them as in mankind. A brilliant mind, a skillful hand has nothing to do with the health or duration of life in the individual, so neither has mental brilliancy compositely taken, as in a nation of scholars, anything to do with the prolongation of national existence.
The Valor of Ignorance is a challenging concept — to see the rise and fall of nations as the rise and fall of man — and all nations born out of war. In the years since Christ, Three Thousand Four Hundred years have seen Two Hundred and Forty Four Years of Peace. War is the forge of nations.
We are at war with a hidden enemy. Just as “The Valor of Ignorance” presciently predicted a threat to our Pacific stronghold before the dawn of the War in the Pacific — it also holds a dire warning to our nation of a more dangerous enemy. An enemy from within, attacking us where we stand. This attack is like that of a parasite -
Expansion culminates, or, in other words, nations begin to decline with the subordination of national to individual supremacy. When the debasement of
this formative capacity of empires is complete, the state is given over to devitalizing elements social and economic parasites. It is in these, valorous with
fat pride, that the nation takes its final and inglorious departure, as did its predecessors, forever from mankind.
The ghastly molecule of War Corporatism and the installation of an oligarchy in our government comprises part of the signature of the parasite H. Lea is describing. It hides itself behind the misguided ‘patriotism’ of supporters.
Patriotism in its purity is a political virtue, and as such is the antithesis of commercial vanity. To boast of a nation’s wealth, under the delusion that it
is patriotic, is to commit a crime against patriotism.
It’s a safe bet that the parasite would come g under this false flag — and vain — self centered. The flag that gets waved in your face — do other people disagree with you ? Then they’re out of the club. A man who would claim to speak for the forgotten man and woman. But in fact, a parasite that brings a numbing weakness, forcing everyone to pay the emotional cost of identifying as a citizen in a country led by a madman. He would pretend to be the leader of a movement, but his actions would y be expensive, and overblown — nobody would get their money’s worth. A creature of a foreign power, at the center of deals that seemingly don’t make sense — would lionize those who use government to steal from their own people, men such as Vladimir Putin. A liar so anosognosically mired in his own narcissism that his worldviews and truths are manipulated by his own random desires. He would be a pawn in an endgame about money, taking it wherever and however he can. Whatever he says of his country, his real view of our country would be that of looking upon a great big bag of cash. He would be there to steal it all.
We, the American people see fit to pack a paint bomb inside that bag of money — whichever fraud or thief or criminal to open it will get their face painted orange. In fact, let’s use the permanent kind so we’ll know who did it forever.
7:45 pm, April 14, 2017 — Jeremiah and the Bullfrog
He eats his breakfast at Waffle House, the all star special. The orange juice is going to bump up the price, but it’s supposed to pull free radicals out of his blood stream, whatever that means. So he pays it.
He’s going to go home later that evening, and it’s April 14th. He’d better get his taxes together. After all, he’s not some kind of billionaire that doesn’t have to pay taxes at all. He knows he will pay. All the bills are in a nice even stack. One corporation is charging him a bunch of money because they’ve got a new policy in place that makes him pay more. He knows that he’ll have to make the call, and they’ll put him on hold for an hour — but it’s 160 percent per year interest that they’re charging and he thinks he can save the cash if he simply works with their customer support people.
He voted for someone who said they would change things.
A long day of work passes, and he accomplishes whatever he can. He’s working with people that sometimes undo the work he’s completed — and he’s got to make sure that at least part of his job gets done before the rest of it is undone. He listens to music streaming from the net, and checks social media — they tell him what he wants to hear. It’s strangely unsatisfying. Everyone there is smiling. Everyone there is always doing well. They want you to like something. Share it. Repost it. He knows his kid is into taking conversations and making them into one word pings so that they can get streaks … it’s a thing…but his son slowly rambles on and on when you ask him where he’s been. He’s slowly losing the ability to speak, but he’s running streak after streak and he’s proud of it. His son has a girlfriend in another state but they don’t kiss or make out or go to the movies. They work for a corporation, reviewing everything — commenting on everything.
Everything he says is recorded and sold to another corporation. Everywhere he goes is recorded and uploaded to the mother ship. His private information is public. He’s constantly being scored and analyzed.
The day seems to drag on, getting slower and slower until the clock reaches four. He has a beer in his desk; he pops the top. Beer is good for you. What the hell, it’s friday.
He is heading home. The radio reports that the mother of all bombs fell upon an empty desert somewhere. A mother and her bomb. A few days ago it was about missiles that were striking another empty place in the desert where a deserted airfield didn’t even get its runway taken out. He’s driving down the road with chemicals coursing through his body and he is told that the airstrikes shut down a chemical warfare site, even though they were running bombing runs again the next day. He wonders what’s really going on. He does some math in his head. Taken together, the two strikes cost 100 million dollars. And the new administration, like a disease running through his country — weakens the protections he once had against chemicals they put in the food he was eating — and then he hits an endless trail of tail lights. A billion dollar stadium was built near the road he drives home, without a vote. Now they’re getting the money to pay for it out of him, and weakening the schools that his children attend. The radio keeps on talking about how everyone is lucky, and everyone is kind. He decides maybe on the long drive home, that music might be a better option but when he tunes over it’s nothing but songs that were all designed to be top radio hits, complete with autotune and a swimming black void where a soul was once found. There is no driveway moment. He turns the radio off when he gets home and walks inside.
His wife is asleep on the sofa. She’s worn out , more and more these days — as the fatal disease runs its course. She would have been gone a long time ago if it were not for the reforms, but now the corporations are using their backdoors in the reforms to undo it all.
She can’t get well because they won’t pay for the medicine, even though they pay their premium. The insurance companies make sure they have more people in Washington to control when the new people took over. He will have to spend alot of time working through the bills tonight. He decides to escape to his workshop, it’s kind of a man cave. He grabs another beer.
As he opens the door, his workshop smells faintly of dog. He wonders briefly about something he heard about his president — that the man never kept any pet. Not even when he was a small child, before he flunked out of school — he never had enough compassion to keep an animal.
He closes the door of the workshop. His dog scratches on the door, so he lets him in. Then comes his other dog, and they rest next to his feet.
He is the forgotten man. He could disappear completely. Nothing would change. The corporations would write off the bills he owed, or sue his children for them. Even if he could make it, the doctor traveling home to save his life would get thrown off the flight and beaten to a pulp so that the airline could save two hundred more dollars.
Like so many others in his country, less than two hundred dollars in their bank account. Just holding on.
The person he voted for lied to him. He though he was part of a movement. He thought he could help change things. He was misled. He voted for a fraud. He doesn’t want to tell himself this, so he decides just to say “give him more time, he’ll do what he told us he would do.” He doesn’t want to be laughed at. But he knows something is wrong — and he’s not alone. He hears a bullfrog in his backyard. The dogs scratch at the workshop door. He opens it, takes another sip of beer.
He will be in church on Sunday. He will be back to work on Monday morning. But for now, he’s standing alone in his backyard. Wishing his wife was well again. Hoping his dogs won’t kill the bullfrog. And drinking beer.
8:15 pm, April 14, 2017. What the Cat Saw.
It’s day 787 of my captivity. I remember my mother’s story about the first one her grandmother saw. She was a kitten. New York City. Looked like rich family, and little kid with orange hair and an orange face. She said he smelled strange, made alot of noise, and was afraid to pick her up. Blonde hair. Orange face. She heard they shipped him off to Military School after he flunked out of grade school. He never got a pet. She raised me to be wary of humans ever since.
I’m going to leave something dead on their doorstep tomorrow. I hope they get the idea. They probably won’t. They just keep doing whatever it is they’re doing. But lately, everyone seems to be more stressed out.
Almost as bad as dogs. They were like shepherds, before — the orange thing. But now they’re more like the little dogs that yap and bark.
I see things rotting. The fish always rots from the head. Why do you think I start there? I see kids staring at their telephone. I see the rich people stealing from the poor people then passing laws to make it legal. I see people fighting with other people.
They used to talk to each other but now they talk past each other. Whatever.
6:45 pm, April 30, 2018. New Haven, Connecticut.
The dust is almost settled now.
They thought the time was right to strike.
A weak leader. A divided people.
They were right.
Some of us went underground.
The rest fled to the mountains.
They moved in through the wires. First. Covering their tracks.
The leader was busy talking about how popular he was.
His government, completely unstaffed. Just as they had planned.
They came like parasites. Laying eggs.
Then one day.
The hatchlings exploded forth from our eyes, our nose, our mouth —
and we fell to our knees.
Most went blind.
We worship the leader now.
And do as we are told.