Sunday, January 15, 2006
It’s Suspicious I Tell You
War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
I’ve got Donald Rumsfeld in my corn flakes
Dick Cheney in my toilet bowl
Condoleeza Rice poking through my garbage
And George Bush peeking into my medicine cabinet.
War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
I put the chain on the door
Bars on the windows
Water filter on the faucet
Flu shot in the shoulder
Sunscreen on the dermis
Firewall on the computer.
War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
There’s pesticides in the food,
Mercury in the water
Diesel particulates in the air
Petroleum distillates in the street
Depleted uranium in the shells
I can’t eat, drink, breathe, walk or bomb civilians without getting cancer
It’s suspicious I tell you.
They call this a War on Terror.
I call it a War on Survival.
And I’m a survivor from way back.
This ain’t no war, it’s a police action,
a security situation.
They don’t need to tap my phone or read my email to know I’m a danger to the status quo
I’m queer,
Check off that little box
I’m male,
Check off another.
I was molested.
Check off boxes three, four and seven.
My friends are strippers, Satanists, anarchists, wobblies and drug fiends
Check check check check check.
Call the ACLU. I’m the perfect test case.
This ain’t no War on Terror
It’s a War of Terror, a constant siege
Where the population is kept in line by the non-existent threat
Of a nebulous, invisible enemy
That can strike at any time, anywhere
If the government says so.
It’s the perfect excuse to enslave us,
Invade our privacy
And keep us all on short leashes
By a president drunk on his own rhetoric.
We’re not in a war, we’re in a security situation
And the sooner people wake up to the fact
The sooner our civil liberties can be restored.
War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
I’ve got Donald Rumsfeld in my corn flakes
Dick Cheney in my toilet bowl
Condoleeza Rice poking through my garbage
And George Bush peeking into my medicine cabinet.
War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
I put the chain on the door
Bars on the windows
Water filter on the faucet
Flu shot in the shoulder
Sunscreen on the dermis
Firewall on the computer.
War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
There’s pesticides in the food,
Mercury in the water
Diesel particulates in the air
Petroleum distillates in the street
Depleted uranium in the shells
I can’t eat, drink, breathe, walk or bomb civilians without getting cancer
It’s suspicious I tell you.
They call this a War on Terror.
I call it a War on Survival.
And I’m a survivor from way back.
This ain’t no war, it’s a police action,
a security situation.
They don’t need to tap my phone or read my email to know I’m a danger to the status quo
I’m queer,
Check off that little box
I’m male,
Check off another.
I was molested.
Check off boxes three, four and seven.
My friends are strippers, Satanists, anarchists, wobblies and drug fiends
Check check check check check.
Call the ACLU. I’m the perfect test case.
This ain’t no War on Terror
It’s a War of Terror, a constant siege
Where the population is kept in line by the non-existent threat
Of a nebulous, invisible enemy
That can strike at any time, anywhere
If the government says so.
It’s the perfect excuse to enslave us,
Invade our privacy
And keep us all on short leashes
By a president drunk on his own rhetoric.
We’re not in a war, we’re in a security situation
And the sooner people wake up to the fact
The sooner our civil liberties can be restored.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Nothing natural is profane.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Bush Pedaled While New Orleans Drowned
It's become clear that routine maintenance to the levees was neglected, wetlands filled in, and other preventative measures neglected to prevent the devastation of the flooding of New Orleans which has occurred as a result of hurricane Katrina.
It has become even more clear that as a result of Bush's disastrous War of aggression that there aren't enough National Guards to provide emergency aid or security to the people hit hardest by this natural disaster. The utter lack of security, food, water, sanitation and authority is resulting in gang warfare over precious resources. Armed thugs are taking over buildings, hoarding supplies, looting and shooting to protect their compounds Bush's bankruptcy of leadership has turned a large portion of the American South into a Third World Country of armed Warlords, gangs and open warfare.
Worst President Ever.
It's become clear that routine maintenance to the levees was neglected, wetlands filled in, and other preventative measures neglected to prevent the devastation of the flooding of New Orleans which has occurred as a result of hurricane Katrina.
It has become even more clear that as a result of Bush's disastrous War of aggression that there aren't enough National Guards to provide emergency aid or security to the people hit hardest by this natural disaster. The utter lack of security, food, water, sanitation and authority is resulting in gang warfare over precious resources. Armed thugs are taking over buildings, hoarding supplies, looting and shooting to protect their compounds Bush's bankruptcy of leadership has turned a large portion of the American South into a Third World Country of armed Warlords, gangs and open warfare.
Worst President Ever.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Mama’s Mascara Runs, Honey
When we drink we miss those nights when hookers dabbed blood
off our crooked, grin-split faces
and offered to pave over the bruises with foundation
for a cigarette and how Finessa Cruella
pinched my ass and played
Liz Taylor, sneered “What a Dump.”
Palms up, hands making wide, victorious arcs.
When we drink we miss those nights when hookers dabbed blood
off our crooked, grin-split faces
and offered to pave over the bruises with foundation
for a cigarette and how Finessa Cruella
pinched my ass and played
Liz Taylor, sneered “What a Dump.”
Palms up, hands making wide, victorious arcs.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Until today the Department of Defense had banned photos of coffins returning from Iraq.
Perhaps Mrs. Bush will commission a "Coffin Opera" or some other suitable tribute to the heroism of the rich bully she's married to.
Perhaps Mrs. Bush will commission a "Coffin Opera" or some other suitable tribute to the heroism of the rich bully she's married to.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
"Our task must be to free ourselves...by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty." -Albert Einstein
Diversify
Location
Plastic
Come together for enhanced supply-chain transparency. It's all about coalition building.
Location
Plastic
Come together for enhanced supply-chain transparency. It's all about coalition building.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Aching for a truth not predicated by the narrator's convenience.
That my Father was a liar became a matter of fact some years before his final death (his third attempt by some counts). That he asserted claims over the accomplishments of others remains a deep disappointment. In the long years of his illness he told a number of remarkable whoppers from assisting Professor Einstein at Princeton (while attending North Texas University -a feat of teleportation whose technique has since been lost) to experiencing firsthand the 1944 atomic devestation of Hiroshima from the deck of a battleship (Ville Potemkin, I'm sure) as a fourteen year-old Military Intelligence draftee. The worse his health, the thicker the lies flowed, refusing to allow even a glimpse of the man he had been, determined to perpetuate a mythology of smoldering bullshit. Had I the chance to interrogate him about those blood-soiled underclothes, would he have ever given me a straight answer? History is written by the survivors. And blame can easily be shifted to the absent, despised, frustratingly departed.
That my Father was a liar became a matter of fact some years before his final death (his third attempt by some counts). That he asserted claims over the accomplishments of others remains a deep disappointment. In the long years of his illness he told a number of remarkable whoppers from assisting Professor Einstein at Princeton (while attending North Texas University -a feat of teleportation whose technique has since been lost) to experiencing firsthand the 1944 atomic devestation of Hiroshima from the deck of a battleship (Ville Potemkin, I'm sure) as a fourteen year-old Military Intelligence draftee. The worse his health, the thicker the lies flowed, refusing to allow even a glimpse of the man he had been, determined to perpetuate a mythology of smoldering bullshit. Had I the chance to interrogate him about those blood-soiled underclothes, would he have ever given me a straight answer? History is written by the survivors. And blame can easily be shifted to the absent, despised, frustratingly departed.
