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Tara Carreon
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Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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 Posted: Fri Mar 09, 2012 7:33 pm Post subject: |
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Sacrifice-honey-pot-Occupy-Movement
The brutality
A kick in the head
"Catch me if you can," said the gingerbread man
A man of many names
The life-threatening vehicle
Sabu, Sabu
You proud son-of-a-bitch
Why not, when you're working for The Man?
He gotcha downtown where you whip up the masses
See if you can make them fall
There are plenty of cripples
They got tickets
And the organizers who are lawyers step in
To represent them and get paid by the State
They make a pretty penny
And the State gets its criminals which is what it lives for
Violent young minds raised on vampires and blood have no mercy for their victims
They have nicks like "raepsauce," and "pwnsauce"
"Who do we rape today?", they ask each other by instant message
And grimly advise each other: "Don't fear the reaper"
Baby vampires from hell
Messengers of the Occupy Movement
Now the feeding frenzy begins, just like on TV
While the FBI looks on and licks its lips
They've got to teach these young kids a lesson
Make them eat each other alive
Any loving Daddy would do the same
These young'ins gotta be warned not to mess with Daddy's business
If you wanta hack, you hack for the State
Who are the heroes in this story?
If you break the law, you'll go to jail
And they'll do everything they can to make you break it
They'll make it look so cool and anarchic
But how can you possibly defeat Daddy by marching in his parade?
By stealing credit card numbers and publishing them on the Internet?
Hacking government sites in Tunisia, Algeria, Yemen, Zimbabwe and Syria
Implementing Washington's agenda for regime change?
Run from them if you can
There's nothing left of the human being
Nothing but abysmal-I'm-immortal-motherfucker-action
On Daddy's inexorable march to Russia |
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Tara Carreon
Veteran
Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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| Posted: Sun Apr 01, 2012 8:23 pm Post subject: |
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Bang Imagery
Vulcan MisRab
High Priests of Halo
Raise from our emotional table --
Call it "muddled awareness"
Hyperborean magic
Swiss eternity
And they have sinned themselves sin
Dancing in the moonlight |
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Tara Carreon
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Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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| Posted: Fri Apr 20, 2012 8:44 pm Post subject: |
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Counterfeiter Hope Scotchman
There is here and there a spark of divine intelligence
-- "We will be holy"
-- "We will be holy"
Hardcore nazis
I want to yell it: they never stop beating someone
The agonies of flesh and Judaism
Roulette-wheel religion
Bombastic pilast
We've got to get out of here
Agonizing convolutions
Sky rocket
Beasts and the dogs
Global warming
Falling, literally -- the heaviness
A hint of passion to take the blues away
Violent meme
The end where all the seeds and the devil nonchalantly find their way
Stupid-straitjacket-Augustinian-nightmare
The personification of the dead
The inseparable separtee with the monks
It transcends madness
The twilight twitters begin
I'm against wings
Against the sun
Against everything
I've been lost forever, thank you.
And I told the class, I'm against war
Against paranoia
High-orb gowns
And snatched eternities
I don't care about the son, the son
Only in what's fair
Intellectual soldiers who are lost forever
We wanted our son to know what's going on
The impatience of the omnipotent
The endless cleverness and grief
A fallen angel is possible
It's warm enough to kill a cat
What's the value in thinking about opposites?
Here's the revelation: who's on top and who's on bottom
Why make the distinction of self and others?
It is what it is
It's time to break out
A new voice is needed
Really know something about yourself
Suck a door into yourself
Grossly navigating, pounding, sounding ... |
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Tara Carreon
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Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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| Posted: Wed Oct 10, 2012 7:19 pm Post subject: |
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Here's Howard Zinn at his best:
| Howard Zinn's A People's History wrote: | How can slavery be described? Perhaps not at all by those who have not experienced it. The I932 edition of a best-selling textbook by two northern liberal historians saw slavery as perhaps the Negro's "necessary transition to civilization." Economists or cliometricians (statistical historians) have tried to assess slavery by estimating how much money was spent on slaves for food and medical care. But can this describe the reality of slavery as it was to a human being who lived inside it? Are the conditions of slavery as important as the existence of slavery?
John Little, a former slave, wrote:
They say slaves are happy, because they laugh, and are merry. I myself and three or four others, have received two hundred lashes in the day, and had our feet in fetters; yet, at night, we would sing and dance, and make others laugh at the rattling of our chains. Happy men we must have been! We did it to keep down trouble, and to keep our hearts from being completely broken: that is as true as the gospel! Just look at it, -- must not we have been very happy? Yet I have done it myself -- I have cut capers in chains.
A record of deaths kept in a plantation journal (now in the University of North Carolina Archives) lists the ages and cause of death of all those who died on the plantation between 1850 and 1855. Of the thirty-two who died in that period, only four reached the age of sixty, four reached the age of fifty, seven died in their forties, seven died in their twenties or thirties, and nine died before they were five years old.
But can statistics record what it meant for families to be torn apart, when a master, for profit, sold a husband or a wife, a son or a daughter? In 1858, a slave named Abream Scriven was sold by his master, and wrote to his wife: "Give my love to my father and mother and tell them good Bye for me, and if we Shall not meet in this world I hope to meet in heaven."
One recent book on slavery (Robert Fogel and Stanley Engerman, Time on the Cross) looks at whippings in 1840-1842 on the Barrow plantation in Louisiana with two hundred slaves: "The records show that over the course of two years a total of 160 whippings were administered, an average of 0.7 whippings per hand per year. About half the hands were not whipped at all during the period." One could also say: "Half of all slaves were whipped." That has a different ring. That figure (0.7 per hand per year) shows whipping was infrequent for any individual. But looked at another way, once every four or five days, some slave was whipped.
Barrow as a plantation owner, according to his biographer, was no worse than the average. He spent money on clothing for his slaves, gave them holiday celebrations, built a dance hall for them. He also built a jail and "was constantly devising ingenious punishments, for he realized that uncertainty was an important aid in keeping his gangs well in hand."
The whippings, the punishments, were work disciplines. Still, Herbert Gutman (Slavery and the Numbers Game) finds, dissecting Fogel and Engerman's statistics, "Over all, four in five cotton pickers engaged in one or more disorderly acts in 1840-41.... As a group, a slightly higher percentage of women than men committed seven or more disorderly acts." Thus, Gutman disputes the argument of Fogel and Engerman that the Barrow plantation slaves became "devoted, hardworking responsible slaves who identified their fortunes with the fortunes of their masters." |
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Tara Carreon
Veteran
Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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| Posted: Wed Oct 10, 2012 7:58 pm Post subject: |
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And listen to a beautiful heroine's words:
| Howard Zinn's A People's History wrote: | | Harriet Tubman, born into slavery, her head injured by an overseer when she was fifteen, made her way to freedom alone as a young woman, then became the most famous conductor on the Underground Railroad. She made nineteen dangerous trips back and forth, often disguised, escorting more than three hundred slaves to freedom, always carrying a pistol, telling the fugitives, "You'll be free or die." She expressed her philosophy: "There was one of two things I had a right to, liberty or death; if I could not have one, I would have the other; for no man should take me alive...." |
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Tara Carreon
Veteran
Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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| Posted: Thu Nov 08, 2012 4:32 pm Post subject: |
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| Charles Carreon wrote: | Zombies don't come
It all happened right here, in me.
The whole thing
everything
right here
peter frampton was right
i'm in you
You're in me
probably not how he meant it
but anyway
saw him once at the Ventura County Fair by the beach
poor bastard
me, I mean
stuck in a motel with wife and daughter
the daughter and I
decided to see the show
Actually, he was pretty good
And then I remembered
He was the guitarist in Humble Pie
Who fried my brain
At the celebrity theatre
on a full hit of orange sunshine
Came on after Loggins & Messina had me all blissed out and
electrocuted my ass
Goddamn singer talking cockney smack about a run-in with a London whore
Uuuuuuugghh
Dragged my mind through the fuck'n gutter
Then ground me through a brutal version of I don't need no doctor
Killer tune
Killed me about a dozen times
Then, when I was dead,
Turned me into a zombie
With everyone else
And moshed us psychically
with his fuzztone
Including the bit where the
bass player goes real quiet
Then cranks it up to eleven
So the whole floor falls out from under you and everyone else
And the whole room has an orgasm
sorta
except for me
cause I'm a zombie
and I know it
unlike the rest of them
and zombies don't come |
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Tara Carreon
Veteran
Joined: 25 Sep 2008
Posts: 988
Location: Tucson, Arizona
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| Posted: Mon Dec 03, 2012 11:46 pm Post subject: |
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| I Remember Pleather, by Charles Carreon wrote: | I Remember Pleather
Sand in the shower. That reminds me of Pleather. Where were we? The Azores, or on the coast of Madagascar, stuffing ourselves with Baobab fruit? The sound of the ocean scraping away at the hills down below. The putt, putt, putt of Ramon’s motorbike pulling around the last curve of the hill below the house, the final roar as he goosed it up the drive.
Then Ramon would be in the kitchen, unpacking a live chicken like we were actually going to kill it and cook it, offering to show us how to do it. That’s how he liked to joke with the foreign girls before he cut loose with the bananas, the mangos, the breadfruit, and the tea. The bizarre money flummoxed me, and Ramon would diligently count out my change, emphasizing that he was “very honest!” Only I dealt with Ramon. Pleather kept her silence, those soft lips of hers pressed lightly together, her legs drawn up as she sat in a stone window, looking out at the horizon where a steamer was usually leaving a smudge on the sky.
When the sun would go down, she’d dig through her backpack, pull out a cassette tape, and plug it in. It was always a surprise. Hindu ragas might unfurl like filigree on the evening breeze. Buddy Holly might rock us with his spring-loaded melodies. Led Zeppelin might stake out its turf, only to be pushed aside by the Rite of Spring or the Flight of the Valkyries. Pleather never let me look through her collection and never played the same thing twice. It was unfathomable how she had so much music stashed in that one backpack.
I thought I was lucky to have found her. When we embraced on the thin mattress with mosquito netting over us, we were in a secret time outside of ordinary months, days, years, weeks. What happened inside that little gauze tent made no mark on the world outside, and the world did not affect us.
One day she was looking at the horizon in her usual silent way, and like a cat that has seen something interesting in the grass, the movement of her head, imperceptible until then, perceptibly stopped. I said nothing, nor did she.
The dusk deepened, but I waited in vain for her to play some music. As the darkness entered the house through all the windows, I retreated to the bed, where I remained alone. When the moon was high in the sky, filling everything with light, I could lie still no longer.
I got up and searched the house, going out into the garden, into the street, back into the house, into the garden, back into the house. At last I cast myself down on the couch and let my tears soak the cushions.
In the morning, I found she had left her backpack. It was full of tapes, but the labels were all faded, and I couldn’t tell what they were supposed to be. When I tried to play them, there was nothing on them but a hiss like the departing sea. |
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