sunset from behind the wire

sunset from behind the wire

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Discovering Roots



The City of Lambertville, New Jersey was settled by some ancestors, FOB (fresh-off-the-boat) from the old country. Some of them are said to have been Torries who fought for the crown during the American rebellion. 

What were they thinking? 

They went against the "people" and supported an uncaring political elite who squandered what capital they had - and ended up with colonies, which weren't subject to much of anything when all was said.

(left) De Lancey's Brigade, 1776 - 1783. A Loyalist unit of 3 battalions raised by Oliver de Lancey from the New York State counties of New York, Winchester, Kings and Queens. 

They picked the wrong side that time. After that, I think that the ancestors were on the winning side enough to live and procreate... ta-dah!

So on this Memorial Day Weekend, I'm also thinking about the ancestors who screwed up a war that allowed America to be born!














There will be some who will reenact battles that formed America today on Memorial day. One can only hope that they have the good grace to lose this time. However, I'm not convinced that a British Governor might do a better job in California than Jerry Brown is.





Friday, May 27, 2016

Immigration Issues

Paul Ryan
Islamic immigration has been at the forefront of politics in Europe, Asia (including Russia) and the United States. Allowing unrestricted Islamic immigration without THOROUGH vetting, and it includes a consideration of religion, is complete folly.

Speaker Paul Ryan weighs in on the issue, and I have no idea why he feels this way. Most Americans disagree with Speaker Ryan. At this point so would most French, Belgium, German, Polish and Hungarian people.
(Breitbart - op cit) By declaring that it would not be “proper” or “appropriate” for the United States to consider the religion of a visa applicant— or whether the applicant supports Sharia law or Muslim theocracy — Ryan is effectively suggesting that the United States should not be allowed to select whom we admit based on likelihood of assimilation.
Maybe this is why Speaker Ryan has so much difficulty endorsing a Trump presidency? 

I don't suggest that Speaker Ryan is not entitled to his own opinion, but I think that it's a dangerous opinion when you consider it in context with the larger issue not just nationally but internationally.
By way of a post script, how many Sunni Syrian refugees did the Saudis take in? (answer is 0) That being the case, why did they make that decision?

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Interlude (2)

THE OLD WHORE (Chapter 21), A Novel of Cartel Wars

Submitted for your entertainment while I'm on walk-about.

Sime (The Butcher) Boukalas ran one of three Macedonian hit teams who worked for Costas Lygeros a Greek boxing promoter, living in Istanbul. They called him the butcher both because he had been a butcher by trade and because of his lack of discrimination when taking out a target. Innocent bystanders were fair game when Sime Boukalas went to work.

The Mexican job turned out to be one of the most difficult that he’d undertaken in his twelve-year career as a professional murderer. Language became an issue and none of the usual crew spoke anything close to Spanish. As a result, he had to dig deep in his rolodex and pull up people that he would not normally take on a job.

They had been in Mexico for two days when he sent the three young gunmen to scout a club that Costas Lygeros told him had promise for intelligence information that might aid them in their efforts to locate the drug kingpin that they were instructed to kill. While members of Cartel Mexico Nuevo Generación hung out in the club from time to time, there were low-level street dealers that peddled smack on the street in Mexico City. Nevertheless, Sime sent his men in to reconnoiter the place and get used to the environment. 

Ilarion and Hristo spoke Italian, which was close enough to Spanish, and Matej spoke Castilian, which is the only reason that he got the job. Sime always felt that Matej was a bit of a loose cannon—by Macedonian standards.

Matej, Hristo and Ilarion walked down two flights of stairs to Club Doña Esperanza, a hip-hop dive in the La Merced district of Mexico City.

In the basement dungeon, the deep bass vibrated the steel fillings in their teeth and the oppressive humidity and heat told them that they’d be able to mix business and pleasure. Wall-to-wall people from their late teens into their twenties mashed hard to the beat. 

Hristo felt more at home in the club than Matej and Ilarion, his country cousins. This was how he grew up, the atmosphere of the club inspired him to violence, and it felt like mother’s milk to him.

Squeezing and pushing the people in the surging mass, out of their collective minds on Ecstasy, Hristo found the unisex toilet. When he walked in, it took him a moment to get his bearings. The room was large, no privacy barriers. A corrugated metal trough for men to pee in had been pegged to the far wall, but a woman squatted there, perched on the urinal, relieving herself. Half a dozen porcelain thrones lined the other wall. A man sat on one, and a woman on another.

A girl washed her face in one of several sinks propped on a plywood platform, her short dress far too short to hide her sex. 

Taking the opportunity, Hristo hurriedly unbuckled his trousers and attempted to mount her. The girl seemed surprised at first, but generally pleased.

Matej was three minutes behind his cousin Hristo and found him fucking a girl on a filthy sink, fast, almost frantic. The girl, her brain gone on drugs, encouraged his cousin, moaning as Hristo banged her head against a polished metal mirror over the sink with each thrust.

She started screaming with pleasure as she came, Hristo pulled out and back, reached down into the pocket of his trousers, now around his ankles, drew out a small semi-automatic pistol and shot her in the head.

Matej shook his head. Hristo only seemed to be able climax when he did it like that. Pulling his own automatic, he wasted the three other people in the toilet: One round each to the chest, one round to the head. Then he grabbed Hristo and helped him pull up his pants. They met Ilarion on the way out.

“Not again?” Matej couldn’t hear anything but he understood his cousin’s question. He nodded ‘yes’ and Ilarion grabbed Hristo in a playful headlock.

Matej shoved them both, motioning toward the way out. People began to gravitate toward the toilet because a girl started screaming. Even though most were too wasted to see the bloody corpses and understand that they were genuinely dead, some of them might not be. Eventually one of them would raise an alarm. He wanted to be out of the club by then. Even in Mexico these days, Matej felt certain that four execution style murders would catch people’s attention.

Out of the club and down the street, Matej punched Hirsto in the nose, but not hard enough to break it. “We’re here to work, not for you to practice your kinks on the locals. You’re supposed to be a professional.”

“Short hair, long legs and a honey pot like that. How could I resist?”

“You resist from here on or the boss will kill you and he will replace you, Hristo.” He turned and muttered under his breath, “Prilep punk.”

“Yes, I’m from Prilep, but where are you from? Trebishte! The women look like sheep in Trebishte or the sheep look like women. I’m not sure what the difference is.”

Ilarion, also from Trebishte, said, “It’s easy to tell. You put sheep’s hooves into the tops of your boots when you fuck them but not the women. Their feet are too big.” 

It was an old Trebishte joke and made Matej laugh as he reloaded his pistol’s magazine from loose cartridges in his pockets. “Where did Sime get these pistols?”

Ilarion, who had accompanied Sime on the pick up said, “Sime told me that they came from the employer.”

“A .380 doesn’t have enough penetration. It’s as if they were concerned about collateral damage. We need to get something with a lot more punch if we’re taking on a drug cartel.” Matej groused, dropped the magazine from his weapon, checked the load, put it back into the grip and did a press-check to insure that he had a round in the chamber.

A police siren grew louder as they put distance between themselves and the scene of the crime. They walked casually away from Club Doña Esperanza and toward the Hotel Calinda. 

Ilarion and Hristo went up to the room. Matej went into the Sanborn’s drugstore on the ground floor to buy a Coke and a box of confections that looked like American Twinkies, but were labeled as 'Bimbo's'. That Hristo murdered the girl bothered him. That he had murdered the others somehow did not, but killing activated his sweet tooth for a reason that he never explored with the slightest bit of introspection.

By the time he got up to the room, Hristo and Ilarion were watching a soccer game on the small, cheap hotel television.

Both Hristo and Ilarion were first cousins. As a third cousin, he felt like more of a shirttail relative, however blood counted in Macedonia and he had always been treated as a first cousin.

The hotel had a condo-like kitchenette and that’s where Matej gravitated to fill his stomach once he’d gone through half of the Twinkie Bimbos. He poured dry Zucaritas cereal into a bowl—dry, because they didn’t have milk, and drank his soda while he ate alternate bites of cereal and Twinkies. A rusty electric space heater vibrated heat by his feet.

Over the cheering of the soccer game, he heard sex in the other room. Sime, the boss, didn’t have the homicidal kink that Hristo did, but he loved to screw. Two minutes after the rutting noises stopped, Varvara walked into the kitchen wearing nothing but an oversized dirty white sweatshirt with Kosovar flag on the front, and the words Prishtinë, Republika e Kosovës arranged in an arc over the flag. Varvara’s hair had that sex mess look to it. Matej liked her a lot, however, she belonged to Sime, which put her off limits. Varvara was young, small and sexy in that bleached blonde trashy city sort of way that Matej, a country boy, found irresistible. 

Varvara knew the effect that she had on Matej and rubbed up against him as she lighted a cigarette and let it dangle from her lip, cultivating that drooping, I don’t give a shit look, that she’d copied directly from Sime.

Varvara officially managed the intelligence on this job, though everyone knew that she was Sime’s self-propelled semen receptacle. As with both Sime and Matej, she spoke Castilian. 

She positioned herself in front of him, reaching down, rubbing his swelling penis. Matej responded by lifting her sweatshirt slightly, and touching her pert nipples with both hands. 

Sime, shaved head, no neck and handlebar moustache walked out of the bathroom, his hairy stomach bulging over brief underwear. He took one look at Matej with his hands up under Varvara’s sweatshirt and bellowed. He lunged for the bedroom, and Matej knew he had headed for his handgun.

Matej pulled the small semi-automatic pistol from his trouser pocket and emptied the magazine into Sime as he lumbered to grab the Sig 9mm pistol on the dresser. Sime slumped. Matej reloaded with a fresh magazine and put three more rounds into him.

Hristo, Ilarion and Varvara stood at the bedroom door, thunderstruck.

“Gather everything up. We need to get out of Mexico before this blows up.”

“But the job,” Varvara sputtered. “We have to do the job.”

“Do you know all the details?”

Matej knew that she didn’t because Sime never gave up anything until the last possible minute. Knowledge is power.

“No.”

“Pack.” Matej demanded, “We need to be out the door in two minutes.”

The next day, they boarded an Aeroflot flight out of Mexico City’s Benito Juárez International Airport on their way back home via Elefthérios Venizélos International Airport in Athens. Matej took Sime’s place on the team and by default, inherited Varvara. The newly minted couple joined the mile-high-club in the first class restroom of the Ilyushin-96-300 on the flight across the Atlantic.



They met in Athens.

The explanation to the employer, David Thorpe, from an embarrassed Costas Lygeros went something like this: Sime Boukalas, the Butcher, hadn’t explained details of the job to his crew, as was his custom. Mexican street thugs murdered him while he imprudently conducted reconnaissance of a suspected Cartel hangout without back-up of any kind. All operational criteria passed with him and the funds to facilitate the mission (in cash) went to the local banditry, who’d murdered him.

“They just clipped him at random?”

Costas replied, “It’s Mexico. The beaches are empty, no tourists. Cruise ships have stopped visiting Puerto Vallarta because of the drug cartel murders. They even kill the people who fly down there to spend money.”

“No leads?”

“My guys got out of town. I don’t blame them. They didn’t hang around to be next of kin, and I didn’t think that you would want the police to ask questions with potentially embarrassing answers.”

“Did anybody obtain a police report?”

Costas just looked at Thorpe with a ‘you’ve—got—to—be—kidding glare’.

“No, I expect not.”

Thorpe asked how long it would take to spin up another similar operation, hoping that operational security wouldn’t require him to remain in Athens a day longer than necessary. The cloak of secrecy had begun to hang heavy on his shoulders because of the impossibility of delegation beyond the small circle of knowledge in that particular information compartment where ARDENT QUEST lived.

Costas Lygeros promised to get back to him as soon as possible. Thorpe asked for an estimate. Lygeros said, “No longer than two months.” The team who went to Mexico didn’t want to return and nobody else wanted to go to Mexico. The feelings among the Macedonian ‘consulting community’ were that if anyone as experienced, ruthless, cunning and tough as The Butcher, could be hewn down by mere street thugs that they’d prefer to take safer work, closer to home, in Beirut.





Wednesday, May 25, 2016

The Search (Part One)


Researching the place to spend the remainder of your days takes effort. This isn't the short list, but it is a list of sorts. I've eliminated some spots from the list because the price of land is too dear, the climate doesn't appeal enough or for a number of reasons, they didn't make the cut. There are places such as Minden, NV that are on the list but I've been there enough that it doesn't need to be added to the search routine. The same could be said of Lake City, but I'm going to be in the neighborhood, thus it's back on the check-out list.

Questa, New Mexico

Happy Jack, Arizona

Pine, Arizona

Show Low, Arizona

South Fork, Colorado

Lake City, Colorado

All these places have real potential, but as we all age, we need to have medical care a reasonable distance from the ranch.  The closest hospital to Happy Jack is Flagstaff, AZ. All of these locations have similar issues. The answer is not to get sick...or old

You'll note that all of the black sites have altitude, dry air and are located in communities where being armed is not a problem. They also have places where you can wet a canoe. Each has the potential of a large enough plot of land to serve my general needs for privacy, security, space for a nice workshop and quiet. 

None of them are located in 'progressive' areas.

None of them are populated by inner city people.

Blue Ridge Reservoir, near Happy Jack
Happy Jack, Arizona is featured today on Virtual Mirage. It's located equidistantly between Flagstaff, Winslow (where you can stand on the corner) and Camp Verde.  Land is not expensive and its up on the Mogollon Rim (pronounced Mog-ee-own Rim). There are a lot of deer, elk, bear, lions, foxes, lynx and bobcat and so forth. As far as I know there aren't any wolves, but with the forrest service re-populating wolves, who knows how long that will remain the case?

Happy Jack
42.3 % of Arizona belongs to the federal government. Another high percentage is made up of Indian reservations. Arizona grew up differently than Texas did, flat land with sections being given to homesteaders.  (USGOV owns 1.8% of the land in Texas, distributed through 13 National Parks). So the vibe is different in the west than it is in the plains states. All of the western states have that same characteristic. California is 47.7% USGOV land and Nevada is 81.1% owned by the people, which is to say, USGOV.

The Happy Jack area is forested by ponderosa pines, pinion pines and cedars. The lots are almost all 5 acres, with more land available to those with the bankroll and the ambition to tend it.


Monday, May 23, 2016

Interlude (1)


Excerpted from WHITE POWDER: A NOVEL OF THE CIA AND THE SECRET WAR IN LAOS. Sort of a fictional short. 

Near Vientiane, Laos circa 1961

(p 39-42)

For your entertainment, while I'm on walk-about

The bar hut, where the Corporal Chef slept, was larger than the four brothel huts lined up like dominoes beyond it. The windows had been shuttered closed and the exterior was draped with mosquito netting. Cotton field uniforms hung limply over a drying line. As they walked to the stairs, Legionnaire Smith, a prematurely balding Englishman, stepped out into the sun, his uniform sharply creased and spotless. He looked over at Burton with mirthful blue eyes and tapped out Camel cigarettes for the Corporal Chef and Burton. Kreutz tucked the cigarette behind his ear and continued up the steps. Burton stayed with Smith to pass the time.

Smith struck a match and offered Burton a light. “Do you like the Carnet de Pouf, Captain?” Burton didn’t answer so he continued, lighting his cigarette as he spoke, “Tire un coup en ville, chez les poffiance de ville.” 

“You’re controlle medicaile, right?”

“Yep, I sit here at this desk outside the bar area. As soldiers pick up the ladies they come to me for a condom and registration in the Carnet de Pouf. I take the soldier’s name, rank and compagnie he pulls out his knob, draws the foreskin back and squeezes to ensure there is no discharge typical of ‘chaude-piss’ - gonorrhea which carries a mandatory seven day stint in the stockade for self inflicted injuries.”

“Do you like the job?” Burton took a drag on the unfiltered Camel. 

“Sometimes I’m teased by the other English speakers as being 'la Roi du Corvee Bit'! Because I have to clean out the channel when it’s been infected with gonorrhea but damn, they really could find me a more dignified job. I trained as a combat medic.”

They smoked and watched a flock of white birds take to the air from the Mekong River, flowing to the south.

“I’m supposed to meet another American. His name is Sam Willoughby. Have you seen him?”

“He’s in the bar. He’s been here all night.” Smith motioned to the bar with his thumb.

Burton climbed the stairs and opened the flimsy wood slat door.

Willoughby slung a long leg over a chair next to where he lounged in the dark bar, staring at the wall. A pretty, exceptionally petite Vietnamese woman sat on his lap. 

“Is this breakfast?” Burton asked.

Sam Willoughby was drunk, rumpled and looked like he hadn’t slept. He motioned to the chair offering Burton a seat.

“This is Lotus. We tried to do the Christian, Buddhist, Muslim trick last night. Lotus is a Buddhist.” Lotus’ eyes were sly as she slumped coyly against the man from the Army Security Agency. “Joy is from the North African Ouled Nail Tribe. She’s fat, drinks mint tea and is Muslim, and Dao, that sacred, precious little thing shipped out of The Green Latrine to this God forsaken hole, is Catholic.”

He waited for Burton’s comment, but all Burton did was stand up walk behind the bar and pour a tall glass of pénard. Burton lifted the bottle as if he’d found a prize. Willoughby continued unbidden. “Corporal Chef brought Joy. Joy was a pain in the ass. No way was Lotus going to screw Joy, even to please me and it had nothing to do with racial politics. Dao took off with the Corporal Chef. So, Lotus and I just sat on the floor drinking Mekong. And here we are.”

“I’m Craig Burton. You’ll be working for me.”

Willoughby replied with a wink. Then he squeezed the girl. “Lotus—My God, how I love you. I want to visit you on Sundays, when we’re both old.” Willoughby looked up at Burton. “I told her, ‘Lotus, you aren’t a whore.’” He stroked her breast through fabric, tenderly. “She asked me where I met her. I said, ‘Ok, in a whorehouse. But you’re different than all those other girls.’” 

Lotus smiled and some of her gold dental work gleamed in the light.

Burton probed. “Rumor has it that you closed one of those high class bars in Manila because the disquiet in your soul needed it.”

“Now, who told you that?” Willoughby drew his oiled blue steel .45 Colt Model 1911 as he remembered. He brandished the handgun as he reminisced. “I brought along this secretary that I met there who worked for General Motors. She was a bottle blonde, the carpet definitely didn’t match the drapes, but who cares, cause she was white.

“This is how it was. I’ve got a .45, but big fucking deal. So does everybody else in the joint except the Aussies and they’re packing nine millimeter Brownings. This Mamasan legacy bitch struts up to me, arrogance personified. She starts in on me with a shrill voice. ‘You got a problem? I don’t know why you got a problem. I know who you are. I know you so goddamn important. Sam Willoughby, shit...you probably so goddamn important you came in here with your wife to get a girl. Is that your kink?” 

“Is that your kink?” 

“Sure, if I was married.” Willoughby said sincerely. “I quickly and eloquently stuck the .45 in Mamasan’s mouth and said, “You’ve got a .45 in your mouth.

“She blinked, ‘Yes.’ 

“The music snapped off. Everybody with a mind left listened to the best of their ability because they were vicariously interested in why Mamasan wanted to have rough sex with me.

“I told her, ‘I never said nothing about you. Why you say something about my friend, Mamasan?’ I hit her upside the head with my left hand. ‘I never called you bad names, but here you stand, with a singing ear and a fucking death wish, smart enough to stop sucking cock and stupid enough to start sucking guns.’

“She blinked a serious ‘Yes’ on that one. Who can blame her? Anybody would.

“I stood there with my .45 in her mouth and shouted so everyone could hear, ‘Mamasan, your mouth is like a whore’s pussy and I wanna cum. Know what I mean?’

“So the Army shipped you here to Laos so I could rehabilitate you.” Burton summarized the outcome.

“And here I am in the French mobile military bordello in fucking Wattay Airbase, busted from master sergeant to sergeant, serving Uncle Sam.” He lifted Lotus off his lap gently and whispered in her ear. She smiled at Burton and left through the front door.

“Sit down Captain and let me tell you something.” 

Burton sat. 

Sam Willoughby continued, “I’m jealous of dead soldiers. Dead soldiers have friends to avenge them and family to mourn them. They lie peacefully in neat graves, their bravery and sacrifice noted; buried in smart uniform, medals in velvet boxes, citations to hang on the walls and a folded flag in a cupboard somewhere. They said what they had done and where they had been, and when they died, their friends told how they died, and, from time to time, why they died.”

He motioned toward the glass of pénard Burton held. He handed it to Willoughby, who sloshed it in his mouth and then downed it with a toss. 

“In the parlance of dead soldiers there is the front line. In the cant of my strange craft we call that place ‘the end of line.’ People in my business die alone. Our deaths are unsung, our motives unclear. So we die slowly. Every challenged moment of each belabored day is barbed and thorned with memory of the things we cannot tell. We die defenseless with naught to avenge us but the mute records of what we observed in the strange lands that swallowed us.”

Then he drifted. Burton took a grey wool blanket from behind the bar and put it over him. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Animal Flesh

In order to be spiritually pure you must eat meat. This Sunday Sermonette draws its inspiration from that simple truth.

Old wives' tales suggest that if you beat your meat, you'll end up going crazy. When you were a kid, those same old wives told you that eating spinach from a can would make you strong - but when you ate that tepid, slimy, metallic tasting, spinach, fresh from the can what did you do? That's right, you yak'ed it back up. They LIED to you. Popeye cartoons were simply one additional element to the propaganda. Think about it, when Popeye ate spinach, he won the love of a homely, knock kneed, woman with no rack - Olive Oil. Who wants that?


When I'm at the compound in Hillsboro Texas - located near the church - LSP always bar-b-cues a thick, juicy steak. When he grows weary of steak, he cooks hamburgers and he's an authentic parson. (see photo, left)

Some people turn from being carnivorous to vegan not because they love animals but because they hate plants. I can understand that.

Would a hamburger be as good without tomato and onion on it?  No.  And the bun has to be made from genuine bread made from wheat and EGGS. (No substitute eggs in my bread, please.) Plants have a place on the table as well.


Saturday, May 21, 2016

Peaky Blinders




Annabelle Wallis
The Peaky Blinders were a gang based in Birmingham, England during the late 19th century and, to a lesser extent, in the early 20th. They were one of many urban youth gangs in the era. It's now an original Netflix series in its third season. I recommend it highly for both the story and for the quality of the acting. Cillian Murphy (Thomas Shelby) delivers a masterful performance as the young leader of the gang, whose path toward violence was formed at the Battle of the Somme during the First World War.

The great actor Sam Neill (Inspector Chester Campbell) can always expected to deliver a stunning character and The Peaky Blinders is no exception. Annabelle Wallis  (Grace Burgess) stole the screen with her beauty and charisma.

The name Peaky Blinders is popularly said to be derived from the practice of stitching razor blades into the peak of their flat caps, which could then be used as weapons.



Sam Neill
As told in the film, Tomas Shelby, returned from World War One where he served as a 'tunneler', a particularly horrible job with a short life expectancy. His father (Tommy Flanagan) is a con-man and his mother was a gypsey. He now leads his family, which is turning from a street gang into organized crime under Tommy's ruthless leadership. He is opposed by the gypsies (boat men) but makes a blood alliance, and then all he has to deal with is the Jewish mafia and the Italian mafia -- and the British Government, which is the largest cartel of all. In the context of this story it is His Majesty's Government that is the Red Right Hand.






I recommend the series. The third season begins May 31, on Netflix.

The Red Right Hand (song below) refers to the Protestant Orange Men who opposed the Catholic Irish Republican Army.  I lived that experience and insurrection as a young man,  living in Belfast...long before the film and long after the period covered by Peaky Blinders. That said, the vibe remained from long before in Northern Ireland - into the 1970's.




The lyrics have a familiar cast to them for any of you who may have been part of the craft. I find them haunting, the damaged agents and the dead ones. Still it is and still the game remains whether or not I play a part.

"Red Right Hand"

Take a little walk to the edge of town
and go across the tracks
Where the viaduct looms,
like a bird of doom
As it shifts and cracks
Where secrets lie in the border fires,
in the humming wires
Hey man, you know
you're never coming back
Past the square, past the bridge,
past the mills, past the stacks
On a gathering storm comes
a tall handsome man
in a dusty black coat with
a red right hand

He'll wrap you in his arms,
tell you that you've been a good boy
He'll rekindle all the dreams
it took you a lifetime to destroy
He'll reach deep into the hole,
heal your shrinking soul,
but there won't be a single thing
that you can do
He's a god, he's a man,
he's a ghost, he's a guru
They're whispering his name
through this disappearing land
But hidden in his coat
is a red right hand

You don't have no money?
He'll get you some
You don't have no car?
He'll get you one
You don't have no self-respect,
you feel like an insect
Well don't you worry buddy,
'cause here he comes
Through the ghettos and the barrio
and the bowery and the slum
A shadow is cast wherever he stands
Stacks of green paper in his
red right hand

You'll see him in your nightmares,
you'll see him in your dreams
He'll appear out of nowhere but
he ain't what he seems
You'll see him in your head,
on the TV screen
And hey buddy, I'm warning
you to turn it off
He's a ghost, he's a god,
he's a man, he's a guru
You're one microscopic cog
in his catastrophic plan
Designed and directed by
his red right hand



This is continued - in a rather oblique way, on May 23 with a blog post, titled, "Interlude".