The Conspiracy Channel

TONIGHT
On The Conspiracy Channel

What is behind the massive Tea Bag protests in the United States. Is it because they are round? Is it because of the number of perforations? Or is it just because ever since the Boston Tea Party no nation on earth has had such crappy tea?

“I am a typical American and I went to England and their tea is just so much better than ours. I think I got addicted to it because when I got home and make a pot of American Tea I thought that I was going to puke. I had the shakes. It was awful. I went to Emerge and they charged me $700 for a Coca Cola enema. I'm not paying for that! Who is going to pay my medical bills? Not Tea, that's for sure.”

What is behind this? We here at Conspiracy TV will take you behind the scenes to a typical Tea Plantation where you will see for yourselves that the tea producing nations are deliberately shipping inferior tea to the United States of America to sap our political will and resolve. You will be shocked. And stunned. Very stunned.

A Republican Rep who wishes to stay anonymous said, “Just say No to Tea. At this point in time there are reasonable grounds to believe that coffee is safer. Tea drinkers voted Obama into office. Clearly tea affects one’s political judgement. Just say NO to Tea and vote Republican to save the United States from this International conspiracy.”


That's TEA
on Conspiracy
Don't you dare miss it.
Your future is at stake!

the harvest of the morning

Since the early poem posted today was a little depressing I figured that I would share one that was a little more joyful. I wrote this for a friendly competition at Pan Historia.


the boasting river canyon roars sleepily
seeping with blackened desire
and sneering darkly in happiness

autumn's sun appears slowly into the morning
as time decays with tenacity
the dawn paints indigo flushes

fruit ripens
and the stars twinkle through the fading night sky

the yearning butterfly sighs lightly
flailing with bloated longing
heavy with mirth

autumn kneels into chilly air
when nature retires with ease
each dewdrop sparkles in jealous green streaks

rising up
as the sun burns through the cloudless sky

a drifting autumn breeze soars cordially
wishing with burnt pain
and calling darkly towards summer

summer bows then glistening
the beams teasing filigree of melting frost
sunrise awakens across the horizon

a single drop swirls mockingly
moaning in outright splendor
and thrusting gently in love

autumn sun sighs softly into the wind
whilst night dreams in spontaneity

the sky pasted magenta mottles
a dew drop falls from a solitary leaf
as the harvest of the morning

the washroom mirror

as you watch in the mirror
you see life growing clearer
slowing down, going by frame by frame

yes the silence comes after
the peals of their laughter
you’ve forgotten the rules of the game

so you raise up your voice
in a last desperate chorus
and let out your anguishing cry

through the hollow of heaven
but you never break even
it is not in the throw of the die

Yes, I am really unreal.

Every thing begins with a stray comment and I often believe that if there is a God the Universe began as a mere slip of the lip. In the beginning there was the Word… and then after that nothing but attempts to take it back…

The matter at hand is the question of what is the “REAL PERSON” rather than what is the mask we wear. Oddly in my life, it is the men who ask these questions. Who are you? Why do you dress that way? Is that your “real” name? Etc.

First off, yes, it is my legal name. Good enough for the banks and for my driver’s license. And yes… I have been known by many names.

I watch people… it is my hobby, my passion and my fixation. People are very strange and do the most intriguing things. They never act as you might expect, and seldom seem to know why they are the way that they are. To date though I have never met a “real” person, nor for that matter an “unreal” person. I have simply met people.

There are customs and practices that I don’t agree with and would never adopt for my own. I don’t particularly like talking about the past. True, when I meet old friends after a spell of absence we do quickly catch up… though the key there is quickly. If we face the facts what happened while apart is not riveting tales usually… unless they were arrested… but that is not often the case any more. As people age they are less likely to be arrested and even less likely to be incarcerated. The point is that we live now, and ought to not pine for that which we can never return to. Memories are fine until they become all there is.

What I wear and how I behave are of course contrived when you look at it in the clear light of motivation. My appearance is a selection of choice. What I choose to wear reflects a conscious wearing of a mask. Even should I choose to go nude… that too is a conscious selection of mask. It all creates an atmosphere, mood or condition in which I am the center of the storm that surrounds me. Fact is simple, so are you the center of the storm that surrounds you. Neither can escape this... that is what is real. We wear masks all the time. There is no reality since it is all in our heads.

Oh, but I hear you ask “But what if you are asleep?” To this I say that there is nothing real about sleep. The body is there, no different than a corpse in some regards, but the “I” is absent. I am not there. How then can that be real?

I am expressed to you in symbols… in a secret code that is meant to be intriguing… interesting and awaken in you a desire to be included into my life… into my storm. It’s electrifying n’est pas?

Alternatively, not. There are those who can never get used to my sense of drama. It is then that the worst me emerges… the literal analytical me… emotionless and anchored to the facts that we share in common. We then talk of nothing but the passed past and have no “real” connection in the present. This abolishes any thought of the future.

News & Views

It feels like a secret identity at times to live several very distinct lives… the heavy expectations of others are a crippling onus at times… and none more so than the expectations that I have for myself.

Spent a few days setting up my office, stocking the shelves with the correct books (course loads, not affectations) when it was made clear to me that where furniture is placed matters. There is a psychological effect. The school provided chairs, which though nice and new, just were not comfortable. Useless for those moments when I want to be close and at hand… I need comfortable chairs set around a coffee table for that. I do not wish to intimidate the undergrads. I will save intimidation for others.

Then there is the desk, the brutal throwback to the industrial revolution. It acts as a barrier as much as anything else. Set to the side it dominates a corner of the room. I imagine my meetings with the faculty to be held over that desk… that impressive edifice of strength and position. Instead of diplomas, I will hang pictures taken for a few of my more “outrageous” readings. Costumes and Drama. Poetry is not for the weak of will.

Still, though I know that this me… I shall feel at times like a phony. Yet, so help me, I am so happy to be back at the University. I hate teaching, but I love the feel of the place.

wet dreams

she’s the pickle of love… the affectionate wave…. yet she fits like a glove… when the road is fresh paved… when she’s off in a car… she wears a hat for the shade… she is just like a smile… at the side of the grave… with malicious intention… she pulls you down to the fire… when you’re starting to shiver… she fills your heart with desire… but you know that she’s gone… though it feels just the same… you never get to meet her… she left before you came… and you have to hold on… hold on tight for the ride… yes you have to hold on… or you will dry up inside… hold on to your dreams… they are all that you get… hold on to your dreams… or you just might forget… just who you are… or you may fade away… and when there is no one left… there is nothing to say.

sea dreams

sea dreams

dark starless skies loom
weaving a fretful night of shades and shadows
one can sense the fish in their schools
making their ill-fated deep sea run for freedom
while on shore
rocks wait patiently
for the rain above the tide lines

the sea waves a timeless greeting
whispered conversation and deep secrets
unfathomable
an embrace and kiss farewell
melancholic tears stain the rain
the ship in the bottle
and illusions of a dream.

my dinosaurs

The monitor screens glow…the clicks of micro circuits barely perceptible… the hard drives switch over… a fan starts… the CD players is on… just before the music begins there is a static crackle… then the sound… I am silent at that moment, fingers hovering over the keys… anticipation…

Books are scaly dinosaurs climbing the wall with evolutionary intent escaping their revolutionary ways… messenger RNA knocks at the door where in another time the pizza delivery person will stand… their rictus grins in statuary dignity… you were here they tell me… your eyes glancing across their hidden secrets… your fingers tantalizingly brushes their spines… you were here in blindness… a mute amongst my demoniac cabal…

The Muse On Line is plugged in…

the past is present…

the future an immutable possibility on the edge of eternity…
if I open the window shall I soar into the thermals…
there to scrape against the frozen face of the sky…
across the icy altitudes...
to gaze down in forgetfulness…

Who I follow in poetry

His name is Mubarakin and what he writes sometimes just grips me.

Is it diamonds and gold
in the rainbow folds
or just the tears of angels?

If hell fire's hot
then is heaven cold,
is there any weather?

Are we standing around
on sacred ground,
do we have any choices?

Do bells peal the news
to the Cathedral pews,
or can it come on voices?

For more of his works he writes at Pan Historia.

Ragnarök

You know the debate is not really about Health Care, Gay Marriage, Equality, Foreign Policy or any of the other myriad of handy dandy catch phrase issues that the every day citizen is grappling with. There is no debate or discussion going on and there has not been for a long long time. All civility displayed is a false veneer waiting for the snapping point to arrive. This is the Hate nurtured at the breast of the Left/Right divide of the Politics of Fear.

The Ecstasy of War has come home to roost. The War on Terror, The War on Drugs, The War on Drunk Drivers, The War on What-Ever-You-Like amid the threats of reasonable cause for fear. The poison pours out of the media and pollutes the minds… Good versus Evil! This is Religion. This is a wholly made in America Jihad.

“Give Me Victory or Give Me Death (preferably yours)”

This is the Cancer of creeping mendacity permitted to go unchecked, the secretion of secrecy; this is the Serpent amid the Flock while the calls of Wolf ring out in panic. When the importance of truth was surrendered I shall leave to historians, but suffice it to say that truth has long since been abandoned for Position, Wealth and Power.

This is, from abroad, the American Way. Truth and Justice abandoned for Victory regardless of the cost. In this the cost shall be the whole of it. All. Everything.

I can think of no better symbolism than that of an American Ragnarök.

***

Ragnarök

by Micha F. Lindemans

Ragnarok ("Doom of the Gods"), also called Gotterdammerung, means the end of the cosmos in Norse mythology. It will be preceded by Fimbulvetr, the winter of winters. Three such winters will follow each other with no summers in between. Conflicts and feuds will break out, even between families, and all morality will disappear. This is the beginning of the end.

The wolf Skoll will finally devour the sun, and his brother Hati will eat the moon, plunging the earth [into] darkness. The stars will vanish from the sky. The cock Fjalar will crow to the giants and the golden cock Gullinkambi will crow to the gods. A third cock will raise the dead.

The earth will shudder with earthquakes, and every bond and fetter will burst, freeing the terrible wolf Fenrir. The sea will rear up because Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, is twisting and writhing in fury as he makes his way toward the land. With every breath, Jormungand will stain the soil and the sky with his poison. The waves caused by the serpent's emerging will set free the ship Naglfar, and with the giant Hymir as their commander, the giants will sail towards the battlefield. From the realm of the dead a second ship will set sail, and this ship carries the inhabitants of hell, with Loki as their helmsman. The fire giants, led by the giant Surt, will leave Muspell in the south to join against the gods. Surt, carrying a sword that blazes like the sun itself, will scorch the earth.

Meanwhile, Heimdall will sound his horn, calling the sons of Odin and the heroes to the battlefield. From all the corners of the world, gods, giants, dwarves, demons and elves will ride towards the huge plain of Vigrid ("battle shaker") where the last battle will be fought. Odin will engage Fenrir in battle, and Thor will attack Jormungand. Thor will be victorious, but the serpent's poison will gradually kill the god of thunder. Surt will seek out the swordless Freyr, who will quickly succumb to the giant. The one-handed Tyr will fight the monstrous hound Garm and they will kill each other. Loki and Heimdall, age-old enemies, will meet for a final time, and neither will survive their encounter. The fight between Odin and Fenrir will rage for a long time, but finally Fenrir will seize Odin and swallow him. Odin's son Vidar will at once leap towards the wolf and kill him with his bare hands, ripping the wolf's jaws apart.

Then Surt will fling fire in every direction. The nine worlds will burn, and friends and foes alike will perish. The earth will sink into the sea.

After the destruction, a new and idyllic world will arise from the sea and will be filled with abundant supplies. Some of the gods will survive, others will be reborn. Wickedness and misery will no longer exist and gods and men will live happily together. The descendants of Lif and Lifthrasir will inhabit this earth.

***

As a poet the symbolism of Sarah Palin (pit bull with lipstick) and the Wolves is inescapable. Where more likely than from the frozen wastes of Alaska? Micha F. Lindemans description of Ragnarök is easily super-imposed upon the current state of American Political and Social affairs.