A Patriot's Blog 


A Patriot's Blog 2011



Post Sandusky.


July 24th, 2012

It’s so clean,

when you choose not to see me.

Just a frame,

with raped brain and broken soul.

Not a life

to live free, not anymore.

The shower’s

burning shackles grow stronger.


They don’t care,

about the depths of despair.

Why should they?

Their denial’s easier.

Those in charge,

their telling ceased long ago.

So keep peace.

We’re only discord’s secret.

Silence kept.

Dissonance caged in cold regret.


The horror,

when the sanctions were announced.

How dare you

open that sheltered doorway.

That’s my mouth,

held open in wet dismay.

Eyes wide closed,

we might see the raining past.

As we squeal 

our shame at every breakfast.

We’re okay,

eating terror at our meals.

So don’t look!

You’d see what’s ripped from their souls.

Don’t listen.

You’d hear what happened to me.

And don’t smell,

that’s why the showers must be.








From the old Dutch, a Sabo is a shoe.

Their not fancy. Their not extravagant.

Their not a wealth of stocks on banks. Their wood.

Built on freedom. But still, their just a shoe.

Just because you own something, and can lie,

Doesn’t mean you own our States, laws, or rights. You

don’t own democracy. You can’t own We.

Though those lost in finance often will try.

What’re we to do? Disassemble in peace?

Keep the gears moving us into slavery?

Allow despots to keep killing workers?

Watch our rights be traded for fleeting fleece;

Our futures seized without prosecution?

So We camped out, and kept assembling speech.

while the machine kept turning tyranny,

to burn our resolve and Constitution.

Winter’s coming. So goes our Republic.

But we still have shoes, though not made of wood.

But what are free citizens to do when

mayors steal libraries meant for the public?

When justice, all moral values, and laws

are broken by those who protect and serve

in order to manufacture subjects,

they make themselves traitors to freedom's cause.


I’m not sure what “Tage” means, but there are clues.

We know, in Dutch, it must mean “in the works.”

When means attacks our democracy’s soul,

citizens must attack the works with shoes.

We’re people. Not things, not Corporations

(Corporations have no soul or self-control).

We are workers. Not gears, not coke machines

(Machines can’t create a country, or vote).

We are citizens, not commodities

(Commodities can’t protest or walk free).

We are voters, not incorporations.

You can’t incorporate democracy.

Sabo are only shoes, just wooden soles.

But Sabo in the works are liberty.

A revolution of democracy,

unleashing ideals on those without souls.

Free citizens must sabotage tyranny.

Whether by regime, capitalist, or

a capital bought government, our shoes

must be thrown into the gears of tyranny.


Gunner's Dream.


November 2nd, 2011

The biggest curse of being a poet is that you cannot tell when you write something great, but you can tell when others write something great. There are so many examples of this I can’t even begin.

Here is a nice simple one from Pink Floyd’s Final Cut. I have an Audio bootleg (which I can copy if anyone is interested, if I can find it;-), of Rogers and Eric Clapton in New Jersey in 1984. I think this is the show: Roger Waters & Eric Clapton live in New Jersey 1984, July 21 (I can't say for sure if this is the same concert as I think they did 4 or 5 in NJ). It held a song that seemed out of place called The Gunner’s Dream. It was not a song of it’s time, as it seems to be more of a post-WW2 song. But it seems to be becoming more-and-more a song for this time.

I put this song on my first MP3 player years ago, along with a ton of other music. A couple of weeks ago I lost the cord for my latest MP3 player. Being as cheap as a billionaire forced to pay taxes, I decided to grab my old MP3 player and download my podcasts into it. Naturally, I started listening to some old tunes on my old MP3 player, which were mostly tracks from my vast bootleg collection. It was then I was struck again by The Gunner's Dream, which seems to have been written in the past for right now.   

The Final Cut was Pink Floyd’s final album is a post Wall masterpiece that few have ever heard. I first heard The Gunner’s Dream on the radio, once. Pink Floyd had broken up and it all seemed to be “floating down, through the clouds.” However, the song struck a cord somewhere deep in my soul as the “memories come rushing up to meet me now.” As odd songs sometimes do to everyone. In the dark side of my memory it grew in strength and scope. It was probably never played on the radio again. I certainly never heard from Floyd’s lost album again. But hints of that song stayed “in the space between the heavens and the corner of some foreign field” in my subconscious. 

“I had a dream” of democracy. It was all just something never really seen or heard again. Then “I had a dream” that democracy could provide liberty and equality. You know. Memories of songs we don’t own that strike when we are the most vulnerable and leave an indelible scar on our souls. Like when you realize democracy is dead. You have to say “goodbye [Lady liberty]. Goodbye Ma.” So you have to go to the funeral service, and “after the service when you’re walking slowly to the car” you here some dirge on the wind. You remember when the angel of liberty was young and silvery. You can see her still flying free from sea to shining sea, “and the silver in her hair shines in the cold November air.”

The song sticks in your mind like that day. It’s different for everyone. A songs are for everyone. Like when “you hear the tolling bell, and touch the silk in your lapel,” and bands rise and fall and come and go. But some silly old songs never leave. When you hear it again at some odd time it brings you back to that service when lady liberty died. And “as the teardrops rise to greet the comfort of the band, you take her frail hand, and hold to the dream.”

Then suddenly about 12 years ago, I finally traded for this bootleg of Roger Waters live in New Jersey with Eric Clapton. I traded for it because it had a version of Gunner’s Dream on it. And the version turned out to be haunting. He starts off singing so low you can hardly hear him (“floating down, through the clouds”). His voice raises its’ levels as the music swells to met his sorrow, frustration, and lost dream. Finally ending the second verse with a near silent and sorrowing “you take her frail hand.” Then the famous Waters screaming as he fades away from the microphone, “and hold onto the Dream.” It is striking brilliant. But then as his voice fades a little too far, a haunting Sax picks up the refrain and carries the Water’s haunting scream further than all human endurance.

I know its’ my soul scarring song, and you all have your own songs, but I don’t know how you hear that scream and Sax intermingling together and not find something changing in the dark side of your mind. Especially when your conscious finally uncovers the words and realize he is speaking of solders who never really returned home from the terrors of war.

It is this aspect of the song that made me write this trite in comparison opus. There is something seriously wrong with this country when citizens peaceable assemble and the government attacks them in every dirty way despots attack those subjects trying to become citizens. When cops are forced to attack and nearly murder our brave service men who came home from war after serving our democracy, and get treated like subjects. So the second half of The Gunner’s Dream, written and performed by Roger Water in NJ in 1984, is dedicated to Scott Olsen, for his courage, his sacrifice, and his service (After the screaming the sax cries, it dances as it drops down from the clouds into silence. Rogers finally cuts in with his minimalist beginnings that makes you remember the day the angel of liberty died. The lyrics are a cross between what’s written, what’s sung, and what my crazy brain heard in my bootleg):

A place to stay.

Enough to eat.
Somewhere old heroes shuffle saintly down the street.
Where you can speak out loud about your doubts and fears.
And what's more,

 no one ever disappears- you never hear their standard issue,

  kicking in your door.
You can relax,

    on both sides of the tracks
and maniacs,

     don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control.
And everyone has recourse to the law.
And no-one kills the children anymore...
no one kills the children anymore…

Night after night,
Going round and round my brain,
This dream,

 is driving me insane...

In the corner of some foreign field
the gunner sleeps tonight.
What's done is done.
We cannot

  just write off his final scene.
Take heed of the Dream.
Take heed of the Dream...


Liberal Thunder.


October 23rd, 2011


I heard the clouds clamoring last night through our lands.

The lightning bedazzled our hiding trees and tents.

The thunder rose and grew, and sifted through the hills,

like coarse gravel being rubbed through our empty hands.

The lightning gradually grows into a billion

bits of light, occupying our bankrupt backyards.

The thunder condescends from the bankless heavens.

It growls stark warnings to the 99 percent.

It speaks to the once free, in a dark bass so deep

that subjects can’t hear over their fake news fraudsters.

It says, “freedom is the right of everyman to

condescend to any man.”


                  Then a lightning crash

creeps so crass that it blast our parks into bright bits. 

Spackling lights distort into strange greedy monsters

hiding behind each peaceful tree. They forever

reach out to us in the microseconds of light.

Before we run in falsified foreclosed terror,

thunder liberals through the night. It bellows so loud

we feel its’ rumbling deep down in our chest, as though

our soul was ripped from our hearts, and torn asunder. 

It grumbles us deep down into Hades dark plights,

where the wealthy devil and his Nuevo minions

eat the self-evident soul of independence.

For where the devil reigns there are no rights or fights.

No guaranteed rights for life. No fights for freedom,

no right to pursue just a little happiness.

There’re lots of lawyers and permits, just none for us.

There’re no judges, they’ve been sold to incorporate.

No peers in juries to deliberate Wall Street.

There’re no charges needed to leave justice seething.

There is certainly no right to face our accused.

When they produce the well-bruised body, there is no

liberty left breathing, or homes to go home to.

So don’t search for compassion or rights on a bill.

In Hell, there are no citizens voting, civil

liberties, or silly Civil disobedience

Just cash, cells, and torture. And as we all know,

torture done in our names, makes all of us evil.

I turn from this sinister scene simply to vial.

I see a dark castle. I can see sad Socrates

imprisoned, helpless Helena still held hostage,

and brave Joan of Arc still begging for a true trial.

I hear Ovid decrying, “Love never objects”,

while the contrasts of masked Shakespeare sing silently.

It seems wisdom, beauty, science, and knowledge, must

be held separate from all of us sold out subjects.

The liberal thunder calls me back, “Democracy,

the right of all men to elect to condescend

to even the wealthiest one percent of men.”

It says,


            as lightning clatters through hypocrisy.

The condescending light blasts trees over our tent,

with all-encompassing paid for light. It shimmies,

shudders, and shakes, and plays tricks with brains of the weak,

revealing movement and monsters beneath each branch.

Nuevo lightning spits corporation news terror

like an All-consuming tsunami flooding fear.

But, who sold the defrauding terror to subjects?

Was it the stolen storm, the lies from down under,

the high-walled storm-banks, or the imagination?

Is it lightning or those who report the storm’s call?

Nuevo terrors are theirs. But, self-deceit is ours.

The thunder grumbles; A last attempt to wake a

sleeping nation. It states, “Equality is the

insistence that all peoples are citizens, and

all citizens have the same rights as all people.”


Enemies of Jesus Unite.


October 22nd, 2011



To me the pick of the week was easy Penn ST giving 4, and LSU giving 21. I have been blocked since I got back from vacation on Thursday. It is making me crazy. So this is all you probably will get. Although I am finally writing the words that are wondering through my head. It's like I always say, "if you think I'm annoying you should be trapped in my head for a day."  So my pick of the Week bet at Bodog is Penn St giving 4. I took both Penn St and LSU, but the LSU game is already under way. 


I have so much I wanted to talk about this week. I went down to Occupy Boston to protest the thieving that has been going on by Wall Street and the To Bog To Fail Financial Corporations. However, that is too long of a story for right now. 


I was watching the Republican Circus the other night and two things struck, how could anybody vote for these clowns? The second was one of the "Monkey!" insult Romney for, "supporting social programs". I thought that was unconscionable. He said it like he was calling him a scumbag for being n favor of any "social Program." All I could think was what kind of scumbag is opposed to all "social programs"? How can you call yourself an American or a Human if you are opposed to our government helping us? Public schools are a social program! Oh wait, Republicans are against public schools. Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid are social programs! Oh wait, all those "Monkeys!" are against the Dignity Programs. There is something seriously wrong with the souls of people who hate the programs that help give our elderly citizens some dignity in their final years. I just don't know what's wrong with these alleged people.


Finally, the final social program food stamp. I understand why Republicans are against welfare, but how can any sane rational citizen be opposed to food stamps. If you are opposed to food stamps you are the worst kind of scumbag the world has ever known. Food stamp feed families that can't feed their children. I was on food stamps when I was a kid. To be opposed to feeding starving American children is so despicable that it can only be called truly evil. How can anybody call themselves a Christian and be opposed to feeding starving children? Obviously these evil scumbags who pretend to be Christians have never read a single word about Jesus Christ himself. If you oppose feeding starving children than are a direct enemy of Jesus.  



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