Apologia: memorial

 It will be a bad Friday to see you cold-  not much more than a week ago- we spoke.

You laughed and drove my boy  to the game- you were so very alive-helping me-

 as I dealt with doctors and knives.

You brought sweets, though I still can’t eat –

 

Your son could do no wrong in your eyes

true or no,  I don’t criticize.

It was as it should be- you were on his side.

You knew of our failings, what we could never get right-

but your love for him and his boy brought me a kind of rare  joy-

That you would never turn on him, no matter his age, the situation- right or wrong-

 Nor would he spend years writing letters asking for help, an answer- and wait-

if he feared  he couldn’t get by in this once glorious state 

 perched on expensive tectonic plates.

Those kind of questions he need never ask.

You always said it would happen someday- but your heart never failed until Monday.

The years since we’ve  been estranged seem unending-  inevitable change  impending-

It was never Romeo and Juliet

more like the Montagues and Capulets.

 You once said I was  like Apollonia -“more Greek than Italian”

but it turned out more like  Michael and Kay.

You never blamed me, shamed me-

for not being like you –

for trying  to fit in and getting further outside

still you gave me my due-  for doing many of the things

 even you could not bear to do.

 even  if  it was because you knew

I knew more than I thought /you thought I knew-

though I’m sure you know more than I-

you will take all that  with you

as we miss you and  kiss you goodbye.

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For Jim

Firebrand

If I were a man,
would I ask
Does she do it for love-
or just because she can?

If I were a man,
would strength be in my heart-
or in my hands?
How much can one withstand?

It goes to follow,
in Sleepy Hollow
Heads will roll.
A plane, umanned will crash-land
a mother’s ashen remnants of a soul.
Strange fits of passion-
unplanned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Addendum:

There really is no  way to completely avoid the end of Jim’s story. However, I have been trying to make a compilation of the contributions he made – such as attending events and tirelessly publicizing the Channon Christian/Chris Newsom case, Robbie Hedrick case, breast-cancer walkathon, Toledo, and endless hours of radio time. If you have something you remember and would like to share, please leave a comment here or on any of the postings.

Poem: Good Deeds

Accident-

When you see one who once long hated you, still does-
and only helps you out of legal obligation 

 quid pro quo-
not of goodness, or swelling heart.

now in torment themselves- broken

injured, sick, staph infected,weak..

bones removed,

 though he can still make a fist.
Is it my mercy that makes him now  meek?  Which is truth, which part?

I never fought back with cast iron pan-

but  baked him cakes with marzipan.

So-is my help kindness or guilt?

To those who would throw stones:

I say ” aim for the head”-it is quicker

though no matter how tall,

the small always aim for the heart.
Is it is true charity or will I not admit
something darker?

Is seeing him suffer its own reward?
and if it is and he can tell-
Then…How is it

I am the only one now trusted?

the only one they will deal with

in this abject, humiliating state?

Does it mean that they are so hated

and perhaps deservingly so-
that no one else can or will help them,

that they don’t trust even their  ‘friends’?

What history will not forgive, it will transcend.

Was it because
his definition/behavior of real ‘hate’
was more constant, sharper ,and narrower

than mine ever was?

Could it be..

He loves the world and all it contains

 food, money, power

– hates only me?

So I cut up his food, drive him, and make up his bed

put aside the fact he wishes I were dead.

There’s no resentment in my face-

 a  blood bond brings monastic grace.

Perhaps all of these things are true.

I don’t need reasons or reward

that don’t matter anymore.

They still ask why.
I helped him because I chose to.

Because it was right.

Because  I pitied him then.

 because he is my child’s father- 

it was all that was left

that I could do.

That was reason enough.

Mall Hell

 70’s

Tanforan MallNew and Unimproved

Hell Mall

 

They graze,

material appetites to sate

and once-over the mama gringa with White-Flesh-Hate

 

 Striped hair wannabe celebrities ,

fake cholo-ghetto baggy pants’d boys with no identity.

Headless mannequins flaunt fabrics

cheaply made, unmatching, piecemeal.

Roths-Teen-TV anorexicwear

that caters to the UnReal. 

Tables of Junk stacked on display.

 Stuffed animals. Pokemon. Disney. Anime.

  

Loud  arguing, calling, negotiating 

about which brightly-colored, shiny,  Piece of Crap to purchase next-

about which disgusting food court thing the group should injest.

 

  Vacant-eyed foreign faces stare,

  obesely jostle, push under harsh fluorescent glare

      thick mouths smack in predatory mastication,

All oblivious to my vexation.

 

    Endless rise and fall of hypnotic chainsaw border-babble-

The size and shape yet without  the grace of elephants,

They move amidst wails of their ignored  infants-

“excuse me” to ill  effect amongst the rabble

 

I mind my own business,

past the Plasticine decor, and hold my breath

against the hoardes and sweat  and debt.

 The mirror  the only thing that reflects

     crying,talktalktalk, yapyapyap  constant need,

        want, phone, get , get, get

     can’t find the escalator or

     Door to freedom yet.

              Scent of fake butter and unknown meat.

     Here all is bitter, nothing sweet.

     Cacophony the order of the day

     I grind my teeth in their sway.

Vague hot slow panic starts like a piston.

 

Must find a way out of this system.

I only wished to fulfill my task, and  disappear from the din,

the lights, jangly  urban muzak beats piped in.

Hurts to even try to hear myself think.

A/C dryness makes me want a drink.

 ‘I AM, I SHOP, I EAT, I STEAL, I BUY, I TALK, I SCREW.I CONSUME and

REPRODUCE, THAT’S ALL I DO!”

Could They Stop the yammering and exist in space?

WIthout all this in Our face?

   

Wallowing herds approach, identifiable  by sex, not Race.

Morass of noise, yips, whistles and shouts- I speed my pace.

De-Evolution at it’s dumbly lumbering, somnambulant best.

they know I’m thinking this of course and take offense.

 

You say I hate you as you are killing me,

yet you dare to look  accusingly

My contact lenses 

 washed by silent tears.

I buy a homeless White man an imported beer.

When everything before is gone,

comes a kind of  liberation-

 and absence of fear.

 

For Yankee Jim and all of us

Haunt Me

I thought you believed-
That someone else died for
our sins,
so we don’t have to-
yet there you are !
all day and now..

in the near distance, a shade.

An overgrown spectre,
still bigger than life,
In death.
I’m not afraid.

Haunt me,
for there are no real stoics here.
In this windy place

the living also dying,

Cadere Animis (to lose heart).

May I offer you a pomegranate?
A drink from the river?
Please, you can rest a while.

You, I, Francesca, Paris, Helen-
how we collude in our own destruction.
How we fail each other, my kamerade.

On this limbo-torn taiga –

rich with lichen,
but not Heaven,

Will we forgive?
and be forgiven.

 Attempts to Silence Us Will Not Be Recognized.

Silenced

Search for it.

Identify it .

Embrace it.

Sanctify it.  Place it.

Hold it up to the light

pray to it.

           There’s more than one way to skin this cat.

How much of a push do you need –

            think about that.

White man , how much more can you take?

Is it all about how much you lose,

and how much you make?

Will it come  when you lose your bread and your shirt

Tell me,  just  how bad do you need to be hurt?

White Man, we all have our limits….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

\infty  \infty   \infty 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 requested- there it is

http://www.savefile.com/files/1208253

 http://www.savefile.com/files/1208249

Audio files of  “Re-Establishing Whiteness ” and ‘The New Dark Ages”

Stake

fire

Stake
(written 10/31/07 ,dedicated to the witch burning victims)
This can’t be happening.
(Oh, but it is, it most certainly is)

She did fight them-
Bruised wrists,
rope wrapped, bleeding-

She knows this one too well,
knows his eyes,
he remembers the other things he took from her
Satisfaction glints – a dead glee.

The hood hides the scratches on his face ,

he is not sorry-
though he reeks

of alcohol.

She has been brave
stoic, apart-
Now the water born of fear comes,
does not extinguish this fire-

Scent of iron, urine, kerosene.
Someone is laughing -sings
“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?”as her sweat runs down .

“This is what is evil!
I did you no harm,
I helped you!

You are all mad! Please..No!
please stop ..”
So much at stake.

Someone she knows walks round,
throwing on more sticks-
Eucalyptus leaves-
fans the flames
“breathe it ,Mary!” screams the figure-
“breathe the smoke! breathe it! Not much longer, breathe, Mary breathe..”