When you break the law, they come for you, as they should. They are there to protect me from you, and you from me. When i am innocent and they come for me…break my legs trying to get me to admit to something i didn’t do, there is no law for me to have broken.
There is no constitution, only a rag in place of a country’s misplaced patriotism and sensibilities, all written by men who had other men as their property. Men who deserved to be free, but were kept in a tight fist of Democracy in the Republic. Men who deemed it necessary to specify just how free you could be. Freer than her or him, or our liberty, which has been locked in a straight-jacket of government constructed oppression and indignity…since the day our greed got the best of us, and forced our hand to be ‘ OK ‘ with giving all our jobs away.
Puppets ruling flotsam on the sea of trade…paying tooth and nail for the price of slaves, to stand on those plantations while impregnated by the culture of the Crown, who told those men to rape each Irish girl to Mulatto make…11 years old in a factory to support their need of a lower point of view, someone to talk down to and to kick with their 400 dollar shoes…
The Irish of Boston, who have been so maligned, yet were happy just to finally land on shore this time. After starving below decks on the way to the Masters, and seeing first hand the death and disasters which killed so many of their brothers, sisters, families, Moms and Popses, joining them in the cropses no more.
Cotton to pick, rice to boil…mind not that whip, it’s your pay for your toil.
Be guaranteed you’ll fetch a good price, and your siblings will all see their own Paradise, though it’s hard to see Heaven from below where they’ll be, beneath the decks on the Barbary…old Master Johnson might put you to task, needs a girl to be pregnant or his experiment won’t last. To create a complexion somewhere between, dark chocolate and Killarney Green.
” Good night Irene ” ………….
Racial prejudice, inspired by centuries of he owns you and she owns him, and we own nothing but the shoes we’re standing in, yet the world is ours to take and reinvent a bigoted for nothing land of malignant glares from the corners of their eyes at the cotton in your hair, and the matted way your locks look today, ‘ have you not been to the sewer for your freshly poured manure to distribute in the fields? ‘ …where you steal a drop of water for your parch, and you grab some hay to chomp while they hit you all the way to the place your Momma stood as she bled her life away on the end of Master’s riding crop.
How can a land so free be so blinded by it’s own tyranny?
A ” Beacon ” ( Hill, Boston, MA., ) of hope and change that makes bids on human cargo, property unclaimed, then sells it to another who will try to rearrange his thriving workforce of little 9 year old girls.
This is our world, and what we tolerate, while we worry about a sentence taken out of ill related contextual integrity and filled with innocent truths…does it worry you?
Slavery is still alive today, in the place so often regarded as the birth place of the suffering…and rightly so, but not only them, some traded their own you know?…their government, like ours, is corrupt and begging to fellate the ready hardness of the vaults, fulfilling greatly the need to satisfy urges long devolved, over seas so roughly hewn and deadly cold down below, where the hay is hay no more. The splinters in the feet of a 4 years old babe, who has never had a Mother, just a birther then a maid, til she walked and talked, but never asked them why they stayed, underneath the depths and not in the bright Sun of the day?…she never knew she could, or ever should wonder why.
When can HOME become a direction we will go? Can you tell us we are servants no more? Will you bring us to our countries where we were before you stole us for your selfish Trade-War?…
What has changed since the slaves were set ‘ free ‘ ? When to gainfully be working you must settle for the fees, of a government who is taxing the very air you breath, while poisoning your food supply to keep you loyal, to their backers and contributors, no need to think for yourself, just walk straight ahead and grab your capsule from the shelf…
When police are the criminals and the crooks run the White House, when the families on skid row are dying and the next up are in line, it’s time to take your anger, and to healthily apply, your angst and discontent as you civilly defy the government you bow to in their mission to enslave you, where you are not but a dust mite on the scale of their importance, and in their cold eyes, your abhorrence is written into your genes…you cannot help but bend to your fate as the bullet takes you out. That bullet which your leaders so quickly took away…while they crafted all the laws that will jail you someday, whether or not you did anything wrong, they’ve been chasing their own tails for too long, an enemy looks like their own brother, and he helped in the killing of their former great nation. It’s not elation that makes him smile, he lost his mind in the move to ensure another million just in time.
Green for The Green. Money for the Honeys who will keep your cash in flow, for the men who broke them in and made you richer than you know. For the lives all gone and shadows in their former stead remain, a reminder of the players in an evil tyrant’s game. The USA and Britain, in the seas above doubloons and the bloated bloody carcasses all full of each harpoon and every color underneath the fading moon. A child’s cry at night is hushed by those who know, if the Masters are awake their cargo might go overboard, a bloody screaming mess of a 13 year old’s intentions, on the way to the bottom where the fishes will comb the trenches for their meal of poor Sinead and her brother Tommy Finn. Lucius told them quiet or he’d toss Emm to the sharks, only working for the man so he can help his Mama heart, she so workin’ in the cotton, she ain nebah gunn part, she make her baby Lucius know she Love im from huh heart…
Gretchen can’t remember how her Mama’s face should be, been so long afloat this time, her age is 17. They took her from her bedroom when her Daddy was at arms, a 3 year old in diapers but some fodder for the farms…Olaf was a handsome boy could lift a herd of cattle, Abernathy said he’d pay to get the boy in shackles, Ottoman in Summer will be prime for some good riches, while the countrymen all brag about their horses in their britches.
Paolo was ‘ a loathsome boy ‘ who hated Mrs. Ritchie, any set of rhyming words will tell you she was ………………… yet he seemed to love the way she poured herself his way, with a smile and a hearty wink, his hardness she would play.
Jean-Paul was a tailor for Ol’ Thompson’s woman Marj, in the backroom of the mansion on the hill just down from ours…he shot her in the Winter while she slept so light and sound, her fortune in a handkerchief he headed back to town. His plan is thought, the land he sought, is British bought and overwrought, the workers of indentured law have made it clean and rubbed it raw, no Cherokee or Ojibwa, no Wampanoag, Chickasaw, no Shawnee pride, or Hopi tribe, the Natives have all gravely died…on paths all lain to push their strain of plague to walk the dregs and clear a Trail of Broken Tears for the good of the domain they used to love. Mr. Richard got a gang of his old cronies and they rounded up the Natives in a place called Pine Ridge, where they practiced all their AIM ( pun, the American Indian Movement is stronger than any bullet )
but they lost it in the way the spirits blew the wind back in their faces…the poison soil brought pestilence, disease for the diseased in mind and morality, a strange word on their tongues, and a dry thirst in the desert with no help to save their troops and no way to say their sorries, and their stories will sound absurd to their coming generations, a sick and twisted play on when to have some reservations…
” General George A. Custer, his yellow hair had lustre, but the general he don’t
ride well any more. He got bombarded violent, and now old George is silent;
And the general he don’t rïde well any more….” -( Custer by Peter La Farge ) …