Severance

My severance package is all that I never thought wrong.

My peace of mind isn't quite yet complete.

A piece of my peace of mind is all the more complete.

My guilt no longer is in the hands of patriarchy.

My loyalty stands to only be stronger once I release.

My thoughts carry me as undeserving at times,

but those that love me would never feel pity

but trust my commitment to me.

homeward book-bound

Thank god for fantasy books. I've delayed a bit to long in beginning, what I consider, a true life quest. More like, "escape TO reality", because my world is theirs and my world is there. Enough of this web-surfing text, I'm about to go back home via paperback.

Pity Party!!!

In high anxiety I live

and while I feign my trust

I give it to no single one

It isn't that none are deserving

but rather

many are undeserving

and who am I to know

the treacherous type

to tread on me

reap from me

creep through me.

"Heart", you say?

HEART?!?!

Eh, mine is fucked.

Welcome to my pity party.

Have fun with em'

I'm a fool for what I once thought was superb.

Oh it's not, it's not, not so superb.

Sure it is.

I have this case of nostalgia every now and then

and I'm not quite sure how to interpret...

so I won't, I won't, won't interpret.

Sure I will.

Dying Father

There was this boy who thought himself a man. I tell this story not to encourage and neither to enrage. I am a man of peace until a line is crossed where I feel infiltrated by an ideology not mine. I will defend my place even if it be founded on the blood of the innocent, for that I am fairly ashamed, but I will defend my place:

This boy (my boy) was yet to become what we call a 'man'.

"What makes a man", he asked his father".
He (that's me) did not have an immediate answer for the curious lad who thought to become a man.
"My boy, my boy, my boy...", as I responded in time, "...a man, a man is more than himself".
"Himself?", he wondered.
As a father I gave my timely response:
"More than himself is a man that lives past the expectations of others. A man does not believe in the American Dream, but a man attempts to be responsible for his production. A man is more than himself when he comes inside with bloody hands from work and toil and then can still hold his child as though his hands were of silk. A man is also the mother, sister, daughter and wife...all the roles expected for others. A man more than himself does not feel the tread of others. A man, a true man, raises a fist in the defense of others. He does not wait for things to change but is the catalyst. A man concerns himself with his locale which extends to wherever life is found. Care about life my boy, care about death as well; do not abandon the balance.
Finally a man does not hold himself to 'just a man', my boy. My boy, a man can be a woman and a woman a man. A man is more than himself when he puts aside the expectations of all to live in equality with the others, for none can own another."
"Do you understand this my boy?", was my question.
The son turned with deep eyes to his dying father and said, "Dear Father, I think myself a man." "I suppose that you are...", were the last whispers of a dying father.

Dropkick Murphys my boys

Since I was a wee lad I have always felt myself identifying a bit with the good boys from Dropkick Murphys. I suppose I'm just another German wishing I was Irish. But with St. Patties Day coming up in less then a week I suppose it's my day to shine. So all you fucking Eurotrash and front seat craving neo-liberal trans-nationalistic bullshittin neo-naxistic (destroyers of the true multi-ethnic skinhead movement) progressive bureaucratic ass-wiping death-workers...fuck you! Is that punk enough for you? My clothes may have changed but the punk-boy is in my core and my fists can still fly. Try me.

Lyrics to Eurotrash :
This Song Goes Out To All The Trendy, Spoiled Bastards Who Listen To Shitty Music! Euro Trash, go away, so so trenty, your pathetic. Euro Scumbag, champagne and cavier, techno bullshit, blarin from your daddys car. You are such a mess, I hate you Euro Trash. You try hard to dress like your the best. Why don't you must go away, don't you look down on me. Go away and stay. You go down to M-80 tonight, see throught clothing way too tight. Euro jerkoff who the fuck do you think you are? Spoiled rich boy, fuck your ero bars! You are such a mess, I hate you Euro Trash. You try hard to dress like your the best. Why don't you must go away, don't you look down on me. Go away and stay. Kill! Kill! Kill!

Lyrics to Front Seat :
Some times I get so fired up I never feel like commin down. But your attitude you have is tearin us apart. You constantly whine and moan, waxing passively. I've got a solution for you today. We'll take the front seat mister, and we're never gonna take the back, we'll take the front seat, mister liberal scum to the back. You come forward with an attitude forthright. But it's only temporary, feigned and fucking tried. We have an ongoing war me and you, but I've got the answer and I know what to do. We'll take the front seat mister, and we're never gonna take the back, we'll take the front seat, mister liberal scum to the back. Anger, Dischord, Pissed Off, Lets Tear This Place Apart! We'll take the front seat mister, and we're never gonna take the back, we'll take the front seat, mister liberal scum to the back.

Suicide of my morals

I did a book critique of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown. Below is the opinion/reflection section of the paper. Sorry if seems a bit self-oriented but the professor is asking about us and our perception of the ethnicity presented in the book. It's not academic, in fact, I think I'm just ranting in this section but it may help illustrate some of my personal feelings toward to issue. Here:

I very much appreciated this book. As a white male it obviously brought new information to the table for me. This only serves as fuel to the fire because I am involved and plan to be more involved with indigenous activist movements in South America. I have a substantial amount of knowledge (as an outsider) of the plight of the Guarani Indians in Paraguay. I have also conducted fieldwork in Paraguay revealing acts of resistance by the native community against assimilation. My weakness is in the knowledge of the plight, rape, pillage, violation, massacre, atrocity, relocation, etc. of the indigenous natives to the United States. While my interest in Paraguay stems from serving an LDS mission in Paraguay and learning the Guarani language while living with them for quite some time, I find myself, like most white Americans, unfamiliar to what has and what does occur with our indigenous population. I would hope that this inspirational work has served and motivated me to also be involved and active in the indigenous social movements in the United States. I realize that as a white outsider my ability to aid in social movements is limited to the trust that the indigenous population gives to me. I am o.k. with that. To be indifferent to the current situation of indigenous groups and to “hope” for a better future would violate my morals that you would think I would consciously defend.

The effect of this book on my opinion and perception of the Native American ethnicity was profound mainly in one specific way. I was aware that the Native Americans used many forms of resistance against the dominant white society but this book added further detail. Oftentimes white culture looks at the “history” of Native Americans and considers them passive and childlike much like the initial perception of Christopher Columbus. This translates to mean that the Native Americans were foolish children in mind and easily manipulated and controlled. Following such a concept would also imply that they were immature in religion, morals, “civility”, and thus why they were called, “heathens”. Whites consider it their job to either exterminate such a despicable race or educate them to catch up (but stay slightly behind) in “progression”. Over the past few years I have made a conscious effort to turn such a concept on its head and shake the hell out of anyone who continues to adhere to such foolish and ignorant perceptions. What Dee Brown revealed to me is that Native Americans were even more aggressive, active, and independent in defending themselves, their resources, and their ideologies. The book was filled with numerous examples of Native Americans staring the white man in the face and fighting to the death for what should not have been necessary to defend, i.e. their rightfully occupied land and traditions. While many times the Native American was staring the white man in the face to defend what was theirs, on a continual basis, was a white man that sneaked up behind his back to craftily slip in a sharp blade that was only intended for death to the Native. Yes, what has happened is truly a tragedy. But the greater tragedy is the indifference of men and women who claim to live by morals. The tragedy even can be found in the Native American community. Today, when talking with a friend who is 1/4 Cherokee, I asked her why she was not angry about the past and she responded, “Well, they haven’t done anything to me”. The attitude by the dominant of, “I haven’t done anything to them, what my ancestors did is not my fault”, and the attitude of the dominated of, “they haven’t done anything to me”, is what plagues and aids the constant festering of this open sore which we call, “racism”. To me, to push the responsibility of healing the sore to the next generation would be my suicide of my morals.

Body count: 1

this paper is killing me so I'm gonna take a break:

When I was young I made 50 million records. I am the youngest superstar you have ever known. I created a frenzy of make belief lovers that always had it out for me. Those crazies wanted a piece of me, literally. I lost my arm in the War on Love even though congress never declared it official. I deployed 50 million to march in my name...in the name of Love. You too, U2, me too? Me as well.
Old news; I then lost my leg in the War on Love 2. Then I Killed Myself When I was Young. I needed a.a. bandage, A.A. Bondy, a.a. body bag? hmm.
Now it's quiet and I just hear the whistle of the wind in my old war zone. I am now the prodigal son of a prodigal son. An anomaly in the family that loved the Army. I fear in the near future my blood will enter that war opposed to my own...and that war zone hears no whistle of empty but the cries of the dying and the innocent fleeing. As innocents intercept bullets meant for ideology I think of my father who said, "they only seek peace for their family". Oh my, oh my, oh my...is that not our boys desire?
So come over to my side brother of the desert and join the 50 million march toward to the War on Love and let us find an empty battlefield. My hope, my dream. Body count: 1.

did you know...The new indie is dead...did you know?

So I saw this explosion.
Boom-shack-rattle-roll it said to me.
Out of this explosion, unbeknownst to me, came forth a hipster zombie.
This hipster zombie didn't know it was dead.
did you know...The new indie is dead...did you know?
Hipster Zombie had all the right apparel, american in style.
It even lived in an urban, lounge sort of area.
Where it had a job at an outfitters store, urban in location.
And smelt of vintage, decades or more in age.
Hipster Zombie roams from people to people.
It'll suck your face if you're not careful
and take your intellect and use it as blanket statements
to criticize the, "masses".
Hipster Zombie thinks itself different
but we see the zombie in it...
poor old brainwashed Hipster Zombie
same attitude different clothes.
But us humans can still see Hipster Zombies real face
oh goodness, it is mighty ugly.
Be careful...it bites...it'll disease you.
did you know...The new indie is dead...did you know?