So close, and yet so far. Hmmmm. And is Denis Hastert the Jimmy Savile of the U.S.? Start pulling that string and the entire pedophiliac edifice that keeps politicos blackmailed collapses like a house of cards?
Okay, so how about CEOs of major corporations? Possible to bring them down?
The tide of human affairs IS turning. As Saturn begins its two-year passage through truth-telling Sagittarius, even the deepest darkest secrets are pustulating to the surface of society — at every level.
In sweet Bloomington, over the past year or so, major corruption has been revealed in city and county governments, where various trusted employees have made off with hundreds of thousands of dollars using various nefarious schemes, the latest being the confiscation of bond money from new prisoners at the county jail! According to the headline in today’s Herald-Times, “Diversion of jail funds went on for years.”
Is our entire culture corrupt? Are you corrupt? Am I? At some level yes. As long as I still pay federal taxes — about half of which goes to the military — I am complicit in feeding Amerika’s Corporate Industrial Empire (Military, Academic, Medical, Financial, etc.) that ravages both people and planet. There is simply no getting around that fact.
Oh, but wait a minute! I see where Obama has just vetoed the 2016 Defense Appropriations Bill! Oops. Don’t get too excited. It’s not because he wants to demilitarize. Far from it. Here’s David Swanson’s scathing analysis:
So, how do we live with our collective guilty conscience? How much longer can we remain in denial? What will it take to organize massive tax resistance?
Remember: There isn’t enough room in our current prison system to hold all of us. So they can’t jail us all. But then, the entire money matrix state is its own form of prison, is it not?
I have no answers. Just proliferating questions. And they weigh on me increasingly as Saturn bears down. In this light, I was struck by a fb post put up by Fred Kolo, a dear childhood friend in Twin Falls, Idaho from the time we were five years old. Fred usually posts treasured images of the ephemeral beauty in his flower garden. Not this time. Astonished. Oh Fred, I thought I knew ye!
In Celebration of Spring 1976
by John Balaban
Our Asian war is over, squandered, spent.
Our elders who tried to mortgage lies
are disgraced, or dead, and already
the brokers are picking their pockets
for the keys and the credit vcards.
In delta swamp in a united Vietnam,
a Marine with a fullfrog for a face
rots in equatorial heat. An eel
slides through the cage of his bared ribs.
At night, on the still battlefields, ghosts,
like patches of fog, lurk into villages
to maunder on doorsills of cratered homes,
while all across the U.S.A. in this 200th year
of revolution and the rights of man,
the wounded walk about and wonder where to go.
And today, in the simmer of lyric sunlight,
a chrysalis pulses in its mushy cocoon
under the bark on a gnarled root of an elm.
In the brilliant creek, a minnow flashes
delirious with gnats. The turtle’s heat
quickens its taps in the warm bank sludge.
As she chases a frisbee spinning in sunlight
a girl’s breasts bounce full and strong;
a boy’s stomach, as he turns, is flat and strong.
Swear by the locus, by dragonflies on ferns,
by the minnow’s flash, the tremble of a breast,
by the new earth spongy under our feet:
that as we grow old, we will not grow evil,
that although our garden seeps with sewage,
and our elders think it’s up for auction — swear
that we will be keepers of a garden, nonetheless.