as i awoke, bach played on the radio and the umbo boxes chattered away,

upon waking, i listened for the sound of the straw that broke the camel’s back. it’s as quiet a sound as one hand clapping. it’s like a feather upsetting an apple cart. i was unclear as to what day it was until i realized it was sunday and that it was still the weekend and maybe i was safe but i listened for that sound, nonetheless. in america and probably all over the world there are people listening and looking and worrying. there are people sneaking up on their mailbox, hoping the bills don’t grab them and pull them into the ghastly otherworld of debt.
as i lay there, i realized something as terrible and costly as the destruction of the twin towers and the havoc that “a band of terrorists” wreaked on this country cannot match the destruction caused by worldwide consortiums, wall street scam artists, financial institutions run amok and the weaselly greedhounds who wear “capitalism” and “freemarket” much in the way any pack of humans with their own agenda will completely disregard any and all around them. like a church that wields the “cross” for control and consolidationary considerations for fifteen hundred years or hate-mongers who hide behind scripture in tinderbox middle-east chaos which will eventually level the playing field for everyone on the wrong side of “lucky.”
nine-eleven was big murder.
what continues to unfold here and now is world-wide, greed-driven genocide with wider implications and a broader body count. death will come in the form of neglect, and to quote dickens from a christmas carol;

“Oh, Man, look here! Look, look, down here!” exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

“Spirit, are they yours?” Scrooge could say no more.

“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it ye. Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end.”

“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Scrooge.

“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?”

——————————————————
to that last question, remember where dick cheney’s investments have gone to.

this, of course is written by someone who doesn’t have a business degree, owns a struggling business and has apparently formed a relationship with diners who feast on humanity much in the way humanity feasts on chicken.
maybe it was the conversation i had with the lizards from mars and how they farm their humans. maybe it was the nature of them being what they are that put everything (again) into perspective. it’s simply about the food chain. as that guy who dined on omar sharif said, humanity is but a farming practice, but to earthlings, humanity and morality are the high ends of a shifting spectrum that matters little to either murderous thugs or zealous agendas and can be turned on and off by the upper-echelon of wealth and power who pontificate with pate’ in their teeth and blood on their hands. it’s all about “more” he said.

and so, the struggle goes on.
good and evil, cat and mouse, love and hate, yogi bear and ranger smith…..

About stephen trimboli

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