We Can Rise


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The seed wars to become a flower.
Democracy lies—calls people power.

Songs rhyme, the words nothing compared
to truth itself.  You pause, pray,

Give strength clean away, turn it over
We can rise.  With a god of your own
understanding, we can rise, the mystic
reason for the four seasons calling
in the night, dreams the funeral of
ignorance, chopping off parts of a penis

while our infants cry; listening to the
devil, the easy way, “What did the white
coat say?”


Great native spirit, aboriginal ESP, a poem
scribbled into sand by Vikings or Celtic
sages, Romeo and Juliet giving English
reasons like seeds to sprout and spread
like a wildfire of color across a northern
California coastal hill.

“God” is the name itself for some, the
goal heaven, and for it we rise.

We can overcome the worst, from ashes
bloom again, seven deadly sins trying to
burrow into holes made before we make
first decisions.

The cliff upon which we walk is forged
to challenge, the echoes of forefathers
and foreskins causing blood to pour out
in lines, the prayer a call of the realistic,

the humble are true when they admit they
cannot without divine help reach the
golden crest that is Peace of Mind.

We can rise.

But we must first admit we fell, ring the
bell that we’ve been to hell.

God, forgive us, let’s mobilize with every
breath to make amends for friends like
wind forgotten with circumcised sips
of flammable liquid passed down from
generation to generation,

Friends in armor, friends who gave
us warmth and farming techniques,
helped us survive winters before
we cast them out at gunpoint, claimed
to found a nation already here.

I’m a white man living on stolen land,
littered concrete and asphalt, helicopters
screaming war while anyone standing
high enough for peace is shot down from
Gandhi to Jack to Martin to Bobby to Oscar
to John of the Beatles, the evil wind
soaring never changed.

We can rise, the minority report flourishing
at times, enough to give us hope
like a birdie between double bogies,

We can rise.

With an ounce of truth told into the
hurricane of lies, we can turn the evil
ship around, apologize.

Admit we raped, pillaged and stole,
see the humanity we are—naked
and part of the earth.

Don’t ever snip earth worn naturally
by children, mutilate a baby against
God’s will.

The baby’s cry is God’s protest; stop
cutting, start listening.  Get out of your
car, join me on the walk to Heaven.




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I don’t know it all, of course—
the in’s, the out’s, the going to
war, learning how to kill and
justify killing.

You learn the devil’s code against
10 commandments or other
dreams available to children
by listening.

Murder is never defense, the
attacker you fear’s heart does
not have to stop beating to
cease as threat.

John F. Kennedy was from so-
and-so peeps, Catholic Church,
big money from Dad’s bootlegging?
No matter to me.

He captained a boat, killed Japanese
people, survived a crash, helped
fellows survive, as the story goes—
that’s Jack.

The ignorance of alcohol abounds,
I used to call the Catholic Church
the Alcoholic Church, and why not?
It hurts!

They say he womanized, the sinless
throwing stones—many thrown by
his killers I’m convinced, evil converging
on 11-22-63.

A different time and era, sad for
those sad at tragedy; a father and
husband murdered, how different
from the Japanese?

Picked off sadly from a Texas knoll,
confused, bedeviled soldiers carrying
out orders of revenge for Bay of Pigs,

Clearing the deck for bloody Vietnam.

It’s tempting to be angry at death
and evil, but one must not play into
it—and instead love our enemies, they
hate it before converting.

“You think you can change the world?
It cannot be done,” yells Lao Tzu
thousands of miles and years away, yet
still we try!

Whatever Jack was before 1963,
he had become quite a voice for peace,
probably the world’s leading one
at death.

Same could be said of Gandhi. Martin,
Bobby, and John in December of 1980,
so many things we cannot control—
evil hurricanes!

I pray for the CIA, for murderers’ row
full of “Who knows?” and fraudulent
piety known as national security!

They need hugs not scorn, so hello,
I love you won’t you tell me your last
name?  No?  I love you anyway, I’ll
love you

until Truth sets you free.  To tell it
we must have safety, and with Higher
Power like the Jewish LORD psalmed
wisely by David

who could be against you if you
decided to break ranks with Fear
and blow the whistle, “Jack!!!  We killed

And we are sorry.  Sorry for Vietnam, for
the lies, for war and evil and injustice—
the money was good and we took it.

We didn’t know that fear is often
False Evidence Appearing Real, and
that there is a God, and that there
is a Heaven.

Find Love and God now!

Turn and find Jack within, forgive
yourself, see the less fortunate,
the unclothed give them a bite!

See that we could go further than
free the slave, we could give them a
piece of the profit they stoked,
the Native American pushed out
or killed

there and waiting to regenerate the
land with us, the litter we fanned
too much, the noise we fueled
to crush—

the Great Spirit battling serpent
covert ops, the secret devil in you
ready to be banished when you
accept poverty,

say no to easy money, lift palms
to the sky, see your spirit and
love connect embracing earth
and life.

Die now, old life!  To the killers of
Jack and to the Devil himself I
say no thanks, I give you my back,

and I smile because I love the fight
that wins every time we surge
to declare Truth at the scary dinner

three-piece suits and cigars over
flammable liquid sold and bought
as “drink,” the devil alive with every

Jack with the saints because with
his last breath he declared Peace.

The Death of Bush: Another JFK Murderer Silenced?


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Cloudy Bush2

—by Bill Watkins, 12-3-2018


I do not feel much for the loss of George Herbert Walker Bush, as many do on my favorite cable news channel, MSNBC.  What I do feel is regret that I did not work harder to get an interview with my uncle’s old boss.

Yes, I’m the nephew of a Bush Sr. cabinet appointee, Admiral James D. Watkins (1927-2012), called to run the Energy Department after heading up Ronald Reagan’s AIDS Commission in 1986.  Before that, my uncle served in the Navy, retiring as Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) not long before accepting the Reagan post.

Years and years earlier, a lot of mystery clouds George H.W. Bush.  Between gigs as a Yale undergrad, notorious Skull and Bones member, “Texas Oil Man” and a place in the House of U.S. Representatives—was he an active CIA operative, critical to the botched Bay of Pigs operation of 1961?  Was he in Dallas on November 22, 1963, and did he, like E. Howard Hunt, have a role in killing John F. Kennedy?

Watch John Hankey’s clever, upbeat horror doc to wake up from any nap, then join me in suspecting George H.W. Bush of covert activity and cover-stories while in the CIA throughout the 1960’s prior to being elected to Congress.  It’s called The Dark Legacy and is available wherever you stream your videos, or from his website: http://www.thedarklegacy.com/.

When I watch the burial services of George H.W. Bush, I feel no sadness.  Only regret that I did not push through with my connections to get a good interview with the man.  Maybe I could have appealed to his highly reported sense of “honor” and cough up some truth!  I believe another of JFK’s murderers has finally passed away this week, and you will too if you research around a bit.  Start with Oliver Stone’s JFK for overview, get into Jim Garrison’s book, On the Trail of the Assassins, then read everything attorney Mark Lane ever wrote on the subject of the Kennedy killing.

Killing Kennedy is not our only national sin, definitely not the first!  We killed off and lied to Native America, stole land, and worked that land with slaves we never paid nor made true amends to, I’m sorry to say.

If we are ever to be a decent country, we must tell the Truth.  The truth of this week for me is that I look forward to moving past another JFK farce, get back to Mueller squaring up Donald Trump for obvious crimes committed, including Obstructing Justice by firing James Comey at the five o’clock hour on May 9th, 2017.

Trump’s Wall


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You can’t be too open about
racism and xenophobia and expect
to win people’s approval, even an

So you talk about a wall between us
and them, the whites and the Others.
The ones you know, who speak your
language, and the Others.

We make the gangs in America, have
had a covert one at Langley for years—
then export them to the south.

They get bigger and more powerful
down there, then export themselves
back to America…

But wait, isn’t this all America?  South,
Central, and North—

Ethnocentric we call ours the real
America while we bury old treaties
with real Americans, bury our promise
to give forty acres and a mule, keep
documents and truth “classified top
secret” that point to CIA as the
real murderers of Kennedy, Martin,
Kennedy and John.

Oscar Romero killed by CIA-backed
killers, and Trump blames El Salvador
for MS-13?

“Build the Wall!” they chant instead of
“We hate brown people!”  Hate from
anger from fear, as Yoda said—

nine out of ten people are half-dead,
so don’t hate the folks screaming
MAGA and Lock her Up; they
need our love and forgiveness, a hand
to humbly reach out, as people did
for me in AA, people did for Arno and
Christian following light out of hate
groups tied to the KKK.

Donald’s dad arrested for fighting with
them, racist rental practices, a man
grows up with lies and continues
to lie!

The answer is not hate and walls, but
still—as it’s always been—love and truth.



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Donald Trump is not the problem.
He is not the disease, nor King Evil
in this experiment we call the “United

He did not come over by ship and armor,
lay down a fort, look down a nose
at brown people who saved white lives
from starvation and cold,

praise God and Matoax, her servant—
protect us from ignorance, racism
and violence, Trump a Symptom of
“More-ism,” he’s not the first.

Trump not the devil, just a man vulnerable
to the elements and bedevilments
we’re all susceptible to falling into, the
hole is endless!

We fall and we fall, thinking we’re flying
until we walk into a doctor’s office
and let him or her be our god.  They
tell us we’re sick, and we’re ready
to die…


We think politics is power, we hail
chiefs and man’s achievements—
putt-putt, we burn earth going fast
downhill, the cement and asphalt holding.

The cake baked on native blood, risen
up by the yeast of black slave labor,
we push it all aside, fight for white
rights, push all aside that might slow us.

God forgive the right.

Maga!  The fly in the ointment,
the lie in the fight!  Trump the evil
he projects, fake news, a total loser
like me I’m a drunk!

But in admitting truth we rise,
asking for help, apologizing, doing
the humble things that yield peace
of mind!

We cry at Trump’s tear gas at the child?

We cry at shooting towels and lies while
Puerto Rico suffers dark and prolonged death.

We cry at the protest leaving one dead,
talking about “culture” and race?

He separates mothers from children,
desecrating his own mother left and right,
the sickness is not his alone he’s got
ten thousand at the rally,

millions okay, coming out against
difference, immigrants, ethnic
cleansing disguised in code language
like “Make America Great Again.”

“When was is great, sir?”  Maga,
hah!  A slogan so negative and backwards,
flying under radar like it’s no big deal!

Make America White Again!  Bring
back the good old days!

A native American thinking “great!”  You
mean the days before white men brought
disease and beer?

Cursing and disrespect for the earth?

Maga!!  Throw tear gas on the little
girls, they’re brown,

reminding those with soul of Andrew
Jackson’s Trail, Donald’s favorite
president of course, mass murder a thing
okay as long as money’s in it!

Donald Trump is not the disease,
nor King Evil in this experiment we
call the “United States!”

God, not presidents—are solution.
Higher Power, Earth, the great
Mother, Great Spirit, gratitude
for one more day of life.

Maga!  The suit is toxic, embrace
our child, get out of the car, walk
a while barefoot on Truth.

Only God is great.

To Be Whipped


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Blues is not in the color
of skin, but in the life lived,
the pain felt, a willingness to
report it—

We convert it to beauty, try
to please the LORD with
sounds off the Mississippi River
whether you live there or here.

We see and feel a roll of shore-
break, the beat reminding, the riff
from God descending so that we
can rise every other line.

We drive directly into the pain,
know we can do no good by
skirting it to the flank; we give all
we can against the grain.

We see a break in the clouds,
an end to the rain—so keep playing
our woes, the dog barking, the bird
low, inspired chuckling,

Yes we even learn to laugh, as
someone listening understands what
we say!  Has had that bummer, too!
It’s only real if unaltered, just come

with the Truth.

“Anything more would have seemed
too weak” said the poet next to a
farm he farmed poorly but unique,
his pen a fountain run by bugs

and fireflies, wisdom and changing
skies; say it, repeat it and change it
to a good riff, may we smile and laugh
many times before they say we die.

Billy’s War


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We shot our play guns, built forts
in sand—wide is the path to
destruction, narrow to heaven
maybe one in ten.

God forgive the dishonest step;
the careless dream un-whispered
in the vanity of perceived peace of
mind through wealth.

God forgive us as we forgive those
who come across us hard, no one
wanted to wrong it’s just the most
common of songs!

God forgive us!  The chase, the lack
of study, the cramming alcohol down
throats because it looked cool and
signified plenty.

God forgive us the blind walk into
cars, paving roads over native hearts,
concrete over natural falls and rivers,
putting our mark down…

down, down, until the Lower Power
drills into us, putting his mark on us.

God forgive us—we had to decide
to win to win, even if winning was losing
with honor, pick up your feet declare
Victory over Defeat!

God forgive us!!

Give before, impede us from judging,
from playing your part, keep us
enjoying in our lane—make it that
narrow path to heaven;

widen it out for others to follow,
the art to be inspired and in the glow
tell them what you see and know
if frozen pray and go.

God forgive us, the first step without
you nearly off a cliff or worse, we
started to think of you, God, the
Great Spirit, the Hebrew

YHWH, never in vain, keep a few
things sacred, make a study of study
and study hard—not because they
told you but because…

Because you see.  And in seeing, those
momentary glimpses.  Ha!  Pick up a pen
or the artist’s brush, the guitar sitar
stomp a drum out of paper,

Writing it down for the next group,
who, zombie-like, are tempted to
drive off the cliff as you were, having
been told lies.

The devil’s the devil because of his
apparent credibility, the sparkle in
the drink, the sales pitch too good
to be true—

but easy.



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Evolving spirit, I revolve the revolving
door revolutions salute when revolting;
turn back to my past with a key called
loneliness turned into twelve steps turned
into intimacy with one, two, three, until
lo, and behold:

I love all people in the world.

Nothing is possible—to do nothing better
than a thousand bad things—heck,
study the Tao Te Ching!

Evolve spirit, build a bridge… not of
bricks only but perhaps with words,
as well, sharp in spots, muddy!  Get
down into it with those you don’t
understand, open their book and
read their words!

Build a bridge, then reach into the pen
that sets down truth like cold the
‘fridge, giving God a run for money
is the wordless feeling streaming
from extremes called compromise
and peace of mind.

Build a bridge; the words can if
you let them, speak your truth when
the coast is clear—

and when it is not?

Retreat!  Pick a mountain spot, a dream,
a beach or any other sky that’s
pretty in pink.  Take off your dress, the
tie you were tempted to wear
because the others said it was what
was needed there…

Take it all off and jump into the pool
of love that is the true words spoken
in safety on the day of your awakening
of spirit.

I wish you truly well!

Even the folks I felt didn’t treat me so
swell!  We all did our best, even in the
late night mistakes of doing our worst.

The devil is a tempty little punk, but
love him too because without a
challenge like rain—

where would we ever find the rainbow
that is akin to overcoming our pain?

God grant us truth!  A safe room or
space in which to tell it; Courage to
speak the true words,

help us cast the safety of lies away
for good and forever.  Point us the
way toward a better earth, the return
of first peoples, first plants, a rebirth
of native culture—

the wisdom of studying all God’s things,
even that trail of ants.

Renew us in your waters; run the sauce
over our face, cool and calm—

each word a bridge now, each effort a
song to sing as we tidy up the nursery
of our ignorance; the past itself a broken
down palace of god-striving kings
who wallow until the ‘bow that Spring
will surely bring.

I Was Hurting


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Poly, my old school, still shut
me out, not caring even with Dad’s
money in their account.

1985, “Don’t you Forget About Me”
I hear the time machine, enter it
and fight back tears,

shaking for all the harm caused by
not being true.  I loved her and did
not say, I drank “beer” and

called that okay; I joined a team
and tried to look good, I got good
enough grades—chose them over

honest dreams since alcohol on
Dad’s lap, with friends by twelve,
blacking out by thirteen, pre-

pubescent and small, not five feet
tall, not 100 pounds I looked around
and tried to be cool, missing love;

missing truth.

I was alcoholic at a young age, missed
the Spring of life, when fruit is ripe
left untouched on the vine and tree.

God forgive me.

Right to Bear Harms


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AR-15’s and sport, hitting targets
imagining your hate from fear
exploding in space.

Killing as “defense” an excuse
to let our worst instincts express
destructive pace.

Rat-tat-tat we get high on the rush,
the perceived power of killing
life, tearing flesh—

I’m not mad at you, I love you
and am sorry we didn’t talk sooner…
wide is the path,

Destruction like math, if you take
a group of ten people probably nine
are having a hard time.

One buys a gun, starts to shoot.
We cannot stop all evil, just decide
for yourself your role;

Good luck but if born of woman
and hard labor rethink your desire
to plug holes

in others born of woman and hard
labor, the answer is love, I’m sorry
but I love you.

We forgot to love.  In loving, fear walks
away, and without fear there are no
assault weapons.

Murder is murder is murder is murder.
We murder on-screen, video games
become play things.

God bless us