As I’ve tweeted, if Nike were to put forward an Air Nunes shoe to commemorate Devin Nunes March-mad midnight White House dance:
I might buy!
To have that sort of agility would be neat. To be that dishonest… not so much.
Nunes’ current embarrassment is to push a dead Uranium Deal story pooped out by the unpopular Trump administration to clutter the clatter about dossiers and Russian collusion.
Seven months after Devin danced for Trump, presenting “intelligence” to the White House received from the White House the night before—
The California rep is dancing again to please his apparent boss. Although sworn to uphold the Constitution and keep the White House in check, Nunes looks more and more a low-level lackey of a failing Donald Trump.
Senator Bob Corker of Tennessee is pulling out—but Devin is doubling down, to make one wonder if Putin and the Russians might have something compromising on more than the just the former Miss Universe pageant enthusiast, Donald Trump.
Louisiana district Attorney Jim Garrison called them out first, but after the weekend’s “reporting” it’s clear that NBC news is “sticking to the official story on JFK no matter what.”
With ties to RCA and the U.S. Military, it is no surprise that NBC News is taking the “easy” way to continue its complicity in CIA murder and collusion.
Defending Lee Harvey Oswald through the only means allowed him, New York defense attorney Mark Lane destroyed the FBI/Dallas Police/CIA prosecution. In fact, Lane exposed the post-death slander of Oswald as unconstitutional with both of his two visits to the sham political dance disguised as an “investigation” called the “Warren Commission.”
Damning to the “official report” that patsy Lee Oswald killed JFK with a deficient Italian rifle from a deficient vantage point above and behind the fateful November 22nd, 1963 presidential parade route in Dallas:
1. The first weapon found on the sixth floor of the supposed firing hole, the Texas Book Depository—was a German Mauser, NOT OSWALD’S MAGAZINE-BOUGHT Italian Carcano, a rifle known in Italy as the “gun that lost World War II.”
The weapon was identified as a Mauser by Dallas Police Officer Seymour Weitzman, a gun shop owner knowledgeable enough to along with Officer Roger Craig notice the clear markings “7.65 Mauser” on the gun itself.
Weitzman signed an FBI affidavit to his findings.
FINDINGS THAT WERE DISCARDED WHEN THE FBI DISCOVERED THAT OSWALD OWNED AN ITALIAN CARCANO, NOT A GERMAN MAUSER.
2. Obvious signs from the Zapruder video and witness testimony that gunshots came from in front of the presidential limousine.
Plumes of smoke seen, noise and activity from behind the infamous “grassy knoll:” in front of the motorcade. Kennedy’s head jerking back to react to frontal shots, grabbing the front of his throat to react to another frontal shot.
3. ALLEN DULLES, CIA spymaster FIRED BY KENNEDY after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, WAS PLACED ON THE WARREN COMMISSION TO INVESTIGATE AND REPORT ON KENNEDY’S MURDER.
Pure bias and inappropriate, an obvious conspiracy FACT that a cover-up was in play. Prospective jurors are thrown off cases for a lot less than being FIRED by the subject of the case at hand…
4. Warren Commission findings are not credible. Lone gunman with a Magic “Single-bullet” theory, totally debunked by logic and people like Mark Lane smart enough to expose the sham.
5. Oswald lacked MOTIVE.
To this day, there is no credible motive ascribed to Oswald in relation to a Kennedy murder. Oswald admired the president, had a hazy past of intelligence involvement, communist leanings suspect in light of his Marine training—which included lessons in the Russian language.
6. Marita Lorenz Testimony:
With no motive to lie (unless she wanted to be placed on a CIA/mafia hitlist for kicks), ex-Castro lover Marita Lorenz moves us finally away from Oswald to…
THE CIA.
Howard Hunt, Frank Fiorini (AKA Sturges) and the Operation 40 Anti-Castro Miami hit team killed John F. Kennedy, not the patsy Oswald.
Lorenz lays out the Hunt payments, the two-car caravan heading out of Miami and into Dallas, Texas on November 21, the day before the disgusting, cowardly hit.
Lorenz saw Hunt at their motel, doling out the dollars. She saw a man she later recognized from a TV shot as Jack Ruby—Oswald’s eventual killer—also stopping by the killers’ motel.
Lorenz asked to leave the party when she realized what they were planning, but not before she saw enough to peg Hunt and CIA on the scene.
Testimony Mark Lane used to convince a Miami jury in 1985 that Liberty Lobby’s Spotlight magazine published the truth when their Victor Marchetti, ex-CIA writer, wrote of Hunt and CIA’s involvement in the assassination of the peace-striving president of the United States in 1963.
A libel case CIA and major news outlets like NBC never wanted folks to worry about too much. CIA has been running this country politically since 1963.
Samuel’s curse, the result of a military coup seen so often in old Europe, that they never believed in garbage spewed out by Hoover’s FBI, the corrupted Dallas Police Department, nor the always diabolical UN/World Peace-thwarting covert CIA.
God said having human kings would bite his people on the butt, and this is the type of thing He or She could have meant.
If NBC and other news outlets would claim to be independent of the ruling U.S. military, they would join this independent poet to denounce CIA as traitors. Murderers. The villains that killed JFK en route to millions in Southeast Asia, Kennedy just casualty number one of fifty some-odd thousand American deaths in the conflict.
Yes… with “motive…” To perpetrate Vietnam, get revenge for Kennedy not providing air support to the Bay of Pigs concoction to overthrow communist Castro—restore a capitalist Cuba for CIA, U.S. interests including Mafia-connected hotel/casino owners.
Get control. Show that n-lover Kennedy who’s boss in the South. To not allow Kennedy to break up the CIA, as he had publicly promised to do.
For firing Allen Dulles as CIA director—a man in foreign service since before the whipper snapper Avant Garde American president—youngest in history, was even born.
Kennedy also fired the mayor of Dallas’ brother, something that could motivate someone to change a parade route at the last second, inspire a police department to become part of a dark, horrible moment in U.S. history—painted a rainbow by CIA spinsters for years.
And regarding “spinsters,” no one was worse than America’s “James Bond,” Howard E. Hunt—who forged a document after Kennedy’s death that blamed the murdered president for the assassination of a Vietnamese leader.
Mark Lane’s Plausible Denial (Thunder Mouth, 1991) is full of such sins, including a breakdown of Hunt’s failure in the Miami court to explain his whereabouts when Kennedy was killed in Dallas.
Our health drops when we ignore
real needs; replace them with fake
ones like “I need my car.” “I need
to go to the doctor.”
You do not.
We need air, breath, food, water,
a place to sleep, basic warmth,
nourishment.
We have ways of seeing things from
dark to light, fear and worry trying to
seep through; it’s a war of attrition
to look for right.
A star in the night, which sometimes
is clouded over by clouds that do not
kill the star…
Obfuscation is the devil’s job, that
and dazzling dark with light.
We cannot yield in the fight—
We must keep looking for right!
“I have a sore back, I need to take
a drug” misses the boat that shoves
off from the shore of truth, the boat
being that Pain is the Gateway to Joy.
If you do not Feel the pain, you miss out
on the joy!
Escape! Escape! Escape!
will make you late, late, late—Jonah
in the whale of refusing God’s will.
Feel the short term pain to garner
long term gains; Father Weston went
to AA and Al-Anon, “whatever feeds you,”
and recall that by bread alone man
does not eat, so bring the words of God
along! This trip to heaven requires the
angel call through music and voice, holler
at the devil to “Get thee behind me” while
we erect a band to fight regret, take on hate,
turn the wheel to justice in your town, take
off your suit and rake!
Yes, the dirty acts yield clean, while money
shuffling around clogs our gutters.
Clean every day! It keeps that doctor away!
Rise up, just for today. Take a photograph.
Pause to laugh. Write a schedule for your
twenty-four, God above, sleep at the bottom,
fill in the rest—live your dreams!
(But go nowhere without truth. Let’s
have it right here!)
Peace is the rainbow after the rain,
the swept-clean sky.
I cannot better the feeling of what Fall
means to the 100 degrees; every song
has his or her season, mine in winter
about to end,
so I truth in you call out, the devil away,
Look for Right instead of wrong, don’t
go to “doctors” if all you do is poke
and prod at problems.
Give God or Higher Power or Something
Big that loves you its due.
Love. Needs are these, working, loving
and playing in the snow of never-never,
always better when we smile, and thank
God just for today.
“Enough is as good as a feast,” said
Mary Poppins—wasn’t she neat.
Beat, beat, beat, strike the band—
today is enough!
Enjoying it through that pain is the
reason this poem or any endeavor
is endeavored under the sun and
moon of no more complaints…
We rent and we drive on occasion,
but lock us into payments?
Never.
The vroom vroom, powering and
speeding and smoking our way to this
and that? The noise, the hustle?
We prefer the slow stroll, the train
ride, the bus up the cliff, the hike
mile after mile, five senses becoming
six as we know there is more…
Rooftop to rooftop we hurl headlong
into vacant doorways of hope, dash to
and from buildings of dreams, scents
and poverty bringing us out of metal
and into the sweat of failure.
We must report something and so
stomach the stench, there must be a ground
if we are to elevate. Support comes from
loving people, we are dedicated to words
but know they are nothing compared to
what we describe,
The ultimate hope of all endeavor to
yield peace of mind, this one mine as I
deny the mechanic’s offer to ditch another
hunk at high speeds—
I take one look back at my old life as
I speed down the freeway of God’s
paradise in my wife’s fast muscle car:
I have an errand to run and I’m tired of
the walk, I’ll play this song, burn this gas
this time, but can’t wait to shed the metal
for a walk again my friend, toward the more
elegant train of rhyme.
Shot and killed, the streets of
L.A. between the trash and spray.
She had gained a friend, I checked on
her every day, whenever I shopped,
and my legs brought me by her place.
I gave her flowers. A card. Brought a
plant for her mother-in-law, the victim’s
mother, who lived above her.
She was in her thirties, me in my
forties, me not looking for love—I had
just given up extra-marital sex of any
kind!
But heat started to play. Her vulnerability,
my eagerness to comfort her, her fake
blonde mane—soft to my hard in L.A.
between the trash and the spray.
I told her she was attractive many times,
kissed her hair.
I hugged and she hugged back. We held
a moment, parted but marks were left
behind like what waves do to shores,
there was a mounting vibe.
Physicality supplied. I’d cover up if I
was modest. I have in an honest, funny
mood brought attention to arousal, but
this time prayed about it, decided to
ignore.
She smiled at me, took off the towel
guarding her wet hair, recently showered.
She faced me, and I her. And there was
no pretense minus need. We were in love
without the words, but to be sure I told
her “I love you”—
as I kissed her hair again in dusty L.A.
between the trash and the spray!
It all left a tear drop she could not ignore
like my enlargement, so to be sure
not to burst and show, she took her shirt,
tucked it down to wipe the tear.
Sexuality and mourning do not fully
belong together, and so we are patient
for the year to help us transition, get jobs
and financial security, an engagement ring
and a place to propose.
But the feelings are there to start, me almost
regretting I didn’t ask her for her shirt, but
smiling ideas days later are the futile fuel
of lacking frowns, I am glad for what we had
and have, am sorry for her loss.
Excited for our potential gain, with who
knows, perhaps another year of honest
rain, rainbows, truth and innocent touches
leading to spiritual growth and pleasure
tears.
The first glitch I felt toward unhinged depression was around my 25th birthday in 1997. Mom got me my first laptop, I liked hanging out with her, the computer was cool, but…
I was writing a very creative piece, attending many Al-Anon 12-step meetings, and more and more: I felt weird, a manic-depression settled into my life.
High in the throes of my creative projects, low afterward, with NO SCHEDULE FOR MY DAY, nor contentment at a day well-lived toward Sleep.
***
I was and am alcoholic. I did not fully know that back then.
The suicidal bug, which came from the manic-depression bug, stemmed from my first drink of flammable alcohol on Dad’s lap when five years old.
I started drinking it with friends at age twelve, started blacking out off the substance at age thirteen. Yes, Maradona was down in Mexico becoming a legend while I was awoken by my sister’s friends PEEING ON THEIR COUCH. I was in a sleep-walking blackout after many beers consumed into my sub-five foot, sub-100 pound frame.
My drinking peaked at age sixteen, the false god alcohol fully worshipped in place of God, life, and being honest with the girl I loved.
None of that story went away when I started to curb back drinking Senior year of high school and into college.
I was a periodic partier, who drank and smoked pot on occasion, overdosed in the form of blackouts and pass-outs before officially overdosing on prescribed medicine in 1999 and 2000.
The OD’s came on the heels of a trip to the Bay Area from my native Southern California. Up there I flagged down old friends, and considered jumping off the Golden State Bridge.
I stared down that jump all of one afternoon, for hours. I finally “chickened out,” which made me more depressed, then saw an old school friend and his beautiful wife before hitting an AA meeting in town.
Within a week, I finally jumped—into the bathroom cabinet and its pills instead of into that San Francisco Bay water.
It seemed less illegal, but it hurt just the same. My body stopped working during one of those first overdose cycles, and I called 911.
My stomach and diaphragm still don’t always work, eighteen years later, because of what I did. I am now fifteen-plus years sober and off all medication, drugs, caffeine, soda—even sex.
I found parenting and help in God, the bible, Alcoholics Anonymous and wise friends who had recovered from insanity as well.
***
Being suicidal is scary, confusing, and groundless.
Some do mass murder before they commit suicide, some dream about it while suicidal—I myself had visions of glory’s blaze, stepping out into traffic, jumping off bridges, turning a fast-moving car into a center freeway divider.
Those are potentially homicidal acts, and so the reader should note that being suicidal has a homicidal quality—a lack of care for All life.
What kept me from a lot of those acts was a growing concept of Higher Power, a symbol of the quiet, peaceful Jesus within me. I’d call on it when tempted, and here I am still alive, just for today!
It is a horrible, irrational state in which to find yourself. Bedeviled, truth is clouded, and there is an all-out fight going on for your soul.
“Suicidal” is an unfortunate but perfect motive for mass murder—a perfect storm that can lead someone into a “suicide by cop” situation, a “blaze of glory” of taking other lives down as you kill yourself.
It’s like that drowning victim, who if you’re not careful, will drown you too as they submerge.
The drowning individual must be knocked out sometimes, as I understand, to be saved by a rescuer. Dying somehow wants company…
***
For this reason, it seems odd that people are still desperate for a “motive” in the recent Las Vegas shooting.
The shooter was suicidal; killed himself after the horrible shooting of others. A dying suicidal guy doesn’t care!
A total loss of care in life is dangerous to the suicidal, and unfortunately can be fatal to others surrounding that person.
Bill Watkins, Traveling Poet 