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When Samuel asked for a king
to be like other nations, nothing
in what the people wore could
stop God’s curse from forming.

We replaced truth with religion,
kicking God further out the picture;
Building and building, not in the
Longfellow sense for the thrill—

But brick on brick to worship our
own “creations,” edging out
further, the Entity we can no longer
name very much in Congress.


God, grant us peace as we go back
to 1607.  My people landed; three
Welshmen from Wales, with Captain
Smith on British coat tales, we sought

a buck, fame, exploration, certain
feathers in caps to be the first and
all of that—we shot at Indians, first
by calling them “Indians,” then by

sizing them up as smaller, less-clothed
with worse weapons of war, they did not
murder as well as us, we could defeat
them—if it came to that!


We did not know that most Native
American people were on the side of
Mother Nature.  So when we murdered
them, we hurt ourselves, brick by brick,

Building more and more monuments to
glorify the human race.  So fun and pretty,
we could win, but God was on the outside
still, cast aside as we reaped Samuel’s curse.

Brick by brick, we stormed the castle of
future regret.  But not all was a loss; concrete
and asphalt was to come, the big American
city.  Gutters, trash littered evenly throughout

the lawns of our triumph.  This was our day,
“God” more and more taboo on the
Senate floor, but first let’s talk about
Slavery.  Yes, we haven’t amended that sin yet.

No, we wear suits in court; wear them to win
elections.  We wear them to hide our
bodies, to put out a message of oneness with
fashion and constraint.  We tie ties around

our own necks—perhaps a nod to the slaves,
who were shackled, yoked and murdered by
the thousands as they streamed from West
Africa to the Caribbean and New World lands.

600,000 died in a “civil” war to stop the crime
of human subjugation and inequality; then
Martin fought a second action one hundred
years later.  Now what?

A “president” can’t decide where evil lurks
at a KKK rally, slurs at black athletes as they
“take a knee” to protest police brutality—the
south looms a tough beast to slay, even today.

I am a former slave owner, says my last name—
an obvious thing, but who can stand up
with me and admit we were wrong?… After
national debt is paid off, why not dish twenty

grand to anyone who can claim African descent
here?  Allow at least a financial compensation for
the chains, murder and dismay.  Former kings,
queens and princes rounded up by black traitors

to make a buck with white traders, black market
supply and demand run by the devil himself.
I am alcoholic.  Believe in looking back at sin—
making amends.

We need to honor the contracts and treaties
made with Native Americans.  Even if we
must give land back—and why?  For ourselves,
Mother Nature and national karma.

Our suits cannot help the truth—disclosed is
the lie in every FBI tie that Oswald even fired
a rifle on November 22nd, 1963.  Failed a paraffin
test for the date, the gun found a German Mauser

not Oswald’s deficient magazine order Italian
carbine.  We’ve been a lie.  The day Kennedy
died was when CIA started to run the United
States of America, the lone member of the

United Nations to hate peace.

We should be evicted from the New
York meetings, when the day comes they
wisen up, move to Paris or Switzerland—
our suits hide the bum attire of murder,

violence across the seas in the calm of night,
protecting a banker’s rights, dead is the storm
drain of Saul’s crown, clogging the vaccine
that is God—kick the white coats finally out,

And accept that we must reverse the curse
ourselves, accept our nakedness, going
back to the fruit and telling the devil “no.”

As little children we enter heaven, not as
rich bigwigs.  Take off your suit, and help
me pick up trash