Source: False Report
Ancient Sins, Amends
-by Bill Watkins 6/5/2017
LORD, help me communicate your message.
I have left Los Angeles, California in search of meaning, poetic justice—taking my sins east someday across the ocean back to Europe.
I have decided to pass through beautiful Livingston, Montana for a year or two to gain a different experience, to become a man, prepare for England’s colder weather, and to get some financial standing.
410 years ago three Watkins brothers arrived in the land we now call Virginia—a land that was inhabited by a great people. We, the English, named it what we wanted and called it ours.
We measured ourselves against the natives by skin color, dress and military weapons—saw an “advantage,” sought to conquer.
Our sins are vast. Sins of judgment, murder, selfishness, ingratitude, ignorance, and self-righteousness. Sure, we were chased there by religious wars, oppressive social structures and monarchy.
But also greed. Vanity; the desire for fame and glory, riches—gold and spices.
A name to place in history as the man or men who discovered a new land or route around the world.
Notice no mention of “God” yet. While our explorers spoke of “mission” and Bible and bringing God to the New World, our actions were GodLESS.
We lived by the gun and sword. Died by it. So many of us throughout history to now just on that Jesus-mentioned “wide path to destruction.”
Lao Tzu said “You cannot change the world. It cannot be done.”
So why write a piece like this? Why leave Los Angeles?
Why come to Montana, en route to Wales, United Kingdom—home of the Watkins family that stayed in Europe?
For this poet, meaning… For the world, this poet sets out with the gift God directly gave to drive truth into the wide path.
To split that path, and light the trail back to Heaven’s narrow road.
If I believe through fast and prayer that I may move a mountain from there to here, it shall be done.
If I know CIA killed JFK, then covered up the crime—I shall say so, demand truth, and move on to other dark chapters, light them with alacrity.
If I am sure that we owe amends to anyone related to American SLAVES, I shall write that fact—and push us to truth, action and needed reparations.
Hurting others is hurting ourselves. Killing off Native America, is killing off Nature in this land.
We must stop, restore land to the Native peoples “won” through bloodshed, threats and broken promises—bring Karma back to the land…
The Great Spirit, often forgotten from big cities to the hearts of reservations—sad with despondent reservation, alcohol, depression—will and must rise again.
The Great Spirit will rise when the Native American people rise again, and the land will prosper.
A Third Political party will emerge. One of peace and love for Mother Earth.
But first I must remove myself back to England. Back across the sea, and take our sins with me.
I do so for the Cherokee. For the Sioux. For the Crow, the Blackfoot, the Tongva out west—all the tribes, together must rise as I leave with God’s spirit East from here to the land of the Celts.
I will take back, finally, the land’s Gold:
Native American Wisdom and Love for Land.
Europe will thrive when I bring this gold back to them.
And meaning will come to me, a life poetic that gave up comfort to honor God.
-by Bill Watkins and Robert Frost
Something there is that doesn’t love a lie,
That sends the Washington Post “deep” in
And leaks anonymous sources—deep throat,
Making Truth shine like the sun.
The work of liberals is another thing:
Trump came after them to deconstruct
Where they have barely survived Roger Stone,
But they would have Carter Page out of hiding,
To please constituents from the left and right.
The rifts—no one has seen them made, but
We heard them made in First Amendment-killing
MOAB tweets and claims. There they are
On our computers and phones; we try to ignore
Them but we can’t, so make a date in the Senate.
There we deconstruct Trump’s deconstructions,
Which is gravely presented by GOP as a lovely
Growing Tree, especially made for you and me.
Never mind Russia and 2016, as old White Men
Keep close control over the next four years.
Bipartisanship is the great dream of fools, until
Matt Schlapp and Bill Maher hug on HBO,
“Hug it out!!” yelling Kevin Dillon from sitcoms
past, reminding us all of Something.
“Good walls make good races,” exclaims Trump,
Bannon behind him—as McMaster tries to be sane
Enough for them both. Hillary shakes her head,
Smiling not on deck per se, perhaps in baseball’s
Third-up “hole.” The poet wishes he went with
A naval image over baseball, but it may be too
Late—both of them with sexist overtones, risking
Further hurt pointed out by poignant p-hats
In protest protesting, protesting among other
Things… all the Walls.
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,”
Said Frost, but neither does Something love a
Lie, I’m sure of it!! The poet “sure of it” assuring
So many readers he’s “full of it” until he finds
Matt Schlapp, gives him another hug,
Promotes a Third Party called the Native Party
Led by cheated Native Americans. Their
Platform a simple one:
“Pay all our debts, financial and moral.”
Trump says again, “Good walls make good races,”
But does so from his newly made Twitter jail,
Where Sally Yates confined him. Truth is
The great Skeleton Key that opens all doors,
Shuts out Hate, providing the mortar to all
Walls of Freedom constructed—protecting love
And innocence inside. That hug. The open
Mind. The listener. The tweeter. The dog
Eat dog Businessman “president” who to succeed
At talking must learn not to talk and do…
Until God blesses our land through Native America
The right to kill permeates military
spending, uniforms sparkling,
“something to do” as we seek out
and destroy to generals and devil’s
cold glaring shout of pride
and approval, the parade going by,
so sharp and sure, knowing
what to do finally, because they
yelled in my ear what I’m supposed
This was years after I neglected Moses
on the hill, or upon returning from
A few tablets or one, or two shouted
easy truth—so it seemed, ten commandments
then hundred of little laws;
but the commandments, they are still
good. Thou shall not kill is re-written in
1789, ’90 and ratified in ’91 as the Second
Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.
Thou Can and Should Kill, sayeth not Moses
but geniuses like Alexander Hamilton and
Washington, War-mongers in sharp
beating uniforms parading in peace-time
to simple orders.
“… the right of the people to bear arms”
the rally call for NRA and killers all, so fun
at the range or in a video game, paramilitary
or on the front line, get a holster, clean your
weapon, Soldier, time to learn to live
by your gun, die by it too—go to court,
pull out the Second above Moses and God’s
Sixth—plead insanity or “self-defense,” the same
To MURDER as self-defense! “Yes,” the Devil
loves that amendment! “Make more like
that, abandon God, forget Moses, and
Jesus, rabbis and priests hypocrites
the lot of ‘em!”
BOOM, LAPD shoots another in the chest;
the bum was reaching for his vest,
must have been bad—the evil as much
in thinking we know the future as anything
So vain, so sad, we plead the fifth against
the second avoid the sixth and cop
to violence over and over again
at borders and beyond, your own
“The right to bear arms, “defend by
killing—“Justifiable homicide,” the
Devil’s favorite two words, those and
the one known as “judging,” so
“please” the Devil pleads, coerce the
people to go in and judge others!!
Throw out Moses, God—take YHWH,
write it LORD, then bastardize it as
“Lord” without the capitals, go all the
Amend real, ancient and wise law with
the right to bear arms, “right to kill”—
Murder God now!
Or repeal toward peace to Devil’s
frown, the God we kill rising up
to guns and bullets melting down
except for the ones used to hunt
our food, we can change even though
the world cannot.
And this was good.
I overdosed in confusion,
the Devil having me think—
well, too much.
Life couldn’t have been as easy as waking
up, doing some stuff I liked, and going
to sleep, so I added drugs or alcohol
or extras, because it couldn’t be that easy…
Years later, eleven years sober I sleep
on full stomachs and come close to death.
I hurt myself when I overdosed. My stomach
and diaphragm stretched out, over-stretched,
aged far beyond my forty-one years. I look
normal, but stand at the ninth gate at night,
If you don’t know there are ten gates between
my life and death, and at night, with a full stomach
I reach the ninth having passed one through eight
asleep and at ease.
It is not until the dream becomes nothing and my
body begins to freeze that I wake. At the eighth gate
I can rise, do a sit-up, praise God, do 39 more sit-ups
then watch some TV and go back to sleep.
Maybe gas needed to be passed.
If at the ninth gate, I must yell out and wake my
girlfriend with the yelling. I must smash something
yell some more and hit.
I thrash until I teach my body how to be alive again.
Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, I’m
alive writing in the night, surfing in front that
whitewash—it’s double overhead, as the surfers
I could die, but what is death? The tenth gate smiles
a shimmer of doubt into my faith in afterlives:
One and ten are the same, life is life. Fight.
We should have nothing to do
America’s number one crime family
is CIA, the conquest instinct
alive and kicking as the Devil
rocks excited, kicking up dust manifest
towards suffocating destiny.
I love you, don’t get me wrong:
the sinner in me not far from
my steps, I was a drunk high on
alcoholic beverages, C2H5OH
ethyl not Lucy—flammable and
volatile, a first fuel for
Down the hatch, no way to catch—
you had to ask God, Something big
and powerful in prayer.
(But it was so much easier to join
a gang. For me it was almost the
Pasadena Bloods, wearing red putting
hands up against the night. Red
clothes, red SUV—tinted and pretty.
That’s how the CIA does it as well,
Mafioso-like recruitment in your
lonely hour needing friends.
Even if that purpose is evil, it justifies
itself in group therapy and togetherness,
we’re all together in this mess!!!
Raise your glass to lack of tenderness;
it’s “National Security” that will veil
Grown men and women tip-toeing
around spreading lies, propaganda and
reasons foreign leaders must die, so
we can get paid “killing” them, even if
ideas and spirit never die.
The mob and gang mentality is similar
in our highest criminal courts, who
accept at times the misnamed
“cui bono” (who benefits) AS IF FROM
A MURDER OF ANOTHER HUMAN BEING
No one wins with murder. Murder is just
murder. A lost spirit. A lost potential.
A lost set of ideas and actions, that perhaps
you do not like now; they oppose you
or your plans to own, or financially gain
or win some short term prize.
But TO MURDER. To Murder a foreign
“leader,” a man or woman from man and
woman like you, a fellow trudger on this
earth, a brother or sister who played in
a sandbox like you did.
Maybe they lacked that opportunity.
We can love, seek to understand over
always being understood; we can open
up and learn another point of view.
Bend or break! The killer, conquering
instinct from Satan not God, no matter
what you call it, from a “business move”
to “national security.”
Evil is evil, killing killing, and killing is never
national or self-defense.
Oswald’s 6th and CIA Omerta
seem lesser concepts when compared
to native plight, the
White man coming, conquering
and killing in the night.
The mob our government has locked
inside, from Ivy League schools
or wherever nice but lonely
rich kids can be recruited to be
in a family of brotherhood and togetherness.
To gather around crime is tempting
and even easy.
We group together, then justify wrong
acts because our brothers are doing them too.
The mob speaks of omerta, taking
secrets to the grave, and the CIA
is of the same mold.
God bless us all to proud truth of
who and what we are;
No matter how sick, perverse or wrong—
There is always a way out and back
to love and goodness.
The gospels are there for us when
we ask, we receive.
Or the Tao Te Ching.
Or the native river, writings of thanks
written on the wind, the leaves
changing so why not us?
Give them their land back, and let’s go
back to ours.
This white man apologizes,
as I look East out over the plain
Peace, once a birthright of an
indigenous soul… it dreamed
to always be, leader in a land
it felt blessed to soar in, Truth
was in the water that flowed clean
and crisp and clear—
Cold and refreshing to the touch.
White men came.
Why did they come?
What was wrong with the land God
had given them?
Did we lose our gratitude?
We sought many things.
The thing we should have taken back to England
was Indian Wisdom:
To love your land,
stay loyal to it, give to it,
and thank God for it every day.
“Have No gods Before Me,” God hollered
down to Moses and the people.
“Not even alcohol?” was proposed back
by a wide path called ignorance.
On “Ownership” of Land:
Some of our chiefs make the claim that the land
belongs to us. It is not what the Great Spirit told me.
He told me that the lands belong to Him, that no
people owns the land.
—Kanekuk, Kickapoo Prophet
Why Should Indians be First, Not Last?
This is their country, not ours.
“Aspire for Less”
More and more, every day.
“Be As Children”
More and more, every day.
Become more as a child,
and prepare for heaven.
White People Must Leave.
Stand down, army, stand down.
You are worse than the British over
the colonies years ago.
You are loud, helicopters—and I can think
of no benefits to you except for maybe
that kind that dowse forest
fires with water.
The modern American city is
a modern American blasphemy.
Then call the police station to complain
about their loud helicopters and hear
the voice of stupidity talking back,
trying to justify the violent, loud
way of life while bad budgets
have stray dogs pooping in our storm
God, we should have learned from the
Native American people, listened to them.
Enough to leave when we were no longer
Back to our lands of origin.
The lands that God gave us; the ones
in which we buried our fathers and
Concrete, metal and trash litter the ground
that used to connect us with Mother
We have cut ourselves off from Love
itself, then wonder why the homeless
congregate in urine-filled gutters,
homeless dogs, too. This one from
England, this one from Australia—
Even the Dogs are lost in a country not
Disenchanted. Disillusioned, but so often
blissfully ignorant we immigrants squat on
We laugh the empty thrill of victory
that defeats ourselves with every cigarette
obtained, smoked and littered.
We laugh the high shrill shriek of killing
ourselves with alcohol and drugs,
because we know no better than we were
shown, and Dad hadn’t a clue.
“We are searching for a suspect in your
Officer: search for yourself, for YOU—not
they, are the Criminal making noise beyond
reason into the night over this supposed
City of Angels.
Be quiet, and change your life.
Find your roots, go there.
Indians: come back