Henry McCarty (1859 – 1881)
a.k.a, Kid Antrim – ca. 1876
a.k.a., William H. Bonney – ca. 1877
Of Irish ancestry
New York-born
orphaned at 15
from his family shorn
repeatedly asking '¿Quién es?'
around midnight 14th July 1881
entering Maxwell's bedroom
their mutual friend but Billy without a gun
in Fort Sumner where by Pat Garrett
(1850 - 1908)
take my word I kid you not
age 21 sadly Henry the outlaw
in the chest was badly shot
for reputedly killing nine men
but for the posted bounty of $500
it took the Sheriff 369 days to collect
the reward promised by Governor Wallace
(1827 – 1905)
The Flag was lifted—like a Veil—
To hide a trembling Sky—
And underneath—unspoken Griefs—
Went marching quietly by—
Two Figures stood upon the Stage—
With Banners made of Sound—
They scattered Thunder for Applause—
While Silence soaked the Ground—
The Crowd—divided by a Hue—
As Petals are by Frost—
Mistook the Spectacle for Truth—
And did not count the Cost—
For Power is a curious Flame—
It dazzles—and consumes—
And feeds upon the Common Air—
Unlit the Garden tombs—
Yet Conscience—small and stubborn Star—
Refuses still to set—
It pricks the Dark with silver Why—
Lest We—and They—forget—
Too early to call all the winners although a few got thru
All so far are Democrats and the house now more blue
My predictions last election on US leadership came true
Was it enough to stir and change folks point of view?
The polls close soon give or take in every state
They want to gerrymander our votes—it awaits
I hope you come out and vote tonight for what is right
Justice for all, due process and to continue the good fight
Unless you still feel the same with nothing to else gain
but more hate not fostered from God’s love He gave
I’d rather you not bother—stay inside your man-cave
I Am Anaya
Election Day
11/4/2025
he signs death like he signs autographs—
quick, proud, no eye contact.
the ink smells of burnt orange peel and sweat.
he’s got the sun behind him,
and a pen that tastes of rust.
the papers call it “justice served,”
but i see a man trying to outpace his own shadow,
killing the ghosts before they vote again.
he changes the rules—
twelve men in a room,
now only eight have to agree
that a man deserves to die.
he smiles for the cameras,
says it’s for the victims,
but the ghosts nod off in the gallery,
too tired to haunt the living anymore.
they say it’s quicker now,
no more appeals that last a lifetime—
just a warrant, a date, a needle.
a machine that hums efficiency
in the land of oranges and hurricanes.
he calls it strength.
the newspapers call it leadership.
the preachers call it divine.
but the dead call it silence.
you can’t see mercy in the muggy air,
only steam rising from asphalt
and the sound of another man’s name
being crossed off the list.
politics is a blood thirsty business,
and power drinks best from a warm vein.
May we return to a congressional based observation of calendared appointment of statement in goals ordered by legislation avoiding obstruction of speech tonight?
May the state exist legally in budgeted measure of life's document as legislated from the Senate by end of next 48 hours in delegation of staff?
he stands in his suit,
blue tie hanging like a noose,
smiling with dead teeth,
signing papers that send
another man, another woman,
into the dirt.
our governor knows
there is no afterlife—
he isn’t sending them to heaven,
he’s sending them to rot.
if he believes in the Bible,
he’s forgotten the line:
thou shall not kill.
no grey area, no loophole.
he pretends justice,
but it’s only blood on his hands.
death is not justice.
it’s silence,
it’s the shutting of doors
that never reopen.
it should weigh
like iron on his skull,
like stones in his gut.
but the man eats your steak
with no indigestion,
wipes his mouth with his hand.
what does his wife see
when she lies beside him?
does she hear the whispers
of the buried,
the cries of mothers?
and worse—
he sharpens her name
for the next ballot,
preparing her face
to be plastered on walls.
unwanted, unloved,
another mask of power,
another hand raised
to press the button,
to pull the lever,
to kill again
who would kill again and again,
for ten million dollars.
the papers don’t say it,
they never do—
just the numbers,
like headstones without names.
men and women dropping,
old ones, poor ones,
sick ones who couldn’t pay
for the cure.
you look up,
there’s the smile on tv,
a governor’s smile,
white and sharp as a knife.
he says freedom,
but the graves keep filling.
he says choice,
but it’s always his.
Strong and constant able to envoke a standard
the excelance of knowing
usine a premise of expereince to consider ones current position
anwsering to be suit the situation
where the reality of the position describes what the
job actually requires.
Having never been in the genre he needed intructions
to what to say in order to
sell his product and gain the respect of those
who spoke the same langage
from the position of artist and business person.
Those who were nocvice to each understanding
would need to be
advised and taught what was
right to say might they spoke
wrong it could create turmoil
o create a rift between those
who gathered the words.
She said to the person
I once
was hired without knowing
enough about my craft.
I spoke the wrong words like
I was as expereinced as those I was talking to.
Over heard enough of the words
to get thon: I lacked
the knowledge and finacail resources to
ask and anwser some questions.
What I offered was me:
and saying certain things as a novice
could ruin you
when you get to the point
of being a seasoned
Dear Governor,
In this quiet, fleeting moment of reflection, I urge you to consider the preciousness of life, its fragile beauty that blooms even in the darkest hours. Though laws may seek balance, the human heart begs for mercy, for in the shadows of despair, there is always room for redemption.
Every soul, no matter how lost, holds the possibility of light. Let not the scales of justice be so rigid they forget to bend with compassion.
Extend your hand, not to punish, but to heal. Mercy is the highest gift you can offer.
With hope,
James McLain
727-678-8284
Governor JB Pritzker's rightly proud of his home state
The latest statistics all show we're doing great
While we lead the country in residents fleeing
That's not all that we should be seeing...
For Illinois' top businesses are all growing
Cannabis, Casinos, Violent Crime
In fact, we've reaped what we've been sowing
Our student population can't read, write
~ or calculate worth one thin dime
A summer’s morn, dark skies, forlorn.
Burning, smoking, California cities, this August morn,
Our state with illegal, infected people overrun.
We think the virus is just plain fun?
Mad as a hatter, Governor Newsom calls now
for Afghan refugees?
And what.......to live in beauteous tent cities. where
crime lurks.....what a pity!
Hope Californians recall this madman and foppish
immoral jerk!
With greaseball hair and his insidious,eternal
brainless, eternal smirk!
8/18/2021
10am PST
Ode to the Governor
by
Warren Curle
I long for a woman I can't have,
She is a woman who dances in my dreams,
She is a woman I always think of,
She is a woman I want to
She is a woman I dream of making love to,
She is a woman I'd long to grow old with,
She is a woman I want to share my life,
She is a woman I'm forbidden to have,
She is the woman;I wish the State would free
She is the woman I cannot hide away with,
She is a woman that I must meet Between wire and steel
She is the woman I cannot sneak a kiss,
She is the woman listed by a coded number,
She is a woman;I pray the State will forgive,
She is a queen in the tower of our despair,
that knows how to love me,
Please oh please, Governor do let her go!
Pritzker gleaned his mansion of crappers
for the purpose of not paying taxes
but when his belly gurgled
alleyways filled with his turds
a homeless gal just sat back and laughed
Melody: Star Spangled Banner:
O, why do you pee
On our prized liberty
Our lives have gone stale
Our homes are now jails
You are just a politician
Half your facts are just fiction
Your so-called 'epidemiologists'
Are actually necrologists
And your Dr. Ngozi Ezike
Delivers stats in a way
To make death sound like relief
From your daily news brief
O, say do your restrictions
Feel just like CV afflictions --
In this land of Illinois
There's just no more joy
PLAY BALL! ~
NO, SORRY! OOPS!
DON'T PLAY BALL!!
When will i become the next governor?
some people like you,
why some hate you.
You work as a coline to those who want it,
clasp in the blanco of darkness.
••••
How do you work in the office of inspired people,
thinking of the dock at the door of heaven,
leading your people to the promised hell.
••••
Allowing your soldiers to parade you like quads,
jumping from one organization to the other,
creating infas jobs to people,
making them to laugh like a hynea.
••••
You speak,
with immense authority,
some are powerfully made,
some are kodas in nature.
••••
My governor,
what else is with you,how do you wrong yourself?
Some are taied you as liberal governor,
sitting on an aids throne of poverty,
holding the key to inequality.
••••
Some roads,
are in good condition,
some are in bad condition.
••••
My governor,
what exactly is your work?
how do you govern your state?
You are the OVI of the people.
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