Long Assassinations Poems
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Today I heard,
despite considerable dissonance,
a distinction between external change
and internal transformation.
This feels like a difference with some merit,
but reminds me of further nuances
and possibilities for healthy
and pathological transitions,
great and small.
Transformation
seems like a good thing.
A negative internal change
evokes words like
deterioration,
fragmentation,
While "change"
works for me
as positive or negative,
more neutral without context,
direction determined by environmental co-arisings,
or yet to become determined,
evaluated,
And what about the cause-effect
and/or co-arising relationship,
or lack of relationship,
between exterior changing climates
and interior transforming/fragmenting cultures
or climates,
character
and character assassinations?
I remember Gregory Bateson's fascination
with "acclimation"
which he concluded is, in some ways,
co-acclimation--
more often creolizing
than colonizing.
Which brings me back
to noticing that "climate change"
feels like climate fragmentation
and my growing pre-traumatic stress
does not feel at all like a healthy transformation;
more like debilitation
Further evoking discernment
about how our cultural subclimates of disability,
fracture,
disruption of ego/eco-centric balance,
contribute to toxicity
of exterior climate change.
Perhaps "transition" is a better interior consort
for the exterior neutered face of "change";
and here we all are,
together and yet too far apart
in this unprecedented time
of Re/De-Generative Change
and billions of individual small
yet Great Transitions.
The psychedelic oranges and greens of the seventies
Brought scads of foils and flocks into homes that had been
Saturated before with flowered, and vined wall papers.
Nehru jackets, hippies, flower children, and Viet Nam soldiers
Permeated the news, saturating our breakfast newspapers.
Colored TV is exciting, but worth the extra expense? Not sure.
Children are joining communes, making new families.
Questioning their parents, their politicians, and the war.
A war which the young soldiers are not allowed to question.
Religion is losing her grip on the family.
Sex is no longer blatantly reserved for marriage.
A revolutionary time brought about on the heels of hero assassinations.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and the Kennedy boys glancing down
From their heavenly seats, wondering what is to become of us.
I wish I could say things got better….
Moments later, a furious Michael stormed in, eyes ablaze with determination. But the moment he stepped closer, he was faced with an army of Penneys and Guses—four, five, six reflections dizzying his focus.
“What?! Which one is real?!” he bellowed, frustration splattering onto the walls.
“Time to play, Michael!” Penney called out cheerfully. “Thanks for coming to our show!”
The laughter from behind them—the teenagers, the Bunny, and the overall allure of their escape room adventure—turned the tension into pure comic chaos. Michael, now lost in the funhouse of mirrors and illusions, momentarily froze in befuddlement.
As his gaze darted and the gleam of confusion started to settle, Penney and Gus seized their moment. “Let’s get out of here!” they shouted, hand-in-hand running down the hall toward what truly felt like freedom, the echoes of their laughter trailing behind them, like farts.
Once more, as the chaos of the mall became a distant memory, they could sense that they’d survived a wild adventure—but not without the magic that came from both friendship and a sprinkling of absurdity in the heart of a place where fantasy could intertwine with reality.
After all, in a world that sometimes felt like an endless loop of chaos, assassinations and CIA controlled Media, they had found their own sanctuary, a kind of brotherhood befitting a brave and whimsical hero's tale—surreally absurd, but undeniably memorable. Unlike the Satanic Olympics in Paris, which probably lost money, and embarrassed the people of France, leaving communist Beijing, snickering from poetic, politics-apologetics.
They speak of peace, those frauds with their frozen gaze,
yet their filthy hands worship oil and clotted blood.
They send the children of the proletariat to shatter in the trenches of their greed,
while they pop champagne behind gilded walls.
No reconciliation erases the stench of mass graves.
The justice they promise is a coffin lined with zinc.
The peace they preach is nothing but a rigged bargain,
a pact disguised beneath the tatters of humanity.
Weapons do not rise for fraternity,
they devour lungs, they rip open entrails,
and the corpses thrown into the mud
beget centuries of hatred demanding vengeance.
There will be no hands reaching across barbed wire,
there will be no pardon etched in the darkness of tenebrous passions.
Only memory, like a naked blade,
piercing through the lies of condescending peacemakers.
War is their empire, and they will yield nothing.
We are compelled to smash their thrones, to burn the relics of their arrogance,
so they may finally taste the karmic feast they have served us
through centuries of organized assassinations.
We all had homemade dresses for prom; well, nearly all of us.
This was back in 1970 while black and white Viet Nam War photos were on TV
Every night, we saw such sadness.
Prom was a reminder of childhood.
Back to the Bibbity Bobbity Boo of Cinderella.
We girls were wearing empire waist dresses.
It was the style, little bows at the top of our hair.
We were fancy poodles, primping in our two inch heels.
Not high ones like our mothers. We had already fallen off those.
Traded in our hip hugger bell bottoms that magical night
For dresses in chiffon, polished cotton, and satins.
We were so shiny, it is a miracle a murder of crows did not carry us off.
The boys had on their best suits; not tuxes.
We were in a small Iowa farm town.
Many of the couples would marry two weeks later after graduation.
I remember how hard the junior class worked to make it beautiful for us.
There were tin foil stars and crepe paper streamers everywhere.
A strobe light, and music piped in from the folk heroes of the time.
Peter Paul and Mary, Mama Cass, Simon and Garfunkel.
Sometimes a song by Cher or Bette Midler but not as often.
The food was fantastic. The company wonderful.
Our first semi-formal dinner. I have never forgotten it.
In one way it was like middle school which we called junior high.
The boys stood around talking and laughing, and the girls danced like mad.
It was such an innocent and fun time! Taking the Viet Nam War,
And the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King
Out of our minds for one magical bibbity bobbity boo night.
May 1970. A memory that uplifts me to this day.
The last time I spoke to some of my classmates.
As a few were sent to Viet Nam after graduation never to return.
Those bones are salted;
Spread around the skull by orthodontist;
The artist constructs he's faultless
The face of the faceless one:
Abandoned be at the holding a gun;
Menus heat it up in the political kitchen;
Christians rights to raise their arms;
Freedom Liberties right to bear arms;
Strike them dead, coffins lined with lead;
Must save the Soul and Spirit from the nuclear fallout;
What in Heaven's name are you talking about;
Freedom's Liberty to bear arms;
Assassinations of innocent bystander;
Bullets flying through the air everywhere;
Your mothers and daughter's crying;
No one's around real right the right to bear arms;
The face of the faceless one
I have a right to bear arms
Someone take this out of my chest;
My body's riddled like broken glass;
This at best,
Mankind's political system stinks?
BANG?????????
MY GOD today I just been SHOT...
10/19/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr
"The Third Christmas"
IF I had thought about where to begin,
I wouldn’t have begun.
This is the story of us.
A family goes through the war zone occasionally,
intermittently, say every ten years or so
or possibly a minor tiff each year
over a Christmas re-gifting
or a prodigal unwanted
sits silently, mouth closed,
crowding the wanted
or an over zealous family member,
commencing with good cheer,
destroys a precious moment,
thanks giving becomes
an alcohol fuelled debate
an argument for living
all forget the forgiving
silent night becomes
kristallnacht
pathologically
fear replaces good cheer
Some families are an entire War.
Politically sewn and sold, egos bruised.
Years can be swallowed up
in strategic artillery campaigns
Who comes
Who goes
Quiet assassinations
Back seat driving
on the right way
Home
The Third Christmas
How to avoid being again.
Just so you know
you are not alone
Decorate the Heart with Snow
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/596k7K8l5JA
An Earther hath said
Adam was a rough draft, Eve
was the final yield
Abel and brother Cain was
the product of their own sin
*The 'Earther' was probably a known feminists as she had a tiny following present along with her. She was outside of a church (she says she's not a member of) espousing the above, constantly, using her natural voice--no loudspeaker, as services were ongoing (I was just a passerby on the way to a funeral nearby). In her repetitious rant, she says that she only wear bras on Sunday's, whereto, 'twas a Sunday and she proved it by wearing her bra outside of her blouse in view of passing children and leering unsaved men. This was in the San Francisco bay area circa 1980, after Moscone/Milk assassinations and Jonestown and prior to acknowledgement of AIDS. They were the saddest years of my life.
Date: 06/14/2019
I see the foot petal shaped like a bare foot and I remember.
Summer of 1971, white jeans, pink shirt, driving to beaches.
I smell the fish in the water, memories flood back instantly.
Your hazel eyes, and the way you look at me as if I am candy.
Memories upon memories happen; they chase each other.
The lavender blanket, the green straw hat, how I loved you.
How you adored me. Summer of 1971, never to be replicated.
We were one, you and I; I never got that again. Did you?
I had never had a TV dinner until that summer; they are bad.
Better now but we did not care. When I close my eyes I can see carrots.
They were cut into tiny squares, abnormal, surreal on fake tin.
Swanson chicken pot pies, we consumed them like they were candy.
My car had a hole through the floor under the foot pedal.
Remember that? You thought it was wicked; for me it was normal.
We laughed about everything, and spoke of things above our head.
Neither of us understood the horrors of the Viet Nam War yet.
We had survived the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King and JFK.
We had seen the church in Birmingham bombed with four little girls.
We did not grow up in innocent times, but summer of 1971 was innocent.
We were fresh, new, eager young pups, exploring unfamiliar territory.
The sun, the moon, and the stars were on our side; we felt magical.
We were one that summer; a mystical time. This foot pedal reminded me.
I thank God that memories of you at 20 came flooding back, it is a gift.
In this time of uncertainty, it made me smile and sign as I remember us.
American Psychosis
The sun, the Son,
ECLIPSED
Overshadowed by
Dark clouds of
Bloated EGO and ID
Me supersedes We
The people1
Will weep
DEADLY SINS
More than seven
In one
Narcissist ‘king’ of
WRATH, HATE, REVENGE,
Not a
‘Dish best served cold2
But with anger
Evil so bold
SCOTUS behold!
Bunker-Busting Bully
Historical ignorance, ignominy
Big Beautiful Bombs or
Tariffs Coercion
Psychotic projection
Weaponized state
Now fully effected
No critic is safe
LUST
When you’re a celebrity
You can do anything
Predatory
You want
Assault, murder, rape,
Cheat, steal, defraud
LIES
Free speech
IF you’re with us
‘Fake news’
If you’re not
We have
‘alternative facts’
GLUTTONY and GREED
Never satisfied with
What you have
Never enough!
Never enough!
IDOLATRY
Genuflection
To the ‘Golden Calf’3
Crown of Orange
No thorns4
Nor Pain
LAZINESS, SLOTH
Reap rewards from
Work of the plebes
Let them eat cake5
Simple living, no steak
Accountability – None
ENVY
Look up to look down
The billionaires ladder
The one I will climb
Not Jacob’s sublime6
But the movie
On the horrors of war7
PRIDE and VANITY
Peers, I can tolerate
But
I am the best
Losers and suckers
Make up the rest
OK to call on them
To squelch the unrest
Parade
Honors ‘Dear Leader’
Who dishonors
Misuses the troops
MAGA, sycophants,
And Nazi salutes
No impulse control
Chaos, Disunity, Autocracy
Unreined
Breaking Bad8
RESISTANCE
Inevitable
‘No Kings’
In ‘our land’
Despite fear of
The worst
Assassinations, arrests
Uncivil will be
Armed
‘There will be Blood’9
On the streets
Where chaos will
Reign
Unless it be tamed
1 Preamble to the U.S. Constitution
2 Joseph Stalin
3 Exodus 32
4 New Testament Gospels
5 Dubious attribution to Marie-Antoinette
6 Genesis 28
7 1990 movie on the horrors of war
8 Breaking Bad, highly acclaimed TV series
9 Gangs of NY 2002 movie `Copyright @ Mel Gill 06/14/2025