Remember the Dead

(adapted from the article, The Dead Remember, by William Rivers Pitts, found at the treasure trove
known as Wood s lot)


The last big story of 2002 read:
Reagan and Saddam in bed
Rumsfeld shaking his hand
While selling to the Evil Man
chemical, nuclear and biological weapons
anthrax, insecticides for use on Iran
this deadly activity never addressed--
the enemy of our enemy
was our friend.

Hardly a new story.

A reporter named Andreas Zumach
obtained the portions of Iraq's
12,000-page declaration
regarding its weapons program
which had been erased and redacted
by the U.S. government,
which described efforts
by U.S. nuclear weapons labs
at Lawrence Livermore, Los Alamos and Sandia
to train Iraqi nuclear scientists
and give non-fissionable materials
for the construction of a nuclear bomb.

Hardly newsworthy.


Hewlett Packard, DuPont,
Honeywell, Tectronics, Rockwell
Unisys, International Computer Systems, Bechtel
Sperry and TI Coating and Dow Chemical
are among the top 25 most well-fed
sucking on the profits of the dead.

Hardly news.

Only the diligent work of the UNSCOM inspectors
from 1991 through 1998 made sure
these weapons were no more
along with the Iraqi capability
to make more like them.

Not newsworthy.


On the eve of Lott's racist self-immolation,
Bill Frist was named his fine successor
the Homeland Security Bill made its way through Congress.
graced with a number of strange amendments.

Oddest among them was one
protecting Eli Lilly from
any and all lawsuits pertaining to
their manufacture of thimersol,
a mercury-based preservative
for childhood vaccines
produced by Lilly for 40 years
that has been connected
to the development
of autism in children.

Thousands of families seeking redress
have been sent packing,
because Lilly has a contract
to provide vaccines
against biological weapons.

Hardly newsworthy.

Early in 2002, Bill Frist tried to get protection
for Eli Lilly from these suits attached to legislation
but was thwarted by Edward Kennedy;
and yet somehow quite mysteriously
for no one claims responsibility
for the authorship of the final bill
that is almost identical to Frist’s original.

Certainly not the White House
nor George Herbert Walker Bush
who sat on the Lilly board of directors
and has held substantial stock for years
and was told by the Supreme Court to
stop lobbying the IRS for Lilly tax breaks in ‘82.

Hardly newsworthy.

Why would the mainstream media not give you the facts?
Because facts cut into the bottom line.

It's not like these same corporations will profit
from a war with Iraq, thanks to their contracts
with the Defense Department, is it?

Remember the dead
or ride them to the bank,
it’s your call.

And not a new story at all.

September and Beyond


Proud golden erections

steely sun reflections

totems to the gods

of modernity

forever thought we

only to turn

to dust urns

and fester

in the lungs

of things

to come

like some

civilizations

will.

Gaping holes

of emptiness

no longer concealed

only to be filled

with more blood

and stuffed tongues

as gasping

civilizations

will.

Oh do not hide

From the oncoming tide

Nor fiddle on

dead strings

Nor cater to

the growing beast

that flows

in an ever reddening sea.

And do not grasp for

the illusory moon,

that pulls pale servants

by the stroking hair

but rise rise anew

from the choking air

on notes that swell

from untapped

unknown wells

buried too long

in the desert

that some called

civilization.

Will.

And harmonize harmonize

on the wind

the wind

that blows

'haling saxophones

and ‘ternal bows

bending forgotten notes--

Ex and In and

Out and In

and E

And E—tern

tern tern

And Re

Ternally

to the last breath—

For surely there is

one final thing

to be filled with.

At the End of the Day


What to kneel for at the end of the day?
For someone to erase the meaningless hours?
That tick, tick, tick away
Or someone to water your dying flowers?
Or is it for that which is missing
To be found in another?
Or is it just someone to listen?


Or is it a perfect body of art
And the slenderest of limbs
To be admired and pulled gently apart
Never detached and always tuned in
To the primal needs of your heart.
Or is it to find joy in repetition?
Or is it just for someone to listen?


Or is it for the fruition of a scheme
Or acceptance from the chosen few?
Or to find respect and simple dignity
On a beachfront property with a view.
Or for power to hold over others
Or just someone to bother?


Or is it for the return of health
Wasted on devaluing your true wealth
And pawning it for a broken mirror
And holding it so near and dear—
And a rope to lasso illusions
Only to wrangle more confusion.
Or is it to ease the pangs
Of being preoccupied with the wrong things
And all that the games of ego bring.
Or is it for someone to listen?


Or is it for the mingling of souls
To be greater than the sum of duality;
And that the tears of mutuality
Will cleanse narcissistic woes
And that grief’s heavy gravity
Will hang like rubbery depravity
From the boughs of every tree
And fall like the heartclocks of Dali
And melt softly in the ground.
To beat in real time now.


Or is it for the dream of a soft angel’s quilt
And the sweet taste of wafers without guilt
And the Beast within finally thwarted
And the red sea of wine never parted
In the veins of every falling leaf.
And in all living things.


Or is it to attain detachment's silly grin
And the fruits of all wisdom;
Or that attachment itself
Will prevail over creepy crawly ways
Or that the progress of the self
Will defeat the advance of decay;
And that the soul itself
Is not just a product on the shelf
With an expiration date.
Or is it for an answer to the things
That will cease the thoughts in your brain;
Or is it the promise of escape
With someone who can share your pain?


Or is it for the dream of dustmites
Dancin’ in a sunlit swirl on the stairs
And the sound of footsteps on the right
When nobody is ever there--
Or is it just to sleep
With the light unseen
In every living thing.


Or perhaps it's just the nape of a neck
Or a few strands of hair;
Or the warmth of a body there;
And that you will find comfort in repetition;
And temporary relief from primal things;
And that tomorrow will be new.
And not just a variation
Of brilliant hues
Slowly fading.


Or is it for the sweetest sleep of all;
To wine and dine with angels
And never more to rise;
To watch the Monster as he flies
With the things under the bed
Said, done or left unsaid;
Ah, yes, to sleep, perchance,
To where there is no past.
Or no hope in tomorrow.
Just a return of what was borrowed.


And to dream of an angel’s soft quilt
And wafers without guilt
And the Beast outsmarted.
And the red wine sea never parted
In the veins of every falling leaf.
And in all living things.

Reposted from August; in a slump folks, hopin' it will pass