The Wind Cries Pahana

The wind out here in the back-wood plains of South-western Ontario howls like a squadron of flying eggs running balls-out, full throttle; desperately trying to outrun an encroaching monsoon that threatens to dismantle, dissolve, and flood everything in it’s way… basically a turbo-charged version of the NEWS at six… but instead of a family sitting down to dinner (and a violent blow to the brain), by way of the headline, late-breaking, paid-for-in-part-by, and through slick subversive product placement NEWS, it’s a non-stop blast of dive-bombing jet stream airflow that never ceases until the early hours of the most wretched and abandoned midnight vigils…
But I’ll take the relentless blast of the trans-continental winds over the non-stop barrage of garbled, thrice edited smagma that blasts out of the idiot box in supersonic spasm’s of line-toting colonic distillate.
Non?…
If it’s not a murder or bombing, natural travesty, or act of Zeus; it’s rotten eggs running rotten countries, running rotten scams while they can.
Unless you’re a Hitler, Hussein, Quadhaffi, or Putin, being the leader of a country is just a kick-ass job reference, and portfolio addition…
We are overrun by businessmen/part-time career politicians… all shaking hands and scratching backs behind (and within) closed closet doors… but in the glare of the media spotlight, these same baboons jab and claw at each other’s throat…
A twisted kink they are all addicted to… the real kick being the notion of dragging the general population into the fold…
Political dogging…
A pack of modestly dressed, red eyed, red nosed, white nostril ‘d smut mongers who get a kick from daring each other to devise and execute more and more perverse methods of raping the coin purse of every prisoner of citizenry for every penny and condom full of dope that can be got…
Cheap criminals looking for nothing more than a quick buck and the slight chance to beat down enemies and toss the salads of future investors…

Education is the new segregation …

It is the same old royalty/peasant routine. Except nowadays the royal bloodline can be bought for a few thousand yearly for a few years to life…

Innovate in the short term and in the long term reap what you sew…
The unbalanced nature of the nation as-is, is a recipe for a devolutional migration of Id’s…
Gross sloths of intellect, who have taxed the region known as the brain too heavily, and so, the residents have moved out…
The ghost towns of the mid-west…
A nation of slowly decaying by-products of progress…
…oops, we did it again…
Snakes, rats, toads, and newts…
A witches brew made to dumb down and stink…
sensory overload…..
If you’ll just let me tune out I’ll let you tell me what to think.
Guerilla momentum.
War is always the background music in all of their games…

At what point will we stop trying to fix this broke-down machine?
At what point will we realize it is more humane to kill off this beast…
It is the only high quality decision: to jump off this weird monster and light it on fire, dance around it, drinking from oversized bottles of whiskey…
Yelping!, cheering!, shouting!…
Oi!!!!!!!!

…then, walking away, into the dawn of the new day;
free to stretch out, free to explore,
free to be…
We can breathe in deep, untainted lung-full’s of rich, floral air.
We can embrace the world on it’s own terms, without the high-tension hum of the machine…
We will hear all of the singing, buzzing, humming,
and wisdom
erupting from the depths of the trees.
We will feel the spin of the earth,
we will learn the language of the breeze…

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