Vendetta Silenced

The Sea of Gallows hung over The Dead Sea. Steams of blood drained Jericho's consciousness; children in the slums felt the warmth wash over their ankles. Projectiles ricocheted through tunnels, rich and poor held hands in iron soaked puddles as masses funneled to The Great City. The streets spilled over with rage, a herd of shepherds flowed under bridges and crashed into walls, exposing assassins, sacrificing their lives in an unwavering ho! forward, brandishing no more than torches and robes to the doorsteps of The Moors.

Vendetta, O' Vendetta fell...reduced to silent cries laid before cataclysms of duality growing into the night; beneath interwoven pines, through pits of mud, beyond the tunnel, past low hanging Gardens, under, over, asunder vision, refraction of the word spread from the wild. Rolling clouds of remorse gathered the corpse, gathered the doubt, as jaws drug men to their knees, drops of silence in the crowd froze a moment, gasps suspended in the air. Stone glares. Lost cares. Fear. Fear pushed the moment forward before those left breathing forgot to worship a divine attention demanded.

Now.

The Day The Bombs Fell.

I remember when the bombs fell...in one moment everything changed, not for the better, but for the immediate. Some ran, some fought, died, hid, cried, some turned into rats with chatter or rats that scatter. Before all of these things came to be, there was the dust. Cement collapsed onto and through itself with enough force to cripple lungs within, Earth jumped from it's seat and fled; I witnessed mankind's shared consciousness for the first time within the gasp of a city.

God's tears made the moment to sink in. Heavy rain flooded low-lying areas, downhill alleys carried bloody streams over the feet of people who could only wonder who they just lost.

There was no lightening or thunder to follow the cloud, only changing winds. The gusts took many lives, but everyone knew they'd have to brave it. They weren't heroes, they were just numbers, ones that didn't get called, but sat in line with their neighbors, waiting for fate to be handed to them.

I remember the feeling of hopelessness, hunger, discomfort, and fear. Real fear, not a startled moment, but the kind of fear that can drive a man mad, the type of fear someone can only know when it finally occurs to them, death will knock on their door.

Before The Reaper, before the self-confrontation, and the mental-slide show, the horrors of Society's Mankind, and it's violent decay...I remember the day the bombs fell. I relive every moment before the blast constantly in my mind. I wish that minute never happened, but I recognize it's reality, as punishment deserved, punishment for the sin I'd had made if the bombs never dropped; I know, spoiled in the routine of life, I wouldn't have appreciated the moment as much as it deserved.

I will chase that peaceful moment, in my sleep, through the day, to keep my legs under me, and my mind yearning for the time after, the bombs didn't fall.

WAR WITH RUSSIA: LET THE GAMES BEGIN

Obama just acknowledged the phonetic existence of the words "propaganda" and "misinformation" for the first time. He then used them correctly in a sentence, hinting that he understands what they mean. Sanctions on Russia, pressure on Russia, an order of Ceasefire, and a big soup where "violence" and "separatists" all mixed up in a pot of "I'm never flying to or from Malaysia, ever."

Right before President Obama's speech I read an article that said Pro-Russian separatists had control of the crash site, and on CNN the political pundits pointed the finger on Russians, and said that the Obama Administration recognized any attempt by Russia to recover or hide the black box, would be seen as an admission of guilt, that doing so would incriminate Russia directly.

After Obama's speech, CNN released audio of Russian-backed separatists saying they had "one-hundred percent" knowledge that the plane was civilian. Within minutes of being warned of propaganda coming out of Ukraine, CNN has a direct order from a "Major" to shoot down the plane on audio recording. Coming from the same news station responsible for bringing you this fantastic war correspondence.

If you haven't been able to pick up what I'm laying down, this is how wars start. Nothing starts a war faster than a downed plane, and this one, had a plane full of international doctors working towards a cure for AIDS/HIV. Former President Bill Clinton was speaking at the same International AIDS Conference these doctors were attending. BFD.

Senator John McCain, former Presidential candidate, perennial war-drum beater and ironically, ex POW seems to want Hell raised on separatists, Obama confidently drilled into our minds that the perpetrators of the crash are separatists.

Separatists or not, I'm still asking the question, "Why was that plane flying over a war zone?" Well, it's because international airlines are going green.

So, the question is, "Does this add up to a war?"

I don't think so, not at the moment, but it looks like a storm of disinformation may be on the horizon, and many of us are going to be spending our time doing this.

We do know that Obama has ordered a ceasefire, and an international investigation, and demanded Russia be cooperative. Russia has already been sanctioned for their role in supplying arms, training, and intelligence to militants, effectively disrupting internal Ukrainian affairs.

More or less, President Obama just gave Russia an ultimatum, and I don't think KGB-Gremlin Putin, thinks his Boystown counterpart has the gumption to move. THIS, is how wars start.

The Divine American

You are nothing. Nothing, nothing besides calories, cavities, and calcium; emotion, eccentricities, and ego, skin, sin and sinew...bravado, bone and blisters.

Don't you see? Don't you get it? You are insignificant, unimportant, and so, so very expendable.

Nobody cares about your experiences, your empathy or your expertise, not your love or stories of lust, nobody gives one damn about your lively sense of humor. You are only borrowing your humerus, a handful of fingers and you're holding onto a helpless fight, you aren't special, or the only person who likes hummus.

You come from nothing and there you will return. You aren't the Earth or the Stars, only an illusion of carbon, only a trick of consciousness, and a rather insignificant trick indeed.

There is no Heaven or Hell, no God or Satan, no eternal inferno, no reckoning, no justice. There is only this vile life, full of pain and death, there is no Watchman, no Father of Time, no Steward of the River, no Ghost, no hope. And you? You are a disease, ruining this temporary rock, where a dash of luck and a beam of light let you last just long enough for a few short breaths, from your black-tar lungs.

There is no reason in faith, no reason in believing, and no reason in debating these truths, it's a waste of time, time that will someday expire just like you, and all your goddamned imperfections.

Do you still not understand? Are you blind? You. Do. Not. Matter. You are ignorant, ridiculous, destructive, and quite honestly...completely worthless.

Oh, you have money? I'm sorry, I-I spoke too soon, come on in, make yourself at home.

Newsburrito Bitch.

Newsburrito has been a sloppy mess of prose and half-ass journalistic spats of relevance teetering on the ranting level.

I'm re-dedicating myself to Newsburrito, to do what it was originally intended to, bring forth current events, and a unique perspective on them. The goal of Newsburrito is to get people to think, regardless of how much they want to avoid it.

I'm tired of the self-censorship of outside judgement, I'm tired of a lazy, pathetic lump of human minds that seem to measure all things by accumulation of wealth. We live in a time where people are defined by their bank accounts, and that is the most twisted, grotesque existence that any awakened being can witness.

So, for those of you that do care, about the world, about where it's going, about the truths and realities of where we stand in a global war, one we refuse to call a World War, I will promise well written articles with journalistic integrity with a mix of political and social criticisms. I will try to do my best to keep the two separate, though still on the same site.

For those of you who may enjoy the more creative side to my writing, poetry and short stories, I will be putting together a different venue for this work. If you didn't already know, I spent a year of my life, 10+ hours a day, writing a short novella, so you should be supportive and check that out.

To those of you who don't read, fuck you. I don't have any use for you, your opinions truly don't matter, because anyone who gets their information or semantics solely from television is a half-wit. Sorry for being sharp, but seriously, fuck you. You are lazy, you are wasting a human mind, and because of that waste, you are doing your small part in making this place an ill-informed, shitty, ignorant, and hopeless place to exist. They say that there is no such thing as a stupid question, but you probably ask them all of the time. I don't know what you spend your time in life doing, I really don't, it isn't hard to look at words a few times a day and learn something, we exist to grow and learn learn from the past, our mistakes, new lessons, and if avoiding this really makes you a lump of shit, I mean that as nice as possible.

Oh yeah, and one more thing, if you are offended by anything, this will not be for you, if you are so blind in your nationalism that you refuse to open your mind and look at political stories from a view without punditry or slant, this isn't for you. I would apologize for my language and the subjects to be discussed, but it is people like you that are the main culprit in the self-censorship of artists of any sort to begin with, and because of the disservice you have done to mankind, fuck you too.

Too all others, to those of you who are going to visit and READ, share this. Let's start a discussion, tell people, please, seriously. Putting a well written piece together is time consuming, it really is, please appreciate that. I can't fully express how important to me it is that I'm not taking large chunks out of my day to bring insight to the world for it to go on ignored. Give it a real chance, be a part of this. Give feedback, it helps fuel my fire and keep me motivated, just a shred of acknowledgement.

That's all for now. Things will be rolling out soon. But until then, did you know there are 80 original writings on this site that I have spent five years compiling? Some of it is lackluster, and at times there is a glimmer of really good writing, I recommend you give it a look, especially if you know me and never have, because to be honest if you haven't even given my work a chance at this point, you are seriously an asshole.

Wasting Life

I sat alone, in the dark, at the age of twenty-eight, and I felt the weight of time leaning on my bones and on my mind.

"I have nothing" I thought to myself, wincing at the thought of a hundred dollars in my bank account and a little bright green car I don't like, or own, with it's squeaky brakes and it's goddamn loan.

I sat there in self-pity, and thought about the military, thought about white collars and closed deals, hand-shakes and high stakes, money rakes and busted tables, broken banks and climbing ranks, the money of my peers and countless blank stares into mirrors. I thought about every time I asked myself "What am I doing?" or told myself to "get it together" and how many times I failed to listen.

"What have I done with my life?" another sour shot at myself rang out, as I beat myself up over wasted time and a life that seemed to slip away.

A voice interrupted the wallowing with the simple suggestion of "Well..."

You French kissed a girl from France, threw up all over your pants, fought a man, shook the World Heavyweight Champion's hand, went to a foreign land, made love in the woods, told a Governor how to run his campaign, brushed a horses mane, received a standing ovation, made people from the ages of 1 to 100 laugh heartily, crashed through a barricade, climbed a tree, shot a gun, swam in December, broke some toes, broke a nose, severed a finger, kissed a red head, an older woman, a younger woman, a short woman, a tall woman, a loving woman and a hateful one, you've been a son an uncle, a brother, a cousin a grandson, a friend, an enemy and a leader.

You've followed blindly, questioned authority, broken a window, won, lost, been on a train, on a plane, on a bus, in a boat, on a snowboard, a skateboard, a bicycle, a motorcycle, earned a degree, managed a political campaign, been in a play, on the news, on a show, in the paper, read countless books, written poems, short stories, wrote a book, got the hook, broke it off, fell in love, been kicked in the head, been an arsonist a vandal a vagrant, a manager.

You've drank beers with the homeless and the rich, been arrested, gotten away, seen the mountains, the ocean, a shark and a bear, You set a bee hive on fire, gotten revenge, trained animals, you've been robbed, put a knife to a man's throat, walked away from a car crash, blushed, changed a mind, took a picture, won a bet, flipped a coin.

The voice took a deep breath and said, "I'm too tired to continue, quit your bitching and get on with it, you're fucking twenty-eight."

Something Was Written With Thought

Bogged down in the marsh of insignificance in another March, struggling to deliver a message coded in languages unspoken and lights dimmed by the real, or the dreams far beyond reach, or the wandering eyes numbed by one-thousand bright lights and layers, fluorescent corneas weathered by Coronas and Parliaments, waiting for something that will not fall lest rattled, and a mind not fulfilled but battled.

Freckled or tanned, young or just in time, a woman cannot comfort a man for much more than a night. A real man fights the demons and wakes up alone in night sweats, hoping for the best and expecting the worst, the burnt bodies of saviors and the carcasses of thy ancestors, someone lost in the misty fourth dimension of a fogged perspective, wading through the unknown, trying to learn from mistakes blindly made as others watch on, too entertained by the struggle to lend a hand.

A real man is flesh, huffing and puffing to blow himself, larger than words or actions, the desperate lunge into ridiculous obscenities and despised actions, covered in hair, layer after layer, of falsity and defense, asking for it all to crumble beneath the feet of love.

All they lie before is another broad, broad connotation or broad cunt, flapping in the wind and hungry for the hunt, never a feeling of comfort but an answer demanded, a batted eye landed, and a young heart stranded...aged, ready to shake or soak, blown apart by the coke or the joke, battering valves, washes crashing into the now, eroded by the numb tyranny of sex and booze.

You will lose, the battle never joined, Kings anointed, cowards in the dark, confrontation avoided, did you void it? The clashes that come and the ditches that succumb to the peril of deployed id. 

We read each other like books with no ending, frantically befriending and always mending, relations with those we will come to love and come to lose, tending only to avoid an ending, or the soul's sending to the tabloid of a local shit newspaper, with lists of cousins and names and family and tears, mourning those we never knew quite as well as we hoped we did.  

The search may never end, the answer may never arrive, love may never be found, and the world may never relent, they say to repent, and that our failure is our sin, but win, win, is all we pretend.

Most dreams don't come true, and for those that do, good for you, rub the salt lightly for the majority of us who melt at it's pour, an open sore....or, lost hearts hoping for something more. A breath or a kiss, or a moment of deep breath where something fills our lungs and our hearts with a moment of safety, the long lost feeling or once being told, "it'll be OK" and feeling and believing, with both the mind and the heart. It's a young heart's world, but within a whirl, is slips into the furl, or the turmoil of daily mundane, and begins to spoil, in the hot, hot Sun, in all it's toil, but here we are...asking an pushing, fighting for cushion, waging war on ourselves, just to claim we will do whatever it takes, for a witness to peace, both inner and outward, backwards or forward, we search, we hunt, we starve, we want...