Sentimental Distortions and the American Way

on thanksgiving, American presidents pardon a turkey, while 45 million are killed.
this principle is routinely applied.  for example, President Obama had the chance to
come out of the closet and admit that it is Iran that is threatened, while our militant,
psychopathic, incorporated bullies with their lavishly funded "full spectrum dominance"
consistently ensure that threats to peace continue.  when we supplied chemical
weapons to Iraq to use against Iran, and thousands of Iranian soldiers were killed,
they did not retaliate with chemical weapons, because they considered that immoral.
this kind of behavior is clearly mystifying to our leaders.  the Iranians also deem
nuclear weapons to be immoral, while we obliterated two entire cities with them, and
have gone on using them as a threat to enforce our wishes on other nations, recently
declaring we consider them a 'first strike' option.  Iran borders SIX nuclear powers,
three of which (India, Israel, and Pakistan) the United States is actively shielding from
UN inspections.  it is also completely surrounded by US bases.  and, as recently proved,
thanks to the freedom of information act, the CIA assassinated their democratically
elected president in 1953, installing the brutal, corporate-friendly Shah, because
British economic "interests" were  "threatened" when the president decided
that the people profiting from Iranian produce should be the Iranians themselves.
rather than take the wind from the sails of the congressional clown car and explain
this REALITY to the American people, that we (and Israel) are the threat to peace
that must be contained, and Iran would be willing to be left alone, its scientists no
longer subject to assassination, its airplanes no longer 'accidentally' shot out of the
sky, its people free of the silent sanctions that managed to kill half a million Iraqi
children, Obama chose to negotiate a treaty based entirely on maintaining a
fabrication.  this deception lies like an unexploded landmine, waiting to go off and
kill a million more human beings.  he then placed a comment on a facebook page
about a sweet Iranian boy.  and the tribal democrats cheered, and the rabid
republicans bayed at the moon, and the circus of instantly inattentive attention
spans were blithely led away.

- Evan Hawthorn, the 14th of September, 2015

the mirror discovers new talents (an excerpt from "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons")

in this excerpt from my novella-poem "Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons",

the magical mirror and Pally, the transvestite barmaid, are rescued from the alternate

dimension, thanks to the efforts of Guanyin, the blind wise woman (named for the
Chinese Goddess of Mercy), Mary the out-of-work Banshee, and the ever-handy
Gropey.  two other Curmudgeons are mentioned: Mock, who learns of his grandfather's
passing, and Weepy, the empathic twin from Honduras.  later, in the solicitous care
of Guanyin and her simian apprentice, the mirror acquires new talents...

*******

Gropey was already back at the portal

his wobbling legs protruding from the frame,

the rest of him covered in hovering absence

restively yearning for more of the same.

as Mortimer and Nate latched onto his feet

to anchor the transcendental tug of war,

Guanyin adjusted her receptive head

startled by a presence beyond the trembling door.

but Pally was already upon them

reflecting the candles with the flames in his eyes,

blushing at Nate from the folds of his cape

as the circle erupted in jubilant cries.

pivoting about he pitched in with Gropey

angling for an object still hidden from sight.

and together they managed the arduous task

of lifting the mirror into the light.

with the minstrel and carpenter's bolstering heft

they placed him on a plinth of antique brass,

where he swivelled for a moment, seeking balance,

till a lilac sigh pervaded the glass.

polishing a smudge with the fringe of his cape,

Pally said "you're safe 'ere, me redemptive friend."

he ran his fingers along a deep scar.

"mayhaps away from 'er you'll 'ave a chance to mend."

and seeming to confirm the time-honoured adage

the demon bespoken forthwith appeared.

for the queen herself loomed out of the portal,

pinpointed the mirror, and lividly leered.

reacting to the banshee's unnerving shriek

Anastasia flinched, thrown off her steely guard.

then thoroughly scanning all of their faces

her eyes flung darts at Sylvana and the bard.

arrows of flame sparked from Guanyin's tapir

engulfing the frame in a detonating flash

that rent the room with ricocheting thunder

and crushed liquid light into sifting green ash.

in the silence that followed Solomon whimpered

for he'd nearly been frightened back from death.

yet no trace remained of the uninvited

and everyone slowly recovered their breath.

Pally and Nate were plucked from their rapture

by the prickling sensation of Mock's pressing eyes,

staying their swaying when he asked "where's Gramps?"

in a panicked, fragile voice he couldn't disguise.

Nate responded to tensing trepidation

enfolding Mock in the solace of their arms,

while Pally laid bare the soul-rending rupture,

coating its harshness with tenderhearted charms.

silently Weepy came up behind them

cannily attuned to the tides affecting Mock,

that scrappy delinquent who'd scraped up supper

for migrants starving on an indifferent dock.

the self-starting candles darkened the room

and then one at a time lit up in succession,

bequeathing a sacred travelling flame

to wreathe the bereaved in a haloed procession.

later that night in the slumbering forest

Guanyin drew down dust from the wandering stars;

restoring the mirror's mercurial surface,

healing his prisms and sealing his scars.

her simian apprentice crouched by her side

steeping a chalice in the moon's reflection,

its kindred essence rippling and gleaming

exhaling the mists of its primal protection.

and the potion bestowed lucidity

ladling luster where the elixir trickled,

a lunar aurora shimmering in streaks

while quivering squeaks suggested it tickled.

but the stellar windfall was the parsing of paths,

the gift for projecting a journey's end,;

a timeless aligning of parting particles

in patterns plotted from whence they might wend.

and the novice barely smudged the surface

in tilting it back to its upright position.

yet a tropical vista swiftly unfurled

for touch was the key to start the ignition.

and the misty-eyed monkey cooed with longing

as mislaid memories stumbled into view.

then the prospect frosted with twinkling beacons

skimming icy depths of lonely, midnight blue.

*******

(thus endeth the excerpt - Evan Hawthorn, the 30th of August, 2015)

misery in Macedonia

while this smacks of the militaristic
crowd control being implemented
just about everywhere,and no
doubt shows the Macedonian
government to be blithely unaware
of their responsibilities,
it is at the same time a reminder of the misery US foreign policy continues to engender
and a disturbing harbinger of what is surely to come if drastic changes are not
accomplished soon.  for water aquifers are emptying, droughts are intensifying,
and many low lying areas have a limited time remaining before their populations
are forced to evacuate.  the image in this photo is destined to be magnified beyond
endurance if the 'Washington Consensus' of heartless bureaucrats retain their
rapacious stranglehold on the earth.

the United States of Secrecy

in an actual Democracy, the Obama administration's enmity towards Julian Assange and
WikiLeaks would automatically disqualify them from public office, revealing as it does their
dependence on secrecy and virulent antipathy to transparency. (while refusing to arrest a
single war criminal they hound whistleblowers with unprecedented vengeance and cruelty).
as this behavior is so obviously diametrically opposed to the very concept of Democracy,
(for how can a state be run "for and by" a people who don't even know what it's doing?)
any journalists' outlet worthy of the name would have made this front page news years
ago, and the party in opposition would have milked it for all it's worth.  the fact that these
things don't happen reveals a Democracy on its deathbed, with rigor mortis already 
setting in, for the media and both parties view this secrecy and aversion to transparency
as something that must be protected - as essential to their continued existence as the
very air they breathe.

Solomon reassembles (an extract from Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons)

Solomon, the reassembling skeleton, is a character in my novella-poem

"Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons".  originally encountered in

the Curmudgeons' cottage, he fled when a raccoon scrambled his bones.

later in the tale, while taking tea with Mary the banshee, he is invited

to accompany her to the cottage in order to help the Curmudgeons stave

off the machinations of the needy queen.  though he agreed to tag along,

he expressed reservations (pointing out that, ever since he'd come out of

the closet, he'd had endless bother just keeping himself stacked).

over the last few days i've been writing a scene that gives Solomon a chance to

display his reassembling technique.  since that sort of thing doesn't happen every

day, i thought i'd share it.  the scene is joined in progress, as the Curmudgeons

attempt to rescue Lumpy, Pally and Gramps from an altered dimension, through a

flickering emerald window conjured by Guanyin, the wise woman from the east...

********

amidst the confusion Gropey crept to the frame

teetering on his toes to peer inside,

tipping while tugging at something cumbersome

that suddenly came loose and started to slide.

and rolling in a ball that picked up speed

as their somersaults nearly attained perfection,

Gropey clumped in Lumpy plowed into Solomon

scattering bones in every direction.

"oh, bother!" his jawbone dolefully exclaimed

from the jostling jumble struggling on the rug,

where squirming vertebrae aspired to fuse

and humorous femurs exchanged a stiff hug.

erecting a sort of leapfrogging ladders

clacking and scraping and oozing graveyard dust,

a rickety scaffolding reared itself up

as everyone looked on, transfixed with disgust.

a procession of unhinged appendages

hauled themselves into a chorus line shuffle

thumping hollow tones on makeshift xylophones,

saddling the spine with a creaking kerfuffle.

as the rattling rib cage slowly unfolded

it squeezed out a wheezing, torturous sound,

reminiscent of croaking accordions

or flatulent ghosts haunting frack-riddled ground.

sockets interlocked in spindly symmetry

rigging up a sinewy Chinese puzzle

in a dangling homage to rotting tissues,

lapsed ligaments, and memories of muscle.

kindred clicking digits emulated Zen

with their grim union of astral adhesion,

fostering factions of festering phalanxes

in synchronized, disjointed cohesion.

the whole contraption spun from centrifugal force

settling rigid grooves in slippery sync,

enabling his penchant for jiggling gestures

and the latent leaning to shimmy and slink.

and crowning the feat with a nauseating crunch

the skull was scooped up and plunked into place.

as Solomon coughed and spit out a maggot,

a winsome, fractured grin unfastened his face.

********

(thus endeth the excerpt - Evan Hawthorn, the 25th of July, 2015)

the Spookhouse in the Woods is introduced (an excerpt from Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons)

in this freshly revised extract from my novella-poem,

"Sludge White and the Seven Curmudgeons",

Sludge White ('Princess Pasty') and her animal escort
happen on the Curmudgeons' cottage,
and attempt to do something about it....

*******

hitherto unversed in selfless intent

she was eager to bond with her unforeseen friends

readily treading this untested terrain,

exploring its depths with a groundbreaking lens.

since the forest seemed bent on protecting her

she decided to leave planning up to chance

and aimlessly strolled through the wakening woods,

savoring the rising sun's slant, dappled glance.

flowers fell open at her feet as she walked

and she noticed she was understanding birds,

their snatches of song a liquid lightning

expressing a longing unburdened with words.

she could feel deer converging behind her

for a well of empathy had made itself known,

a timeless attachment dispensing with space

in cognitive lodgings sewn in with her own.

at this juncture she stumbled on a cottage

appearing abruptly, as if from thin air

with a tumbledown roof and receding gables,

a study in despairing disrepair.

its sagging, swaying siding was sidling away

and the disgruntled windows were agape,

their shattered shutters dangling from their hinges

as though they'd collapsed while trying to escape.

the overgrown path was sinking in quicksand,

its flagstones settling in a miasmic berth.

fragments of a chimney, partially interred

had been spit back out by the disgusted earth.

a stony bed of thorns served for a garden

while a brackish fetid puddle formed a pool.

the yard was littered with polka dot scraps

like the last remains of a detonated fool.

the weather-beaten door had been left open

and a rabbit had already hopped inside

to see if the house held sadder disasters

its sense of decorum was trying to hide.

as Pasty ventured in her diffident escort

fringed the sills with rows of sniffing noses

anxiously watching their human companion

parting the dust clouds as if she was Moses.

a petulant hat rack ambushed the entry

brandishing left hooks and spoiling for a fight.

the faded portrait had gone off its likeness

to judge by the way it was howling in fright.

billowing cobwebs flaunted from the ceiling.

jagged bloody nails protruded from the floor.

an ear-splitting squawk simply wouldn't let up,

seeming to stem from some tortured upstairs door.

broken dishes were scattered on the staircase
as the dumbwaiter turned out to be a mime.
and the hours sped by, or dragged on and on,
since the clock was telling lies instead of time.
clinging vines wedged in through broken windows
had reconciled themselves to temperamental light
and swung from the rafters with abandon,
appending tendrils to whomever came in sight.

though the yarn was lax, aimlessly unravelling,
the spinning wheel was prickly and nettled.
the atmosphere was fraught with the odd little sounds
one hears when a house becomes unsettled.
while the sloping walls were inclined to crack up

their moldings seemed content to simply moulder.
and the laws of science had gone off the rails
for the air inside just kept getting colder.

the tchotchkes on the mantelpiece were dismal.

and the capsized bottled ship had sprung a leak.

seven smoldering pipes were stacked on a rack,

steadily emitting an unearthy reek.

a misshapen beast snoozed in the fireplace

giving vent to yelps and stomach-churning snores.

a rattled skeleton clung to the closet

unhinged by the doorbells' spine-tingling roars.

the bearskin rug was hooked on wrestling

stalking pedestrians who dawdled in the hall.

a bygone stove probably exploded

as a charred silhouette was splattered on the wall.

tiles still trickled in a yawning crevice

divulging a dank, disconcerting cellar.

the distorted and conflicted cutlery

had surely been abused by Uri Geller.

a pair of swishing knives were swiping the air,
enthralled in a gripping, swashbuckling duel
under a ceiling peeling and congealing
with a gut-wrenching, foul-smelling gruel.
while the toppling embankment of filth-laden plates

teetered on its rank, precipitous brink,

whatever was crawling in the pantry

was hardly an antidote for repugnant stink.

the princess resolved to confront the frightful mess

finding the task impossible to shirk

and thinking there ought to be fewer locations

in which such dubious things thought to lurk.

her four-legged posse pitched in at once

nurturing by nature and benignly inclined

seeming to dance in synchronized motion,

a symptom of borders becoming undefined.

squads of birds flew in and out the windows

in swift, deft movements precluding indecision

darting and flashing in breathtaking arcs,

a kaleidoscope of finely judged precision.

they hustled and bustled back and forth all day

with the throbbing pulse of a subway station,

scavenging cobwebs to soften up their nests

and ticking off the spider population.

a badger coaxed the sleepy beast to vacate,

removing snarled burrs enmeshed in his coat.

then the squirrels rid the rest of the chimney

of the hazardous buildup of creosote.

the rug was incited to tackle the hat rack

resulting in a frenzied, seething tiff.

while they were scuffling they were stashed in a sack

and dragged to the edge of a neighboring cliff.

the ear-splitting squawk belonged to a banshee

gone out of her mind since she couldn't find work.

Sludge White suggested the palace for a haunt

with a windswept graveyard thrown in as a perk.

as the skeleton could reassemble himself

sleight of hand made him harder to dislodge.

but he split when a raccoon scrambled his bones,

thoroughly persuaded to get out of Dodge.

the dumbwaiter thought better of theatrics,

and the clock expressed remorse for having lied.

the vines bought rumours of a spurious blight

and promptly transplanted themselves back outside.

the bloody nails were gingerly extracted,

the missing bits of kitchen floor retiled.

while the cutlery's core issues got hammered out,

the floating fencing knives were reconciled.

the clattering platters were finally washed

though it took quite a hodgepodge of paws to do,

and provoked a series of avalanches

that skinned the shin of a towel-drying shrew.

the idle threads were spooled onto bobbins

and nimbly settled on the nettled spinning wheel.

the slop that had slipped from the bottle was mopped,

and the ship was equipped with a brand new keel.

the crumbling walls were propped up and painted

in bright warm colors that delighted tired eyes,

chasing muted shadows from their wonted nooks

and encouraging the temperature to rise.

the portrait was touched up by a porcupine,

tickling its fancy and hindering howling,

subverting The Scream with the Mona Lisa,

a dash of giggles besmirching the scowling.

a wren taught the door-bell a whimsical trill

gleaned from the whistle of a wandering bard.

the godawful gruel was scraped off the ceiling,

sprayed by a skunk, and buried in the yard.

the crawling enigma remained unresolved

when the pantry unbolted its musty air.

no one could prove it ever existed

but no one believed it was never really there.

a sinister assortment of slinking things

were fettered together and carted away,

entrusted to a band of mendicant monks

who held exorcisms every other day.

the hapless cottage had been boldly rescued,

from its freakish preternatural crisis.

but the bone-chilling cellar was boarded up,

and left to its disquieting devices.

the animals returned to their woodsy dens

to forage for dinner and rest until dawn,

except for a lingering spectacled otter

frisking with his friend, a freckle-flecked fawn.

the birds made their roosts in the neighboring trees

with fretful twitters and cacophonous cheeps,

incessantly settling their favored perches

while Sludge White slipped into the deepest of sleeps.

the primal mantle devoured the cottage,

erasing the fleeting distinctions of form.

the chorus of insects wavered in waves,

like patterns of rain in the currents of a storm.

the penitent clock told the ticking tale

of the untended moments of unheeded time.

and a discarded heart lay soundly sleeping,

her garments in tatters, her face smudged with grime.

*******
(thus endeth the excerpt - Evan Hawthorn, 19th of June, 2015)