on breaking oath

Cop chiefs of America now break their oath to preserve the nation's own Constitution for their standing armies in black fabric clothed destroy Liberty for all – everyone. This foul cheap aggression will not stand for long, for there are vast multitudes, great unarmed throngs, who take to the streets to protest what cops do when they break Amendments I VI VIII and II. Each swine made a pledge to uphold what is Right, to protect the innocent (not cause them fright), to hold themselves to pure and higher standards than worthless effluvia or mere rank turds. Cops kill more Ynki than Arab terrorists; they maim pregnant women teenagers and kids; they think themselves above the established laws; the System protects them, for it's truly flawed. To speak out is deadly to stand up the same, but still we do instead of lying ashamed on beds we all made up when Saudis – those cowards – did fly U.S. airplanes into the Twin Towers. Just after those harrowing terror events did the common citizen quickly relent and give up Protections long granted to him that the Founding Persons did fight for, and win. So take up a banner and march in the streets and record your actions in blogposts and tweets to prove to the generations yet to come that we at least tried to undo damage done.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

today in USA

Now back in the homeland, there's cops everywhere, they intimidate us and keep us all scared, they tail and they follow us, guilty or not, we shan't move too quickly or else we'd be shot. Wide bottoms abound here, as do wide ass cars, as do drive-thru windows and seedy beer bars, where poor people sit around drinking their tears, impressing their barstools and wasting their years. Aggression is common, infectious, and welcome, it drives up the heart rate – how much? lots, and then some – it seeps into all of the facets of life, it's born of malfeasance and envy and strife. This house it is filthy, infested, and base, it is a most lowly and unhappy place, to flee from its confines and borders I must, otherwise my soul shall continue to rust, and whither away in this shelter of doom, this hovel of seemingly unending gloom. I'll keep up my spirits with thoughts of Bali, with practicing yoga and hot cups of tea, with reading and writing and perchance a song, my darling I know I'll see you before long.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on leaving Kuta

I hold fast till the last day, refusing kids who beg and pray and badger me both day and night to buy a bracelet – brown, black, white? Then comes Mary, eight years young, whose pitch is crass, incessant, fun, who won't believe I'll buy one soon, whose mushrooms, “Take you to the moon”. I give her less than she asks for, I claim that I am very poor, I take her small and flimsy thing, she says “OK, better than nothing”. We leave fair Kuta before nine, our engines haul and buck and whine and drag us through the darkened hills, we take much care and do not spill. A storm has slicked our moon-lit path – great burst of light, a booming wrath – but now the night is calm and cool, a taxi driver hits his brights, can't seem to pass us on the right, we slow way down, give up the fight, I curse and yell that he's a fool. Great mounds of dirt cover the lanes, force us to slow way down again, as if from nowhere they appear, with naught to warn that they are near. Then I spy a red barrow whose owner causes me much fright, who interrupts our steady flow, out in the street – no warning light. We get waylaid by crafty men; they sneak us past the ticket pen; they bribe police and harbor boss; ours is not sting or pang or loss, for they defraud their government to feed their kids and pay the rent. No berth awaits us once aboard, no slightly bowing deck steward, we settle down right on the deck, avoiding many sticky flecks. Bali greets us pleasantly when something drops down from a tree and hits me square upon the head; I don't complain for I'm not dead. We make good time and maintain speed, for hurry there is never need, a road-side cop tells us to slow, I speak his tongue – he lets us go. I climb in through the side window, where only weeds and gravel grow, I have no keys for the front door, we settle down upon the floor, sleep for one hour, then awake, as violent screams the walls do shake. There's spitting blood, hurled accusations, this has been a strange vacation, full of laughs but violence too, oh fair Indo – I love you.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

counter-protest - libertas victor!

  The forces of counter-protest today won a major victory in the battle against the anti-choice crowd: the opponent abandoned the field! With a new sign in hand (ANTI-CHOICE IS ANTI-LIBERTY opposite NO ROSARIES IN MY OVARIES), I arrived on the Hanover square at noon sharp, in time to witness the PRAY TO END ABORTION crowd blatantly violating the borough noise statutes by hoisting colorful signs reading HONK 4 LIFE, thus creating a public nuisance. (I am not a snitch, nor a police informant, so I refrained from informing the borough peace-keepers that noise violations were occurring willfully and continuously.) Less than an hour later, by one pm, the last HONK 4 LIFER had rolled up her sign and sped away in her minivan.

  I was not shaken when they sent a priest to intimidate me; I was not shaken when they sent a local cop to issue his warning – but the pro-lifers seem to have been shaken by my persistence on the square, and by my brazen mockery of their beliefs.

  The field is ours! Our foe is in disarray, routed and scrambling for the hills. Maybe just for one more day, the inalienable, Constitutional right of women to dispose of their bodies (their only true property) as they see fit has been defended by a new Guard for the future Security of the People of America.

  Fetuses are not babies until they are born! If I wanted religion in my womb, I would have slept with Jesus! Keep your rosaries out of my ovaries!

Thanks to everyone who voiced an opinion to the action of these last few days, be it yelled from a car or scrawled on a website. Defend your rights every day – let no man bar your way.

Ultima Ratio Regum - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp