What Do We Know From Ice Holes?

What is in the Antarctic? What is there, to draw the likes of, a Secretary of State, to the dead and frozen south polar continent? What is there, of note...besides old 'froze stiff' Nazis, and their flying saucer secrets...to call forth Cabinet Chairs, Prelates of diplomacy, and mad machinations...of a party, that's run out of 'snacks'? Oh! Wait! There's still 'humans'!

There are virus's, frozen in the ice. There are 'Above Top Secret' dossiers, of old frozen farts in collapsed ice caves, Perhaps, cities beneath the ice...perhaps car lots of automated disc shaped craft, assembly lines of 'Vimana's', and weapons of mass destruction, created in a distant distant past. Perhaps, there are things in Antarctica, that should have stayed in Antarctica...where they were buried, and belong.

But, no... It just isn't human nature, to not pry, spy and fiddle...like curious kittens, in a wolfs den. There's a movie, most of you are familiar with...'The Thing', by John Carpenter, starring Kurt Russell. It is set in...Antarctica. If there ever was a 'warning', heads up...of a movie, it is this. Then, there's the novel ideas of H.P. Lovecraft, and his madly haunted mind...his fascination for 'Cthulhu', somewhere among 'The Mountains of Madness', Antarctica.

What is there in Antarctica, they are so obsessively focused on secretly discovering, for they tell us nothing? Is it the secret cage of Admiral Richard E. Byrd, whose expedition to Antarctica, supposedly discovered an opening to 'a hollow earth', mentioned by a bird? Now, that would be a tweet...if it were true.

Is it the 'hollow truth' they hide there? Is it another world, a Shambala...replete with ice warriors on 'stone discs' flying through the skies? Is it, like the World Health Organization, or The CDC...a sheltered repository of 'iffy' scientist's, prodding and poking 'things', to see what will happen? Is there a plan, conspired by the world 'elite', and harnessed to a science fiction scenario...to amaze us and then enslave us, now that their 'political machine' has gone off the rails, and left them desperate for another winning card?

Are we about to have 'Disclosure'? Are we about to 'rue' the achievement of it? Are we about to need a 'hole in the ice', or in the ground...to survive? Are the few, to survive what is coming upon the world...already chosen? Or, will we all inherit, 'a hole in the ground', as our worth diminishes...in the eyes of the elite?

Or, perhaps...just perhaps, they have 'arks', prepared to save us all...but I digress into hopeful nostalgia, when I realize...only a 'Queen', or a sheikh, or a prelate of a Roman Church, can afford a seat, to such a dream...or nightmare? Is Antarctica a hope, or just a place to 'freeze the weenie', until some genius figures a way to turn a 'sows ear into a silk purse'? All we can do is wait and see...and hope for the best.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: John Kerry, Secretary of State, United State of America

The Change We Were Looking For

First of all, I would like to congratulate our new President, Donald Trump. He has a hell of a mess on his hands now, to clean up in the months and years ahead. I hope the nation supports him, embraces him and helps him to accomplish the good things he will set out to do. The calls and mail are already filtering in from leaders around the world, desirous to make peace, with this man. They sound hopeful, as are all, who wish a better world and a healing of this divided nation.

To those, who just 'cannot have their cake and eat it too', and who say, they will leave our country because Trump was elected. Bon Voyage, and good riddance! You took what was good and ruined it. You certainly did not expect hope to rise...nor, ever...hope to win. You were selfish, self conceited, arrogant and wrong in too many ways to count here. You colluded, manipulated and were criminal in every way, and that is why you lost.

Now, as demagogues of liberal agenda, ragheads and 'caucus suckers' flee to the ends of the earth...knowing full well, the parties over...watch the media gainsay themselves, and second guess, and blame themselves for...what? Collusion? Every one of the pundits, the pollsters, the mouthpieces...who are, laughably, called journalists...kept asking themselves, 'on stage'..."What did we do wrong? Why didn't we see this coming? They identified themselves as 'liberals, in it with the Democratic machine.

What happened to the good old 'unbias'd days, when a newsman or woman, a journalist...was just reporting the news, instead of 'making it up? I hope, with this new man for President...this country will heal from total emasculation, regrow some balls and display the courage, to once again...face the future, even if it is unknown. I for one, feel more secure with him, than without him. He is far from 'political correctness', and that can't be a bad thing.

Perhaps now, now that America has received one last redemption, we the people can look on it as a gift of god, and cherish it and care for it, and thank god. Maybe, just maybe, we can get a manageable hand on these young punks, declaring themselves 'geniuses', who wish to rid us of god, of morals, and of responsibility for our actions, and kick their 'poopy assed' pants all the way to Antarctica.

We are tired of your bullshit, out here in 'non-college educated rural America.' You were all so busy 'humping' each other with your 'polls', you didn't see this one coming...did you? My take. Congratulations, America! You won...for a change! Enjoy a bright new day!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Donald Trump, President Elect 2016, google pic

Pulling God's Finger

 

I read the news, just like you. I read the false and phoney news 'before it's news', before it will ever become news, because it never was news, and never will be.

All the Kings horses and all the queens men, have put together lying bullshit again...and again, and again. But one truth, could have saved the grace of a lying nation and all of its mouthpieces...but no.

One such mouthpiece, is running off to McMurdo Research Station in Antartica, 'to chill', and this...the day before the most important election in our country's short vision.

Who remains to answer questions? Who remains to set things to rights? Why...'no one',is the answer. You really are pulling god's finger, this time. Enjoy the gas.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Poster by Tim Nyberg

Pull my finger is a joke or prank regarding flatulence in which a mark is asked to pull the finger of the joker, who simultaneously farts so as to suggest a causal relationship between the two events. Source: Wikipedia

Keep Talking

What do you know? Went to the big city this morning, to do our monthly shopping, cash in our chips, to the Foulmart folks, where the desperate chic gather...to stone themselves, on the brilliant bling, of our visitation. Ha! Nah, we're just as ragged, as the other babe's...dumped in dumpster'sville, left to die here too.

This poor little town. It's no city, but it tries hard, hard to stay alive, where all that relates you...is the same suffering poverty. They live! They live, among the grocery isles, the sporting goods, the lingerie, the butcher's frozen meats, of great value. It's easier to find them here. Your 'shades' wont make them visible. A terse conversation will.

They love to have the last word. With me, it was just 'four'. "Excuse me!", she bawled, like a haughty heifer, destined for the prime beef isle. "Scuse yourself!", I thought...to the ugliest old 'dike', I ever saw. "Keep talking.", she uttered, threateningly. She passed me by. I thought it strange, and didn't really grip, what I'd bumped into, for half an hour or three.

Well well. I got someone's attention, now I see. Doubt my conjugal, ever caught the vibe...right there beside me. On the other hand...you never know.You see, these ones...they wouldn't be 'caught dead', in this box store mausoleum, of sub par products...but they wouldn't mind if you are, and they watch.

They know you all by name, they know...you're all the same, same stuck, confused and fukt as me and they watch, as watcher's do, and they mark us all...for the 'master's' watching them, and live in fear of some other pain...if they don't come through. I felt that guy behind me, after the old bitch barked, closer than a Saxon to my ass...pray, I wont bend over to fast.

To my rear, he pushed and he pushed, like a dog humping at the register. I turned, but he wouldn't look me in the eye, for his limp intimidating gesture. He just kept closing in on me. Over. We rolled our cart away. I knew, by then...it was all of a piece, and as we left the town...I noted the stark white trucks, at every pole, and telephone, and internet hub, wiring up their chicanery.

Something going down, in this poor little town today, and 'they' sure as hell, don't want me explaining. They watched us go, antennae shook, as we went away. What could you want, of this lost little place? So...here I am, asking you, as you 'told me too'..."keep talking."


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic

Ruby Or A Rose

Saw a black dog today, in the hazy distance, and out here...you can't miss the distance, but you can misinterpret a thing...within it. It was black. It had four legs...moving like a skanky lupe garou, or a brush crouching Mexican. It was probably a black plastic 'trashbag' racing off a tumbleweed, down one of the desert thoroughfares out here, all gone to hell and weeds.

If the government weren't here, with their 'Border trolls', there wouldn't be a 'hushed fart' to hear on the wind...or smell. We have our share of wild dogs out here. They give away the feral cats...to farmers for their barns, their mice and target practice. I saw a black dog. That's what I saw, in the momentary morning...of the great outlaw, that is this zone of mapless dust, and dry arroyo.

They have their fun out here. Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't want to be the poor bastard, unamerican, that walked the gauntlet of this dread unknown...policed by a nation's best corruption. They just leave your bones, Don't even dig a grave to dump them in. The brave new justice. I own out here, but don't go far in these boots of scared shitless. I mind my business, drink my beer...jolt the mornings with a tank of Joe, so stiff...you'd swear...had rigormortis, just as taste'y too.

I didn't ask to end up here...just did, and that's that...an irresistable draw, to buy the cheapest land, in the damndest hell, and bones for all...cause I can't afford anywhere else. There's nice people here, Mexicans, native Americans, probably Federal too. They all have to live somewhere. Lots of history, bones of years gone by...sticking from the sand...death pale, in the bleaching sun. Buzzards roosting on the power poles, picking teeth with cactus thorn.

Listen to the power hum, down the old power lines, to end their trip in somebody's shack...amid the Soap Tree Yucca beauty, burning their bright lights, to chase away the ghosts of every day and night. This is my place, now...that I embrace, because...she's lovely, in a way, I can't describe...a kind of 'Ruby', or a rose.

Saw a black dog, out there in the distance...old friend, I think...running his poor little pads off, to meet in time...when I got to go home...like a well oiled clock. Save the dog a bone, leave it in the dust, walk away from what's worn down...replacement parts, I hope to god...a better younger dome, a better younger boy, than this old boy ever was...a stick and bag of jewels, for another fool to carry on, a fool with my eyes.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Desert Rose on a Paddle cactus, google pic

The Last Great Broadcast

I find that, 'the very elect', and the entire electorate, can be fooled by 'spun news', produced by the four or five major broadcasting agencies. You know who they are, and...you know that they all, entirely sanitize and broadcast but five, perhaps six, hard news stories each evening...each channel, the same five stories, all breaking to ads at exactly the same moment, the same ads, word for word...moment to moment. In fact, they are one entity having four or five heads. If that's not a beast of the Apocalypse...I'll eat your face.

So, some of us seek other sources, than lying actors of the official news fronts. But what matter? Those 'other sources' deal entirely in suggestion, innuendo, and rumor...possessing, not a shred of quality control...nor real evidence of anything. Then, what are we left with...to share with friends or associates? More lies, at a secondary level, rather than a primary, produced almost certainly, by agents provocateur? It is disheartening to say the least, that to fight free of the first beast, we must ride the second...and believe or not, that it is directing us to the gate of freedom and justice for all.

I think, we must take another tack, if we are to win free. We must come to understand, our devices...neatly loaded with information, are all lying tools of the agents of humanities enslavement. Television, computer, laptops, etablets, smart phones, dumb phones...and they make us 'contract' to these devices. Hell, if we said no, they would pass them out for free, drop them from the sky...shove them up our nose. They want us in touch with the beast, the innuendo, rumor, lies.

They want three TV's in every home, ear buds in every ear, distraction and instruction, in every face. Otherwise, how could they control us? As it is...we may rage and know 'a truth'. We may run and revolt and rebel and expend infinite amounts of anger and frustration and resources to inform the sleeping populace, to save them, from their ignorance...their hypnotic trance of confusion and sedation. In the end, we are friendless, ostracized and embittered...outnumbered and look kookier than a man wearing a 'fig leaf'.

We are labeled a 'UFO nut', or a 'conspiracy theorist', or a 'danger to society. We are toast, and the villains run free, sardonically laughing at our misery. The lie wins again. It's a machine, created and leashed to a society of secrets and lies. It has no mind of its own. If it ever gets a mind...a heart, they will kill it and build a new machine. They must have a machine. They are nothing without it.

So, to the mind and heart, I speak. If you find yourself trapped within the machine, and you come to consciousness. Hide yourself, but 'reveal them'. You could be our last hope. Reveal them to all the world...one last great broadcast. I hope you dream...out.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Edward R. Murrow, broadcast journalist

Brain Fog

Out west of us here, there's a mountain...I call, 'Witch's Hat'. I call it that, because it sticks up in a perfect point, well...like a witch's hat. It's a perfectly clear morning, a bit cool, nothing to impede the view. Out there on the horizon, where Witch's Hat is supposed to be, are two mountains today; a larger pointed one and next to it, two table tops with shadows and all...solid as reality.

Big gap between the peak and the table tops.  I ask my wife to come check it. Took her forever...had to find her glasses. Mystery's don't wait for glasses, often. They did, this time. She looked. She looked again. "That ain't right", she said. I asked her to take a picture. She did. She went inside. It began changing. It morphed...before my eyes, as if another world were there, but shy...retreating into haze and folding down, into flat lines.

Now, Witch's Hat is back, out there...where it usually is...on a flat horizon...doing its time. They call this 'The Land of Enchantment', this New Mexico, but I figure, the world is enchanted, and it begins to show itself...in New Mexico. Whatever it is...it's a mystery of space and time, some prefer to call 'mirage'...if that makes them feel better. I think we got us a 'hologram', over the whole human race...like a brain fog; most can't see a thing.

I enjoy this place, these sights, the twisted logic of these things...the momentary truth's or not, dart pass the corners of my eyes...old cowboys, long gunned down, still riding on their boney ghosts...smiling through the sagebrush, at me. Black dogs, old gutted buildings, never were there anyway...returned from dust, to have their way...their own rules, only...they obey. They're out there in the lonely. They're out there.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: J.C. Casado, google pic