Science, the sciences...anthro-apologists, socio-apologists, archeo-apology, geology, zoology, paleontology...ology, ology, ology They find it. They tag it. They hide it. Until they have squeezed every last iota of value, from discovery.
Then, when they are quite certain of their 'cover story', they hold an exhibit...after say, 50 to 70 years, and they tell you what science 'believes' it's all about, about everything.They withhold much, repress more and spin the findings, faster than a top in a hock shop.
They've stolen so much, from so many countries. They suck it from the ground...'sideways', just like oil company pipelines and bishops on a chess board. Nothing is straight, or comes out straight, for as 'Indiana' showed us all...'it's not who it belongs to, but who gets it first!'
Well, I believe things too, and if I find it, I'm not telling you. But I will tell you this...it's all a lie, like everything else...the 'facts' are made to conform to the flow of a story, that if unwound, would reveal...the greatest lies in history.
All of it, the scrolls, the sunken cities, Columbus and the Conquistadors, their reasons for all of it...the ageless churches...they are searching 'for something', and it's imperative, they distract you...because, they want to claim it first!
Believe, people! Believe, as science tells you not to! For, there are things, but what those things are, and why...is another story. You haven't heard it right, and you don't know it all! There's more to 'disclosure', than you are aware!
'Buckle up and place your trays in the upright position!' Get ready for the RIDE of your life!
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Indiana Jones meets Princess Liea, James Hance
They adjusted their 'geospatial' lasers, and cut a kingdom into a mountain. The curious valley dwellers wondered, and prayed to these new gods...enslaved, enraptured. For a hundred years, they served these masters...these 'sky people'. One day, 'they came again'. and they left, with all their chattel.
Would a mountain domain, a nearly unscalable fortress, in the sky, be abandoned...or will these mysterious 'gods' return, to claim their place some day? All we, the valley dwellers know, is 'nothing'. We still wander the steamy jungle and ascend the perilous trail...to a place we cannot own, only borrow and dream. Whoever they were, in truth...they were genius, advanced, in stone work and hydro, and engineering steep terrain.
They remained aloft, and aloof from human civilization. They came. They left a monument of wonder and speculation...and perhaps, 'a message from the stars'; and all that the sciences of earth will tell you is, "There's no one here but us".
So, I will tell you this...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Machu Picchu, National Geographic
Dedication: To my History teacher
Poetry is 'the word', as it was given, and meant to be spoken...at the beginning. Poetry bound the world, and light with darkness, so that one great consortium of life could become...and go on.
Every creature wondered, what became of the song, when the sorcerer, silent...would sing no more. "I am tired", he said, "that all I have made, should be vainly given...to be undone."
But, the mother said, "Let them remain for a time, to grow wise of their kind...that the garden will cradle, even though words will grow old and forgot...to mean nothing to them then."
The sorcerer looked away to a star, and said, "So, let it be finished, and so it be done." as he rose from his world...and went along.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: myjavier007, native american shaman
You 'News people' are monsters. If you use truth at all, you wear it as a prosthesis, all turned around and twisted backward. It is wrong on you...just wrong!
Do you really have an audience? Is that the panic in your lying eyes...that groveling for shares, that, "I'll do anything, to keep you, dears!"
Well, how about 'a chain'...the links of blasphemies and lies, you've sworn to? Lengths you've treasonously gone?
What of the laws you've twisted, bent or broken in your 'cause celebrity', to spin the truth around, like a dancer that the devil used...then, threw upon the ground?
You charlatans of words, denying light, her due...instead, have bridled darkness, at this final 'witching hour', to throttle her and screw what's left of life!
You've taken sides, and in that halfling light of liar's, you cringe upon the piece of world, you've broken off!
To suit yourselves alone, as she floats in space...old, cold and dying! You are monsters!, who could never say 'NO', to anything!
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: The Devil card of the Tarot
A man, ill suited to the task, peers out an armor plated window, from the House of Hell's, own pledged and dedicated draft...to see a world turned ash.
He knows a bad decision has been made, so far, too late to turn around. The gold of grade and taste is his, as every thing he touch, turns wealth to wealth...yet, none of it's enough.
A lonely man, thinking to do good, as all the officers and gentlemen, intending to do bad...salute him. This, to him 'signed off', the one to blame, the Chief of everything...upon the seat of Solomon.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Trump at Military Academy, New York Times
Instead of silly pretense, coded word and picture show...you should be working out the final sum of games, like 'tic tac toe', to realize the sorrows of your choices.
You circle that dread thing, the predator on prey. Not one could stay you, nor make you look away.
Your laurel crowns you, yet, you haven't even won, nor ever will...for that 'dread thing' will reap you, when your victory is full.
For death sits empty on its throne, nor memory nor mercy of beauty or pain. Death has no pride and cannot fall, but rules you all the same.
Death is dead and cannot tell, just a doll of empty dust, yet men rush in, to gather it...as if it were, somehow, alive.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Old doll of a boy, google pic
Good morning, all ye of little humor...for who, among ye'd bust a nut, tae let another know...ye laughed like hell, at every thing he wrought.
A smile is fair, if ye stiff and kinn'ah speak...for I hear a 'high aire', so's we know, ye sprung a leak!
Ah, go ahead and dare, tae let the damn repression go, fore, ye twice the fool of iny...an we know't as we speak!
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: therockofrochester,google art
