Between the Red and the Blue

I hope you brought lunch because we've got a lot of ground to cover today...

Here between the red and blue, the passion and the patriotism, between the hype and the horror, there are some very good people who are getting slaughtered as collateral damage by all the
partisanry.


The salt of the fruited plain, blue collar grease stained, working nights under supermarket lights, white collar office temp guy, stay at home mom changing diapers all night, the U-N-I types. That’s you and I, if I spelled it right.

Meanwhile, at the Cheney's Wyoming ranch...

Dick laughs at the force and fury of angry pundits bickering on TV, and familiar swanky lobbyists looking down from the gallery, pharmaceutical reps have something with your monogram for free. Just set aside ten minutes in private, Senator, for me. I'll make you King of Greece after they pay off the lien.







Dick thinks, "Ah, the good old days are just ahead of me thanks to a little Genie in a bottle company."


So, now you know why were fighting on Syrian soil. We're​ liberating oil from the people who own it, exclusively. International law refers to this ownership as sovereignty.

"Fuck that law, it doesn't apply me. I'm Dick fucking Cheney! Don't fuck with me. I'll go 9/11 on you. I am conscience free."

It's just that sick. We're all mercenaries for merchants collectively. Truth, justice, whatever! Don't be a Dick. Stop lying to me!


Now, back to us...

We're standing in line for a Metro bus trying to live a decent life, a job, a home, and maybe a loving wife. Out in a world between terrorist plots and the lay-off knife, your hard work only costs you your sacrifice, middle management is about to be downsized, and you're a little lamb among the other sheep who advise, "Little lamb don't make a peep." The wolves are stacked up about six deep. Through the pasture they creep while the shepherds sleep dreaming of a decent life, a job, a home, and maybe a loving wife. Sleep tight, Here come the wolves...

From the ivory tower in the distance, the banker offers his assistance, we have to capitalize on our socialist persistence. Celebrate diversity, that's the difference between what you pay for and I get for free. I just have to finance electability, everything else is public property. That's you, not me. Public debt is my prosperity. Eventually, when the bill goes unpaid your kids will curse your name. You did the crime, they will take the blame.


What did you say? "That doesn't seem lawful to me"? I have friends in Washington D.C., who scribble words incomprehensibly, and that's the law, you see. The law's for you, not me.


Look into my eyes, you're feeling very sleepy. Keep watching MSNBC. The anchor says, "Remember to celebrate diversity". Which seems odd to me, if we're all celebrating diversity, isn’t that uniformity? Maybe, it's just me.


The Senator smiles and whispers, "Off the record, it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. Just a bumper sticker slogan to keep you occupied while I’m chopping down the Liberty Tree. Two eighty a cord with free delivery, and a discount because it came from your property."



You and me are praying “Deliver me!” We’re in an overgrown field looking at abandoned factories spread out as far as the eye can see. But the stock market is flying high on the recovery of the new jobs we’ll never see, except for fast food or the retail industry at minimum wage the new median for people trying to raise a family.


The inner city kid walking the street explains, "Who cares about jobs that pay nothing? I’m wasting my time filling out applications or calling. A man on the corner showed me I can make ten year's salary if I’m big ballin'."






Two weeks later the task force put my career to an end and I got a new vocation sleeping, eating slop in the DOC swine pen for eighteen to twenty-four months minus good time. There is no good time when you're​ warehoused with the dead and dying.


After the system destroys what's left of his humanity the Prodigal Son returns to the same neighborhood street. No jobs, no home, no loving wife, his only work record is prison industries, modern slavery. Here on this street the biggest industry is baby mamas pushing out the next generation of me at $10,000 a shot. Take a number, wait in line, another victim of the welfare plot.






You were born middle class and me poor, but that isn’t a problem because now we're all poor as the stock market hits a new high score. To war, to war watch those jet fighters soar, Twenty-two million and no peace, if you buy a dozen or more. Without bombs exploding television news is a bore. Don't you feel that rush of adrenaline when you see the explosion from the vantage of a predator, that God's subtle way of telling you that you're a murderer.






I heard a songwriter cry, "Tax the rich, feed the poor, until there ain’t no poor, no more.” sounds great in words, sucks in practice. Let me show you what happens. The rich take their money and fly away leaving just the middle and poor to pay. Middle is exhausted bit by bit, trying to support the rest of it, until they drop a rung, Hey, we’re all equal. Well Hallelu! But the poor can’t support the poor, and the rich they all moved. The songwriter is mystified. We’re all screwed!



A caddy hears a muffled voice on the 16th fairway where the senator just spent a billion three of our money in pursuit of security, safety, miscellany, and to buy Halliburton everything they need for the quarter's profitability.


It’s a free country, nominally. Unless you're accounting for the debt or the prison population that's higher than anywhere else in humanity. But we're free, we're free. That’s what they keep saying to me on the billboards, magazines, radio, and prime time T.V., but we keep trading real liberty for the illusion of safety and crafty financial securities. Sub-prime time from sea to shinning sea.

What did “Old Ben” say, someone please remind me?






“We must all hang together, or ... we shall surely all hang separately.”






Separate but equal, equally dead as can be. The rich, they are just arriving in Maui for the week. The songwriter is rich too, but his Economics are weak as can be.



The Bilderberg's keynote speaks, “We don’t kill the sheep, we just sheer them vigorously until they bleed. Don’t fret the medical expenses are on your Uncle Scam and me. Add it up that’s really free, free of medical care, but it will care for me thanks to your taxes and my posse of cronies. I work for them, and you people all work for me. Here come the wolves! I suggest you keep quiet, please. No need to frighten the other sheep.


Hey did you hear that? O say, can you see? Jose goes to jail, but look above all you see is insulated, consecrated criminality. Not to mention any names, dear Hillary was purged from suspicion after a triple perjury. We came, we saw, and she walked free in good company.


Hey Barrack, the Commerce Clause wasn’t meant be backdoor to everything. You're supposed to use a general clause sparingly so we can all choose, some you win, some you lose, and that President O, equals free. Not free to be your Tinkertoy economy built on thin air, broken promises, and pipe dreams.


Pump a little, then a little more quantitatively, and a shit load of stimulus money to your best friends and their families. Smells like old money to me. You're their latest product and you sold out immediately. Now, you’re all living in that green economy. They say figures don't lie, but that doesn’t mean they speak the truth exclusively.


Senator, please. We’ve listened to all the shady characters C-Span could televise consecutively. I don’t need a hearing, fact finding, or even an inquiry. Now, give me back my Liberty or there will be hell to pay eventually.

The Senator quickly adjourned himself for the rest of the week. His personal assistant announces, “We’ll be landing in Riyadh around three. Just in time for tea, leave your Bible on-board for your safety, not that you ever read that thing.” The King would like you to enjoy some falconry. It's like the bowling of royalty. It’s for the birds, with no booze or women in this country to see.


In the palace of a repressive monarchy held up by the arms of a failing democracy and petro-dollars turned into fanatics gunning the People down in our streets. The Minister of Defense (Peace be upon him and the other Saudis) yawns and asks the Senator, “ Did you bring me the best deal on the weaponry. We've both made a lot of enemies, you and me, but the King’s will take priority.

Shopping at grocery outlet, buy one get one free is the best deal we can see. Stretching to payday while living Monopoly. Watching our wealth blow up in Basrah, Helmet, and Tripoli. Our sweat becomes the fireworks in night vision green. Whoopie! We're deep in the red and far out of the ivy, and chasing boogeymen through the tall weeds.









The paper said it was the fricken’ KGB, so why is everyone looking at me? Constitutionality, the first casualty of a failed democracy, then comes us, that's you and me. I suspect we're suspects by the mob surrounding us wearing red and blue. That's what we were all told to do. Now, our back is up against the wall. United we stood, divided we (firing squad, scream, fades to silence).


They said it couldn't happen here, but it's happening all around me. Put your palms together and start praying fervently, "Lord, deliver me, for into the Valley between Red and Blue we walk silently like little sheep...


With a lot of ground to cover."