Gary Corseri: More than 200 years of American “democracy” still takes us to the tragedy of Ferguson, Missouri, where a black kid can’t walk down the center of a street without getting himself killed in broad daylight!
Gary Corseri: See what you make me do? Israel and its US supporters cry in unison. Why do you make me do this? Why do you make me hurt you? Why? Why!?
Gary Corseri: When I saw his gray tombstone slab—about the size of a large cereal box!—with nothing but the capitals “HENRY” inscribed on it, I thought at first: Surely this writer-philosopher-naturalist-activist deserved better notice than this! And then I thought: This is fitting….
Gary Corseri: This is one busy guy! And smart! Being somewhat hip, and accelerating towards codgerdom, I must declare that Paul Craig Roberts is simply one of America’s best chroniclers of this sad, brutal era of imperial overreach and moral decline.
Mandela Legacy — He got the ‘moral victory’; we took the spoils: gold and diamonds; cheap labor; land to die for, to kill for.
Gary Corseri: They are winding up their war toys once again; these old, perverted men who hate the young. If hypocrisy were a syrup, their snouts and mouths would drool it.
Gary Corseri: And what freedom now in the Surveillance State; Where every thought was subject to review; And “newsmen” scurried to assess the threat.
Gary Corseri: O say can you see-saw from the Sands; Of Iwo Jima to the halls of Montezuma; And the beach near Petaluma, My country ‘tis of thee
Gary Corseri: So they padlocked me in Solitary! An hour a day in sun or rain, in an orange jump-suit— Like a clown—outdoors.
Gary Corseri: In this Great Wrenching, the assault on conscience and consciousness is taking place on all fronts, on all levels, at, literally, break-neck speed.
Gary Corseri: I am sick of the voices of heroes!/They cry from maniacal graves: “Why do you hurry and turn away—/You who are warmed by the sun?
Gary Corseri: Mealy-mouthed assassins state halt-truths/non-truths, swearing they are all-true.
Gary Corseri: Jeffers gaze was not so much bitter as it was unflinching, steady, resolute and sui generis. “The cold passion for truth,” he wrote, “hunts in no pack.”