Sun Is A Tank On Fire

Libertarians are the check & balance of politics. They keep the communist left and the neocon right in check and offer fact based analysis of current events. I've created an mp3 link here:  Anti-War vs Neocon And here's a low resolution video. I removed all commercials and unnecessary conversation from both to save you precious time:

Really, I visualize the dead as well as the living. I visualize you whom I will never know. We are constant strangers. I imagine you, I stare at you when I write. And to think, you will never know, will never hear of those people I can no longer call anonymous. People close to me have said: I don't understand what you are talking about, but I know what you mean... Poetry sometimes is like going along in a big rig with no one else on the roads, no smoke, no stops by the wayside, going on with no cargo, the radio quiet, only the sound of your own voice trying to get in touch. I really don't know if poetry can be paraphrased, set to music, or what have you. Maybe so. Many times the poem ends up down on the ground, surrounded by strangers. I believe that the metaphorical imagination can be authenticated by the cinema. Every two folks have their own way of loving. The poet and the poem know what they like. When a particular kind of loving is adapted, you are getting into a different...

Ever since mom moved away it's just been me and dad up here in the dung pit region of Pennsylvania. I do not like it here. It's been almost two years and I've made zero friends. I'm all alone and living with the expectation of taking care of (and being a best friend to) the father my mother divorced and abandoned. Him and I have nothing in common and when we hang out together, we are forced to find things to talk about. He's very old now and he keeps forgetting things, and sometimes mixes me up with my older brother, who he likes very much. They get along great; it should be him here instead of me. But anyway, I digress. My dad wishes I had a girlfriend. There are some days in which I agree, but most days I can't stand the thought of having someone else in my house. I've lived alone for well over a decade and I'm very set in my ways. I am an impossible person to match up with because I fill such a tiny niche. I like poetry and creative writing, researchi...

The acorn cop body cam footage is hilarious, and also frightening. Keep in mind, while watching the video, the officer was not shot at, nor is he wounded. It's all in his head. He heard an acorn hit the roof of his squad car and thought he was being shot at by the unarmed, handcuffed perp he had in the backseat. So he unloaded his entire magazine into his own vehicle, as does his female partner. I swear, I can no longer determine if I am experiencing reality or some insane simulation. This entire thing looks like a scene from Reno 911. Here, watch for yourself: Acorn Cop's Body Cam And here's his partner's vantage point: Partner's Body Cam

    " When I first took over my work route, I was happy. Everything was right in the world and my life felt like a plot in a romance novel. I was in love with a girl and I even started liking myself for the first time, while learning how to heal from old wounds. I remember how I used to laugh at people when they spoke about being on cloud nine, but then I gained a glimpse at how wonderful love can be, and I liked it. I liked it very much. I liked the floaty feeling that carried me through each day. Even on the hard days, when things went wrong, I didn't care. I didn't lose my temper. I was in love and it made everything in my life feel great," Edgar said while turning slightly in his seat.      "Mm-huh, I see," the therapist replied while scribbling notes onto a pad of paper. "You mentioned 'healing from old wounds'. Would you care to elaborate more on that, Edgar?" she asked, while finishing her notes. She looked up at him with kind, carin...

 I will come back and write words, but for now, watch this 7 minute clip I put together: Joe Biden and Janet Yellen asked if USA can afford more war. I'm reaching a point in my life where I'm beginning to not care about politics and current events. I'm the only person in my circle of acquaintances (with one exception) who cares about any of this stuff, and I always hear people say, "the only thing that truly matters, are the people in your life." So why do I care? Someone recently asked me this very question and I struggled to answer it. In the end, I guess I don't care. But I get bored very easily, and learning all this stuff is interesting to me, so I think maybe this has been my way of battling ennui? The back of my first book of poetry has this quote: "The most terrifying word in existence is ennui: A gripping listlessness or melancholia caused by boredom or depression." So, what's my point? My point is, I don't feel like writing an entir...

 I don't know much about the man, except that he enjoyed the desert way more than the Burning Man people do. A friend of mine shared a quote from a book he wrote and it tickled me, so I decided to get the book and read the rest. Here's my compilation of favorite aphorisms by the late Ed Abbey: "A man without passion would be like a body without soul. Or even more grotesque, like a soul without a body." "The more fantastic an ideology or theology, the more fanatic its adherents." "Only a fool is astonished by the foolishness of humankind." "I hate intellectual discussion. When I hear big words, I reach for my buck knife." "Nothing could be more reckless than to base one's moral philosophy on the latest pronouncements of science." TO BE CONTINUED.

Today was the first day, in over a year, that I didn't go straight home after work. I tried. Heck, I had every intention, but Harry pulled up in front of my car, killed the ignition on his motorcycle, and thumped the kickstand down with some kind of purpose. I peered at him through my bug splattered windshield, leaned my head out the driver side window and whistled.     "What are you doing, old man? Need me to show you how to ride it?" I bantered with a grin. Harry smiled and hunched forward to adjust something on the side of his bike before replying. He was wearing black shorts, black shirt, work boots, and a Harley Davidson doo-rag.     "Come have a drink with me at the sportsman club, Mickey." For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why he started calling me Mickey, but it started soon after he got hired on. As I sat there, my brain sorted through excuses for why I couldn't join him, but my spirit animal kicked in and growled for even considering sa...