Overread at the Counter: Poem of the Day "On the Radio"

On the Radio

Regina Spektor

This is how it works
It feels a little worse
Than when we drove our hearse
Right through that screaming crowd
While laughing up a storm
Until we were just bone
Until it got so warm
That none of us could sleep
And all the Styrofoam
Began to melt away
We tried to find some worms
To aid in the decay
But none of them were home
Inside their catacomb
A million ancient bees
Began to sting our knees
While we were on our knees
Praying that disease
Would leave the ones we love
And never come again

On the radio
We heard November Rain
That solo's really long
But it's a pretty song
We listened to it twice
'Cause the DJ was asleep

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And…

This is how it works
You're young until you're not
You love until you don't
You try until you can't
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into some
Someone else's heart
Pumping someone else's blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does
You'll just do it all again

And on the radio
You hear November Rain
That solo's awful long
But it's a good refrain
You listen to it twice
'Cause the DJ is asleep
On the radio
(Oh, oh, oh)
On the radio
On the radio, uh oh
On the radio, uh oh
On the radio, uh oh
On the radio

Overheard at Booth 1: Pushing 50

Husband:  Holy crap, I can't believe I'm going to be 49 next year.  Babe we're pushing FIFTY.


Wife: Don't remind me.


Husband: I'm either gonna have to get a yellow Corvette or a 25 year old blonde.


Wife: Get the Corvette.  You can't afford a 25 year old blonde.

Overread at Table 1: At This Time, On This Day, America

At This Time, On This Day, America

 

These are the angels of our bitter nature:

time, they unfold their wings, and assault the sky,

caring nothing for what they leave against the ground,

not the sound of their dying afterlives, or

their good fortunes, no,

these angels are not made a little less than men,

they are made of acrid moisture

that seeps out between the foetid toes,

they are the bile that churn from the spleen

and drips out the rotten nose,

these angels are the angry noises

that we make at night to the children

that we spit on, those little faces,

that stand just outside our windows, looking in,

their tiny fingers curled around the diamond shapes

of the links in the chain,

fences that keep them forever out

and which allow us to pretend that we are all

free.

 

MR

2018-0713

Overheard at Table Two: Proust and the Only True Paradise

Marcel Proust once wrote, “… the only true paradise is always the paradise we have lost.”

 

                But what if that’s not true?

                At least not entirely?

 

                What if the one true paradise is the one that we have never seen?

                The one that we wish for, the one we yearn for? the one that we see in our dreams?

 

                What if the one true paradise is the spouse that we have created in our minds?

                The house that we have pieced together out of photos of houses in magazines, or the insides of

                houses that we have seen?

                The rolling ocean when we live in a land-locked state?

                The open fields when we are living in the urban jungle?

 

The paradise that we have lost is the one that we can never reclaim, but the one that we have not yet obtained, that paradise is always perfect, always true.

Overread at Booth 3: "Perhaps It May Seem Impertinent"

Perhaps it may seem impertinent

                                to imagine you as you might

                                have been, at a different time,

                                                in a different age – say,

                                                in 1986, with your bare foot

                                propped upon the passenger door –

                                window open, August night air

                                creeping into the car like

                my fingers wend through your hair,

                                trace your neckline, peeling back

                                the collar of your shirt from the

                                sweat of your skin, and

                                the curve of your shoulders, so

                                                ivory in moonlight.

MR

2018-0418

Overheard at Table 3: Always the Nicest People

Lucky Moron: You know something that has been pissing me off for a long time?

Otis Redwing: I know lots of things that have been pissing you off for a long time.  Is this something new?

Lucky: Look, I know this isn't popular to say, but I'm tired of all this, 'They were the nicest people you'd ever meet' memorials when people get killed in mass shootings.

Otis: Lucky!  You really gonna go there? 

Lucky:  It's ALL THE TIME!  The victims are ALWAYS called "the nicest people."

Otis: It's about respect, my friend.

Lucky: I know! I know! But it's also about the news trying to bring out the sympathy tears.  They're digging these poor families to plaster the stories of their dead relatives.  Just ONCE I'd like to hear a story about the victim being a total asshole, but who didn't deserve to die like that anyway.

Otis: Fine.  Make you a deal.  You ever get killed in a mass shooting, that's what I'll tell the news.  "Lucky Moran was a total dick but he didn't deserve to go out like that."

Lucky: Thanks, man.  You are a true friend.

Overread at Table 1: from "Bike Trails of Canada"

The Bike Trails of Canada end a grocery store in Labrador,

Where now you may purchase cannabis along with your eggs and milk.

The Bike Trails of Canada reminds you not to forget to add cookies to your grocery list.

Lots of cookies.

Double chunky chocolate chip cookies.

 

The Bike Trails of Canada tends to get the munchies.

MR

2018-1101

Overheard at Table 4: What is Work Time?

Keiko Rajo: If you dream about work, it’s considered work time.

Cassidy Jones: I say if you think about work while you’re cleaning the house, it’s considered work.

Keiko: Right!  Because you’re analyzing the problem.

Cassidy: I ran that by my boss.  She agreed to let me charge that time to the job.  She is SO understanding!

               

Overread at Table 3: from "Bike Trails of Canada"

Marcel Proust once wrote, “… the only true paradise is always the paradise we have lost.”

 

                But what if that’s not true?

                At least not entirely?


                What if the one true paradise is the one that we have never seen?
                The one that we wish for, the one we yearn for? the one that we see in our dreams?

                What if the one true paradise is the spouse that we have created in our minds?

                The house that we have pieced together out of photos of houses in magazines, or the insides of houses that we have seen?
                The rolling ocean when we live in a land-locked state?
                The open fields when we are living in the urban jungle?


The paradise that we have lost is the one that we can never reclaim, but the one that we have not yet obtained, that paradise is always perfect, always true.

 

 

Overheard at Table 3: Barefoot Running on Acorns

Lucky Moran: Saw this post the other day on Facebook, and it's been bugging me for days and I didn't really know why until just now.

Otis Redwing: OK, shoot.

Lucky: This guy had posted a picture of a sidewalk full of fallen acorn seeds, and was telling people that he's a barefoot runner and that they should keep their sidewalks clear of acorns so that HE could run in his bare feet!

Otis: Everybody's got their pet thing these days.

Lucky: Well, it finally hit me why that's nuts!  One, because you can clean your sidewalk from acrons and it'll be littered again next day, and some of us work during the week and only get home in time enough to brush teeth and go to bed to start work again NEXT day, and also, what if some of these people are old folks?  Invalids?  People who can't get out of their houses?

Otis: Fair point.

Lucky: So I'm thinking, why doesn't this guy go running barefoot WITH A BROOM?!  That way, HE can clean the sidewalks while running and he's getting in a full exercise routine and doing a public service at the same time.

Otis: So why didn't you suggest it?

Lucky: The post was like, two weeks, ago, and I can't find it now.

Otis: Timing, Lucky.  It's always in the timing.

https://www.dailydot.com/unclick/barefoot-running-acorn-post/

Overread at Booth 5: Mass Shootings

Mass shootings are merely the face of the truly endemic, ingrained problem of gun violence.   Mass shootings are flashy, high-profile, graphic, shocking, and horrifying by their high body counts in short time frames.  But they are glimpses into the more subtle culture of gun violence.

The only time that the culture of gun violence is faced in the media is when the propaganda machine, in an effort to detract from a Caucasian shooter, is to bring up statistics showing the amount of African American victims of gun violence (“Black on Black”).  While crucial to understanding the overall culture of gun violence, this is only treated as a strawman fallacy: basically it says, “Hey don’t look at the white guy slaughtering your children!  The dirty blacks kill each other every day!”

However, such stories paint a misleading picture, and even the most basic investigations would soon lead one to understand that the problem with such crime is institutionalized poverty and lack of economic mobility.   This is part of our gun culture, and frankly, only by destroying poverty can this aspect of our gun culture be improved.

Yet, the gun culture in America reaches all levels.   It has been reinforced in our cultural narrative for more than several generations.  Stories of cowboys and heroic soldiers full our novels and our pulp magazines.   After World War Two, nearly every crime novel or thriller was a tough guy who had fought the Nazis or the Nips.   The 1950s were filled with cowboy tv shows with sharpshooters who could shoot the guns right out of the grip of the bad guys.  No blood on that, just straight shootin’ and the town was saved, yay!

2018-0225

Overread at Booth 2: Poem of the Day: Onyx Fingertips

                Fingertips, you touch

                my skin, and thus, you

                assign my identity.

                I am merely the

                race you require of

                me, according

                to the situation.

                At a restaurant, I             

                am white, at our

                family fiestas,

                soy puro Latino,              

                and for this

                war,

                I am black

                and hard

                as onyx.

MR
2017-0719

Overheard at Table 3: Kris and Mack

Mack: Had a dream about you last night.

Kris: Am I going to have to take you to HR for this?

Mack: No, it's not THAT kind of dream.  We were all at your house, early morning, it was still dark, and you have this detached garage.

Kris: I don't have a detached garage, but go on.

Mack: Anyway, there was someone rummaging around your garage and you were saying, "Be quiet.  I think it's my neighbor.  She's in a car in there.  You can hear the stereo."  And I said, "She's hiding in your garage?" and you said, "Yes," and I said, "Like a possum?"

Kris: Like a possum?

Mack:  That's EXACTLY how you replied in the dream and I said, "Yeah" and then your husband was there with a flashlight, trying to shine it in the window of the garage and you said, "Don't scare her" and then your mom came and opened the garage door and your neighbor said that she had been moving your Buick out of your garage every day for the past few weeks and parking her Buick there so she could get some peace and quiet before having to go to work.

Kris: In your dream we own a Buick?  What the hell do you think of me and my family?

Mack:  I dunno.  It was a Buick.  Anyway, your mom is then leading your neighbor away, saying something about taking her to get booked at the county jail, and then your son...

Kris: Kevin or Kenny?

Mack: Kenny.   He said, "Well, why doesn't she just come over every morning and walk our dog?  That way, she'll get peace and quiet and we'll get our dog walked!" and you said, "That's a good idea, buddy!" and that was the dream.

Kris: I don't know if I want to talk to you about my family issues any more.

Poem of the Day: Untitled September 14th

How are you with your back to the ground?

Pinned down by fire on all sides?

You dare not lift your head above the sight line.

Some people feel the same every time they open their eyes;

did you know that?

It seems such a harsh comparison: to compare waking

in your own bed, your head on your own pillow,
to being hunkered down in a foxhole with the night sky peppered
with explosions from shells so close that your eardrums burst.

But some people awake like that.

How can the quiet of the morning be, for some,

so much like the encroaching fear of having your
flesh flayed off your skeleton and your bones shattered to dust?

It seems such a sad thing,

But here we are:

With our eyes open, and the neighbors’ dogs barking somewhere

in the distance of the neighbors’ yard.

And now it is time to lift our shoulders,

above that sight line,

and face the fires and the explosions of this tragic little war

that we call our daily lives.




MR
2018-0914

Overheard at Booth 4: Mack and Kris Discuss Madame Secretary

Kris: I love Madam Secretary.  Halfway through Season three.  Just LOVE that woman.  Tough as hell.


Mack:  Yeah, she reminds me a lot of you.   Only without the sailor's mouth.


Kris:  Fuck you.


Mack: My case in point.

Overheard at Table 2: Dad's Pot Belly

At Table 2 sits a middle-aged man with his middle-aged wife and their late-teens son.   The mom is telling the son how proud she is that he's been working out and he's looking good, fit, and in good shape.


The son says, "Yeah, it takes a lot of dedication, going to the gym and all.  Hitting it every morning at 5am before I go into class at U of H.  But I just remember seeing dad one day mowing the lawn without a shirt on, and really sorry to say this, Dad, but I just don't ever want to get a belly like what you got."


"Hey!" says the husband.  "This belly is the proud result of two decades of your mom's fine cooking!"


The wife reaches over and pats his rotund midriff protrusion.  "That and all the Wendy's and Burger King you keep sneaking for lunch," she says, laughing.


"They're all made with love," the man replies.  "They are all made with love."

Overheard at Table 2: Jacksonville Shooter

Billy: Heard there was another shooting in Jacksonville.


Joe: School?


Jim: Nope.


Bob: Work?


Billy: Nah.


Joe: Military base?


Jim: Video game tournament.


Bob: Video game tournament?


Billy: Well, that certainly gives takes 'First Person Shooter' to a whole 'nutha level.


Joe: Some out there listenin' might say that now ain't the time for jokin'.


Jim: I'd say it's the perfect time for jokin'.


Bob: Nothing else seems to be working.

Overread at Booth 1: Poem for August 8th

Poem for August 8^th, the Winter of our Contentment

 

Slip out and slip better

in the pattern balm,

the midnight spiders that you swallow in the callous keep

will keep you solid until the dawn.

 

You know better than to polish a wooden nickel,

You should have been taught how to tie your own shoes

but you never realized that Time has something nagging in store for you,

it’s called the scars of everyone who ever did you wrong.

 

There are breaths that you take that you never exhale,

they are the captured summer suns on afternoons where

stars fell through the leaves of the trees,

you captured them, palms up and open wide,

where landed the kisses of the lovers you were when you were young lovers

and all love was new and every touch was pure light, pure electric spark,

pure energy, pure life.

 

And now, the touch is merely the comforting warmth of the cinders

of a fire that you and your lover have slowly watched slumber

as you have retold your stories and reshared the jokes that always make you

laugh together and the smiles that you share, your laugh lines are on your lover’s mouth

and your lover’s crows feet grace the corners of your eyes

and you share the same breath and you share the same smile and

you share the same forehead and you share the same face,

 

and this is the conclusion of the deal, this is the whole bailywick,

this is the culmination of desperate nights and ruinous days and

anxiously awaiting through every moment of “holy fuck, is this worth it?”

 

and the embers of that fire and the toes that you touch underneath the

blanket answer you.

 

“yes.

 

yes,

 

holy fuck,

it was all worth it.”

MR

2018-0808

NOTE: Often I will overhear or mishear some phrase, which will start a poem, and then by the second stanza the poem will be something completely different and will finish, having nothing to do with the original line.  I often wonder if I should just chop off the first line.  Probably should, but for some reason, I leave it, because even though non-sensical, it contains whatever seed that engendered the rest.

Overheard at the Counter: White Anxiety

After listening to white racist tv (AKA Fox News) commentator Laura Ingraham spew bullshit about how the "America we know and love" no longer exists because of "illegal and legal immigration," combined with the rising legitimacy of White Supremacists in the USA, Mel Brooks' song "High Anxiety" came to mind.

Especially since news outlets have now legitimized racism by calling racism by a name specifically designed to make racism palatable to their viewers.  "White Anxiety"

As though we are to have some sort of sympathy for those who already have a greater advantage, simply by the nature of their melanin content.

HIGH ANXIETY

Mel Brooks

Mel Brooks, arranged by John Morris

High anxiety whenever you're near -

High anxiety - it's you that I fear.

My heart's afraid to fly - it's crashed before ...

But then you take my hand;

My heart starts to soar once more.

High anxiety ... it's always the same;

High anxiety ... it's you that I blame.

It's very clear to me I've got to give in.

High anxiety: you win.

White Anxiety

by Verble Gherulous

inspired by Trump and the Magats, 2018

White Anxiety, whenever they’re near

White Anxiety, it’s them that I fear

They take our jobs away, they move right in

They take our daughters hand

So they can breed more – and MORE!

White Anxiety, they all look the same

White Anxiety, it’s them that I blame

It’s white genocide by black and brown pride

White Anxiety, we’ll die!

Overread at the Counter: Kill the Pope

Verble says, "I love this guy!  I show him a cool tweet and give him a song idea and within a week, he comes up with a  full lyric.  It's like I have the ideas and he puts in all the blood, sweat, and tears!  Speaking of tears though, I don't cry.  He got that part wrong.  I wouldn't cry.... OK, maybe just a little.  But not like a little baby.  Like a grateful grown man!"

Kill the Pope

1.

Twelve blokes outside a Tesco, shouting “Kill the Pope”
They buggered off quite nicely when I said, “Someone get a rope”
Met a girl from Derry headed for a street parade.
She said, “Are you out or in?”
I said, “My mind’s not made.”

2.

This Derry girl she laughed and led me to Royal Avenue
I lost her in the crowd and rain and din of the revue.
Then two lads tugged my sleeve, and handed me a beer
They said, “You’re from Texas, mate,
But fook, we’re glad you’re here!”

3.

Just then I turned and bumped into one from Tullamore
A woman I had dated some thirty years before
I recalled the nights we’d watch Nighthawks and she would call me “Pet.”
I said, “I bought your novel
But I haven’t read it yet.”

4.

She introduced her lover, a girl from Ballina
Who had a tattoo on her wrist, it was the eye of Ra.
Those three eyes stared through me, laying every secret bare.
She said, “That day at Shannon,
You just left her standing there.”

[SOLO]

5.

The Derry girl tapped my arm, said “Let’s head to Ryan’s Bar.
The regulars know every song in the Wolfe Tones repertoire.”
She said “You seem a man who’s lonely in a crowd.”
“That’s because I’m old,” I said,
“Though I’m not ready for the shroud.”

6.

Then she and I, those two lads, Tullamore and Ballyna
We sang Ryan’s rafters down until the final call.
Then we walked toward the docks to watch the sun arise,
Where Tullamore
Said she forgave me,
and hot tears
welled in
                my eyes.

7.

I was always taught of one Apostolic Church
And I’ve seen religion leave many in the lurch
But redemption, kindness, decency, these things give me hope
That God loves little children and every misanthrope
And protects the pure of heart and those who cannot cope
And those who make a fortune selling Daddy’s dope.
And one day will make straight every slippery slope
And that He even loves twelve Tesco boys
Still shouting “Kill the Pope!”
He even loves twelve Tesco boys,
Still shouting “Kill the Pope!”

Kill the Pope!

 

 

MR

2018-0805 – inspired by a tweet by Caoimhe Ní Dhónaill, first line of this song.
2018-0806
2018-0807
2018-0808
2018-0814 – completed work on lyrics

NOTES: the good Dr Dhónaill is, for the purposes of this song at least, from Derry.  She may or may not be from that lovely town IRL (which stands both for Ireland and also means “In Real Life” in ‘netspeak, interestingly enough).

The woman from Tullamore is real, and everything about her in verse three is true (as well as the last line in verse 4).  However, I do not know if Tullamore truly has a lover from Ballyna.  That town was chosen merely for its rhyming capability.

Verse 5, line 2, is also a nod to the good Dr, as she once sent Verble a song by the Wolfe Tones.

Verse 5, line 3, is inspired by her paper, “Emotions and Masculinity”

Verse 7, line 6, is an homage to the Ramones’ “Happy Family” which seemed oddly appropriate for this song.

The phrasing of the song is 4/4, and while writing it, I had in mind both Bob Dylan’s “Motorpsycho Nitemare” and “Bob Dylan’s 115^th Dream.”  I also imagined the chords of those songs being played in the same guitar style as The Clash’s “London Calling.”  Additionally, the song should also be considered played in the style of the Pogues album Red Roses for Me.

Overread at the Counter: Cthulhu McQueen

I was inspired by a Twitter friend of mine, PK, from the band Blisstique, to write a song called "Cthulhu McQueen."  The name was inspired by a couple of songs we were trading back and forth.


While I am not, myself, blessed with the gene to sit down and write a poem or a song, my nephew-in-law and great friend, a shy man who wants to be known only as "MR" was able to write the song based on the parameters I gave him:  The name, and set on Long Island in the state of New York.


What he came up with, he hopes that PK may one day make into a song.   MR says it can either be 4/4 or 6/4 and has placed emphasis on the stressed syllables as they hit either 1,2,3,4 beats (4/4), or 1st and 4th beats (6/4).


He also says although he was unaware of it at the time, he may have been channeling a bit of Bruce Springsteen's "Spirits in the Night" (a song made a hit by Manfred Mann's Earth Band).


Enjoy!

Cthulhu McQueen

1.

I was driving through Brooklyn with Cthulhu McQueen.
We were looking for that Goth/Bohemian scene.
Gail O’Grady in the back seat, drinking styrene,
She said, “Brooklyn is dead, boys, let’s head out to Queens”

2.

At the Shepherd Metro exit there on Pitkin Avenue,
Meryl G was pacing in glittered platform shoes.
She was singing a song she called “Angelmint Blues”
Gail shouted out the window, “Girl I love your Jimmy Choos!”

3.

Cthulhu hopped in the back, Meryl took over shotgun,
Then she slipped a pink tab under my tongue with her tongue
Gail said, “What kind of mom would give that name to her son?”
He said, “The kind who reads Lovecraft from the dusk until dawn.”
4.
4.

At the lighthouse at Montauk ‘bout a quarter past three,

I was smelling the colours of the wind through the trees.
Cthulu’s arms became tentacles sliding out from his sleeves
That wrapped around Gail, then both slipped into the sea.

[Solo]

5.

I awoke to the sun  chasing away the last star,
Meryl G was snoring loudly in the back of the car.
To this day I can’t say exactly what I had seen,
But that’s the last I saw of Gail and Cthulhu McQueen.

Overread at Table 1: Poem of the Day "At This Time, On This Day, America"

At This Time, On This Day, America

 

These are the angels of our bitter nature:

time, they unfold their wings, and assault the sky,

caring nothing for what they leave against the ground,

not the sound of their dying afterlives, or

their good fortunes, no,

these angels are not made a little less than men,

they are made of acrid moisture

that seeps out between the foetid toes,

they are the bile that churn from the spleen

and drips out the rotten nose,

these angels are the angry noises

that we make at night to the children

that we spit on, those little faces,

that stand just outside our windows, looking in,

their tiny fingers curled around the diamond shapes

of the links in the chain,

fences that keep them forever out

and which allow us to pretend that we are all

free.

 

MR

2018-0713

 

Overheard at Table 3: Notes on Liberals vs Conservatives

There is a fundamental difference between the ways in which Liberals and Conservatives approach any issue.  Below are three examples:

 

What makes the Conservative message so appealing to so many people is that it is easy.  In a world where people hate to think, and when empathy takes a lot of emotional energy, a Conservative mindset is, frankly, the easier path.   Let’s face it: to be loving, sympathetic, and understanding takes a lot of work sometimes.  To be apathetic, no real energy at all.

 

 

 

Overheard at Booth 3: Our Twenty YO Selves

"I think we owe something to our twenty-year-old selves."

"Really?  What?"

"You know... all those dreams we had.  All those things we were going to do.  Climb mountains.  See Paris.  Write novels.   Rappel down the sides of skyscrapers.   Learn new languages.  All that stuff.  Now that we're pushing fifty, it seems like we owe it to our younger selves to do some of those things."

"Me... I don't think we owe our twenty-something selves a damn thing.   In fact, I think just the opposite.  I think our twenty-something selves owe some things to US!"

"How do you figure?"

"They could have taken better care of our bodies.  They could have not smoked so many cigarettes, or burned out so many brain cells or stayed up so late or slept with the people that they slept with without using proper protection."

"Yeah, that would have been nice!"

"So yeah, I think our twenty-something selves can go piss up a rope!"

Overheard at Table 2: TG Men to Women

I was in Walgreens the other day and I was in the checkout line and there was this kinda pretty Asian in front of me and I couldn't really tell if she was a she or if he was a she, or a he who wanted to be a she, whatever, but anyway, this pretty Asian lady-person was buying a whole bunch of makeup stuff, base, blush, lipstick, some of those eyebrow pushy things, lotions, you name it, whole bunch of women's makeup. 

And the cashier rang it up at $119.38, and I thought to myself, "Man, if a guy wants to become a woman, then he must really think of himself as a woman.  Because no guy who thinks of himself as a guy would change his whole life if it meant laying out so much cash for all that makeup, every time he goes to the store!"

Overheard at Table 3: Do you drink?

"Do you drink?" she asked.


"If there is alcohol in the vicinity," he answered.


"Do you drink more than two nights in a row?" she asked.


"I want to be a writer," he answered.  "Of course I drink more than two nights in a row."


"If there is alcohol in the vicinity?"


"Yes.  If there is alcohol in the vicinity."

Overheard at Table 1: Gaza

It's a strange thing to be alive today, in Houston, so far from the Middle East, from Israel, from Gaza, and to hear the news, the strange news, the strange news, about the deaths of protesters, the deaths of children.  Protesters, armed with slingshots and rocks, being gunned down by soldiers with bullets made in the US of A.   ....

and then to hear the news blame their deaths on Hamas.  Hamas, the terrorist organization, that has long called for the death of Israel.  Terrorist organization, yes, definitely, certainly, there's no good there.  None.  We get that.  It's settled. 

But Hamas didn't put an American bullet in a child's head.  Hamas didn't force the Israeli soldiers to fire on the crowd.  Heck, it seems like even this time, Hamas didn't even really incite the protests.

The protests were incited by the US of A moving its embassy to Jerusalem.  A move that is merely symbolic.  A move that sends a message to the Palestinians, very clearly, that every word every American ever said about peace in the region is a lie.  A flat out lie.

Palestinians knew it was a lie, surely, but they had hope.  For a long time, they had the thinnest amount of hope, that possibly, just possibly, the US of A would talk to Israel, to have them observe some modicum of restraint.  To stop building so many illegal settlements, to stop killing protesters, all the time.

All that is gone now.  Gone now that the Trump's pretty blond daughter and Trump's money man opened the embassy.  So strange how the main representatives of the US Government were the daughter of the Commander-in-Chief (with no qualifications of her own) and the Secretary of the Treasury.   The Treasury.   Surely that means something.

It's all about the Benjamins, amirite?

But now, today there are people dead.  Some say 28, some say 58, some even say 90.   Some say 6 are children.  It's really hard to know how many people are dead, but we just know that they ARE dead.  And they would NOT be dead - most likely - if what has happened on THIS day had NOT happened.

Had the US of A not moved their embassy, these people would not be dead.  At least not on this day.

Tomorrow they will be forgotten.  Next week there will be some other tragedy.   But there will be families that will always remember the dead on this day, and on the lessons learned.

And at the end of it wall, what does it say about the message of Love and Salvation of Jesus Christ.

It says nothing at all.

What it says is that Christ does not love Palestinians.  What it says is that the people who proclaim Christ feed Israeli soldiers the bullets and the guns and the missiles and the tanks and the airplanes that they use to kill Palestinians.   That's all.

And Christ is mute in the Holy Land.

This Holy Land that slides into the sea under the weight of Palestinian blood.

Overread at Table 2: Poem "Caravan"