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Footlong Hot Dogs of the Apocalypse

By       Message Phil Rockstroh       (Page 2 of 3 pages) Become a premium member to see this article and all articles as one long page.     Permalink

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The tragedy is that too many look to their exploiters for answers. Those who insist on dwelling in an ad hoc architecture of denial -- as flimsy as the prefab edifices of this Strip Mall Nation, as empty as the soul-devoid rooms of a McMansion -- conjure disaster, and those who evince a noxious innocence (when no adult is innocent in a blood-sustain empire) become monsters.

It is one's societal (perhaps, even sacred) duty to strive for awareness. Those who demur will become slaves, and, in ways overt and tacit, argue for the exploitative and cruel caprice of their masters.

Too often people practice freedom of speech, rather than committing to the more difficult task of pursuing freedom of being " thus, all to often, mistaking the din of a prison for freedom of expression.

To dwell in the domain of the heart " is to choose to live in a dangerous terrain, for the choice will forever alter the world you (believed) you knew. The thoughts of the heart are dangerous items to carry in this age of the facile and fascist; it is the dangerous cargo that the national security state is searching for when applying body scans and pat-down searches. The thoughts of the heart are at the top of the state's "no fly list."

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Why does one choose to call the stultifying enclosure of a self-constructed prison of the mind " freedom " come to regard his jailers as his benefactors, and hate those who point out his predicament " insisting the clanging of his chains is music to his ears -- the stirring melody of a patriotic hymn?

I am amazed at the talent on display by the oppressed of the corporate/military state: In particular, their impressive skills as contortion artists -- who are able to lower a boot on their own necks, as, all the while, they march in lockstep to the dictates of their economic overlords -- a damn impressive talent, and more than a little unnerving to witness.

Thus, the fallback taunt of the witless to those who question (or cannot adapt to) the current order, "get a job."

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The global economy does not have an underemployment problem; we suffer an over-employment tragedy i.e. the precious moments of this finite life that are squandered laboring for a corrupt elite of pathological greedheads.

In fact, those active in the Occupy Wall Street Movement do have jobs: Our job is to transform the present order -- to put out of work the capitalist criminals who have enslaved too many, body and soul, for far too long. Our job is to eliminate their jobs.

Moreover, do not believe for a moment the corporate media/police state dismissal that Occupy Wall Street is so "last year." When, in fact, trusting in neoliberal propaganda is, oh so, last millennium.

The resonance and reverberations of the global-wide uprising against neoliberal exploitation and injustice -- which is woven into the molecular structure of the OWS movement -- is far from done, because the global bankster/corporate plundering class are not done yet. By the very nature of building a prison or sweatshop, you have introduced the dream of freedom into the hearts of the enslaved.

As many readers are aware, vis---vis my recent essays, last month, I returned to the region of my birth to bear witness and bid farewell to my father as he departed this life for cosmic points unknown.

 

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An experience whereby one is confronted by the demarcation point dividing life and death, or the transitory nature of time, brings what is essential into stark relief. Visits home, to the precincts of one's youth " exited, long ago " can buffet one with enveloping sorrow.

When catching up with old friends, who never left the area, one becomes subject to the Mortality and Contretemps Report " a gawky girl you exchanged French kisses with, when you were thirteen, has succumbed to brain cancer " a seemingly level-headed, steady friend that you (thought) you knew " a scientist, a father, a man of humor and forbearance " committed suicide.

Fortuna's Wheel, it seems, is a chaos-proliferate fractal of perpetual hurt. The fate of others (and ourselves) is providentially unknowable. The present moment opens before us " so astounding to behold that we feel we can go on forever, held in beauty " emboldened by evanescent grace.

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Phil Rockstroh is a poet, lyricist and philosopher bard living in New York City. He may be contacted at Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/phil.rockstroh

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