Dunwich Horror - Wilbraham - Free Poetry - October 2022

THE DUNWICH HORROR was published in 1929 by Weird Tales. Three years earlier HP Lovecraft had stayed in Wilbraham east of Springfield, Mass. The lost farmhouses scattered on the low mountains exuded a foreboding gloom inspired this tale, especially the 18th Century Whateley Farmhouse on Beebe Road.

THE DUNWICH HORROR recounts the fictional life of Wilbur Whateley, son of a deformed albino mother and an unknown father, who matures to manhood in less than ten years.

The town's secrets remain secrets, until a college professor and his co-ed aide visit at the Miskatonic University'S Library, where they meet a young man checking out the dreaded NECROMICON, a time-worn book of arcane rituals.

THE DUNWICH HORROR has long been considered one of the core stories of HP Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos, in which Wilbur Whateley, son of a deformed albino mother and an unknown father reputed to be named Yog-Sothoth, and the strange events surrounding his birth and precocious development.

THE DUNWICH HORROR was a short story written in 1928 and first published in the April 1929 issue of Weird Tales. The tale takes place in Dunwich, a fictional town in Massachusetts, where the heroes successfully defeat the antagonistic entity or monster of the story.

This past October my comrade in arms and I headed to Boston. The battle with my disease had sapped my strength and I was in no condition to drive north. My comrade Brigette had the wheel and I sat a prisoner in the passenger seat. The traffic on I95 jockeyed for position on the interstates like demo derby drivers on crank. The two-and-half-hour trip took five hours and were more than happy to complete our journey to the Mariciano residence south of Nine Mile Pond.

My good friend Eric Marciano passed away in the summer and I wanted to see his wife. The film director was a true New Englander. When I mentioned to his son Zach that I was visiting several HP Lovecraft sites in New England he mentioned that the house on Beebe Road inspired THE DUNWICH HORROR. Brigette and I immediately said we had to go the dreaded house the next morning.

Meredith said that the Wilbraham Drive-In showed horror and bike films.

"Young couples loved horror films. The terror forced young girls into teenage boys' arms."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQJykYhMeQ4

Watching THE DUNWICH HORROR's trailer it was easy to see how.

Zach easily found he house on Beebe Road. He had long been a fan of the horrors of HP Lovecraft and its setting amongst the stunted trees of Wilbraham Mountains epitomized the gothic horror the arcane world lost to humanity.

Even on a sunny day thee was something about the house that betrayed Lovecrafts's inspiration for THE DUNWICH HORROR

The two-story house surrounded by trees had added steps to the entrance, a side access and electricity, but little else had changed in ninety years.

We set up our signs.

Free Poetry.

We didn't believe in social media.

If someone stopped, someone stopped.

Meridith went first.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ccwa2mBNmXM

Robert Frost's THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED.

One of Eric's favorites, which the poet read at JFK's inaugeration in 1961.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eT00TyS7EcE

Brigette Lundy Paine followed with one of our favorite poets.

Ranier Maria Rilke.

We hate rich people.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwJzQ27Eku0&t=14s

Zach Marciano is a true fan of HP Lovecraft.

He read from THE DUNWICH HORROR. He like I love the terror.

Gorgons and hydras.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IH1zEZPjbjY&t=11s

My reading was inspired by THE TERROR AT INNSMOUTH

A Cthulhu legend of haunted New England.

Only a Volkwagen passed us during the FREE POETRY reading.

A dog ran from the house.

It did not bark.

The dog did not scare Brigette. But not during the day

We sat on the wall.

In love with THE DUNWICH HORROR.

It must been great at the drive-in.

Lucky's Night 1955

Lost another job today
And my empty pockets don't help
Can't say the future's mine
But the past wasn't mine too.
So as always I'll live on account
Jamie was there the night I rolled 300
And all she managed to say,
"It musta been fixed."

Leaving me all alone.
So I took the prize
The chance to lie between the thighs
Of the youngest waitress at the bowling alley bar.
Doreen left at dawn
Taking all my winnings
I walked to my home.
Jamie had wrote a note
She and the kids were Laredo bound
I don't know what is in that town.
Now beer cans litter my bed sheets
I have enough change for a six pack of Lone Star beer
No home
No family
No money
And no friends answering the phone
So I'll do what I've always done
I'll roll another 300.
Lucky has to come my way again.

Jeffery Dalmer Was Not Alone

Jeffery Dalmer murdered over seventeen men from 1978 to 1991 in Milwaukee. He started with animals. At his trial he claimed to have acted alone, however in 1964 I saw evidence that he might have been connected to a long-running Satanic cult and wrote about an incident in the Blue Hills south of Boston.

An excerpt from WICKED YOUTH.

Chuckie and I had never been to this part of the woods, but he spotted a collapsed Quonset hut, with a steeple toppled on the ground. New England winters were hard on abandoned building. The makeshift church bore the scars of a recent burning and Chukcie threw a rock at a window. It missed by a foot. We heard a flutter of feathers and turned our heads to a dead elm at the end of the overgrown field.

Hundreds of black crows perched on the tree's withered branches. The rustle of dry leaves slithered a command and their scavenger heads swiveled to a burnt patch of grass in the field. I blinked several times. “You see that?”

“Yeah.” Chuckie was scared. So was I.

A whitened skull had been stuck on a chest-high stake. Dead animals were impaled on five smaller poles wrapped with arcane rags. Some people claimed the Blue Hills were cursed by the massacred tribe of Massachusetts Indians, but these dead animals had nothing to do with dead red men.

“That big skull belongs to a dog and the others look like cats.” Chuckie picked up a stick.

“Red Halley said the Devil was in the woods. I thought he was drunk.” The crows followed my bending over for the rusty steel rod and I peeked from the corner of my eyes.

Just because I couldn’t see a face or a body didn’t mean the woods were empty. Chuckie had had a pet dog. “You think the dog might be Skippy?”

“No, Skippy is long gone.” I knew that his father had given Skippy to a poor kid, who had no mother. I never told him the truth.

“Just like your bunny rabbits.” I had had pet bunnies for one day. They had jumped from the box in my garage. The fall had put them out of their misery. We had cried when they died.

“Yes, just like the bunny rabbits.” This setting was a sacrilege and we charged the skulls with a scream.

The murder of crows wheeled overhead, as we knocked the totems to the ground and pounded the skulls to shards. Chuckie and I ran from the meadow followed by demonic cawing. We didn’t stop until reaching the giant slabs of granite marking the boundaries of the quarries. Breathless Chuckie turned to the woods. “Who you think did that?”

Our usual list of villains of men in black hats, Nazis, and aliens from outer space never stuck the animals on stakes. “I don’t know.”

“Me neither, but whoever did it is will be angry with whoever messed it up.” Chuckie was right.

“This will be our secret.”

A savage howl pierced the summer air.

Both of us started with horror, thinking the howl might belong to the dog’s skull, but I recognized its owner. The Rolla’s black dog had smelled my scent. Her was more scary than any dead dog.

Years later I found the following photo in the newspaper.

It came from the collection of Jeffery Dalmer.

I had seen it before.

In 1964.

And I shivered thinking Jeffery Dalmer was not alone.

Bowling For Prosperity

Back in the 1980s no one other than Rockets Red Glare was fat and these days he might pass for husky.

We loved he nightlife.

New York was the capitol of the world.

Every place else on Earth was second-rate, except for Paris and Pattaya.

Both those cities knew sin.

However New York could mix bowling with sex, drugs, and rock n roll at the University Lanes in the Village run by Alan Platt.

The girls were beautiful.

We knew their names.

Especially Wendy.

We will always have the University Lanes and Paris.

Forever, although we never bowled in the City of Light.

ps my best game was a 187 and I was beaten by John Conti who scored a 199.

Oatar World Cup Boycott

The Qatar peninsula has been populated for thousands of years. In the 1800s the peninsula provided pearls to the Ottoman Empire and later became a British Protectorate. The sleepy Gulf city gained importance with the discovery of oil and natural gas. Its economy swelled with the worldwide demand for fossil fuels and enriched the ruling Thani family with billions of petrol dollars, enabling the small peninsula to win in 2011 the rights the the 2022 FIFA World Cup.

Hundreds of thousands of migrant workers from Bangladesh, India, and Nepal were hired by employment agencies demanding exorbitant fees to guarantee a working visa. All these men were seeking to support their impoverished families, however they were cheated of their wages and thousands have died under the desert sun without any criticism from FIFA the governing body for the World Cup.

Money overruled any and all abuses.

The 2014 Word Cup in Brazil cost $13 billion.

The 2018 World Cup in Russia topped $15 billion.

That was nothing.

The bill for the 2022 Qatar World has been estimated at $370 billion from oil price manipulations or the combined GDP of the fifty poorest countries on Earth.

Human rights were trampled by the Qatar Sharia law.

FIFA backed their choice to the hilt.

I've watched most of this century's World Cup, but I am boycotting Qatar 100%.

The horrible living conditions of the migrant workers, the uncounted death, the cheating them of wages, and FIFA's corruption has destroyed one of the greatest sporting events in the world.

Fuck Qatar. Fuck FIFA. Fuck the World Cup.

BOYCOTT.

It's not too late.

Bad Mouthing the Eagle

Benjamin Franklin proposed the turkey for the national bird. The turkey of his era was nothing like the domesticated bird slaughtered for Thanksgiving. The wild turkey was a cunning wood creature living in large communes of fellow avians. Huge flocks of brightly plumed turkeys would cloud the skies andBenjamin Franklin vehemently opposed the choice of the eagle as the national bird.

“I wish that the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country, he is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly, you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk, and when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to its nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him…. Besides he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, not bigger than a sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest. . . of America.. . . For a truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on.” Wonder what Eagle would taste like for Thanksgiving.

LProbably like crow.

Big Bird Day

Last year I walked through Grand Central Terminal. Thousands of passengers sought to catch a train home for Thanksgiving. My sister had invited her family feast outside of Boston. I have to work on Friday and opted out on the holiday exodus to spend a quiet day at the Fort Greene Observatory.

I made myself eggs and toast for breakfast.

My options for a turkey dinner are limited to the buffet at Mikie Ds.

It's only a few blocks from my house.

That afternoon millions of mothers were putting on the final touches for the big dinner.

As a youth my Thanksgiving mornings were consumed by peeling apples, potatoes, turnips, carrots for our eight family members and another 5-10 guests.

My older brother called it ‘KP Day’.

After the turkey was done, my mother would extract the the crispy-skinned carcass out of the oven and order me to carry the big bird out the garage. Why was never explained to us.

One Thanksgiving I obeyed her command.

The garage door was open.

The air was cold.

It wouldn't take long for the bird to be ready for dinner.

My next-door neighbor came over to the driveway with a football. We had spent the morning at the football game between my hometown and their arch-rivals. The two of us went into the backyard to emulate the day’s heroes. After bobbling a long pass Chuckie pointed to the front lawn.

"What's with DJ?"

DJ was a neighborhood dog. I was in love with his owner, Kyla. The German Shepard had his entire head was masked by turkey and I heard my mother scream, “The turkey.”

I picked up a stick from the ground and charged to save our holiday meal. The big black dog fled from our yard with a slobbering snarl, leaving behind a mauled meal. My mother cried, “Where are we going to find a turkey now?”

My father looked at me. This was my fault. I didn’t even bother to explain my side of the story.

When you’re wrong as a child, proving you’re right is a waste of breath.

My older brother and younger siblings thanked me for ruining Thanksgiving.

DJ’s owners paid for our meal at a nearby hotel. The food was good and my mother didn’t have to wash any dishes.

The next day Kyla kissed me on the cheek for not beating her dog.

So even bad Thanksgivings can turn out okay, when life is good and it's always good to the last slice of pie on Turkey Day.

ERICA'S REVENGE fotos by Ellen Von Unwerth

Erica had a lot to learn from Alice. Raising your eyes was a sin. Erica knew better. Alice was about to learn what was best.

Afternoon masquerades were held in the garden. The crowd liked to take and not give. Erica was an expert at either.

Erica was back to being herself. She didn't question her role, She liked being a slave And so did everyone else. FOTOS BY ELLEN VON UNWERTH

Lookalike - Tanya of the SLA - May 1974

West of Omaha Sean pulled into a truck stop. Sunrose bleached the prairie. AK, Pam walked into the diner filled with sleepy truckers in desperate need of a lift stronger than coffee. None of the long-haulers commented about hippies. The drivers wore their hair long too. AK, Pam, and Sean sat at the counter and waited for the beleaguered waitress.

"Seems all this rednecks have eyes for Pam," commented AK.

"Yeah, they ain't seen anyone like you," Sean complimented the blonde nursing student, who resembled a runaway Lolita past her teen years.

AK read the menu, as if the pianist might chose a breakfast other than eggs over easy with bacon. Sean picked up a discarded Omaha World-Herald. Watergate dominated the headlines. The other big story was Patty Hearst on the run from the police. The SLA radical topped the FBI’s Most Wanted List.

Several truckers held the same newspapers in their hands, then studied her with an interest greater than sex.

Pam was nervous about the undivided attention.

“They stare at me, as if they haven’t ever seen a woman in their life.

“They might have another reason.” Sean tapped Patty Hearst photo.

“They think I look like her?”

“Yes.”

“I look nothing like her.”

“I agree, but Mr. Hearst has offered $50,000 for his daughter’s return.” The SLA had demanded $100, 000, but her father offered less. The SLA had the Oakland Black Panthers buy food to distribute to the People.

“If she’s Tanya, then they must think that we’re SLA." The heiress had betrayed her class. Tanya was a goddess of the revolution. You think any of these cowboys have a gun?”

“All of them.”

Two men glared, as if they had robbed the Hibernia Bank in California.

“Let’s get out of here,” Pam folded the menu.

“No, we stay or else some idiot will call the State Police for the reward.” Sean waved to the middle-aged waitress.

“What’s up?”

Her nametag said ‘Helen’.

“That’s my aunt’s name.”

“How nice. You ready to order?” She posed a pencil over her pad.

“Yes, Helen, but we have a small problem."

"I hope that it isn’t a vegetarian thing, because this diner serves bacon, ham, and steak with breakfasts.” She planted both hands on her ample hips.

“No, we love bacon.” AK reversed the newspaper. “But a few of your customers might think that our lady friend here is Patty Hearst.”

“Patty Hearst?” the waitress gasped, then her eyes flitted between the picture and Pam two times before chuckling, “These boys are as dumb as a cow tied to a post. You’re much prettier than that poor rich girl. Let me handle this.”

“Thanks.”

The waitress turned to her weary customers.

“You idiots keep your eyes on your food. This pretty girl ain’t no Patty Hearst. She’s plain people, so get back to your grits and eggs.”

“How can you be sure?” a fat man asked from the back of the diner.

“Jack, you want extra coffee or a check?”

“Extra coffee.” Jack lowered his head.

“That should take care of them. What will you kids have?” The waitress had enjoyed her tirade.

“Bacon, eggs over-easy, home-fries, toast and OJ.” Pam smiled with the delight in another woman’s power over men.

“Make it two.” Sean loved breakfast in America.

“Three.” AK added his order, which Helen gave to the short-order cook.

Thirty minutes later they exited from the diner. A young black attendant was filling the tank of a state trooper’s cruiser. The officer’s gaze tracked Pam to the station wagon, then tipped his hat. To him the blonde was just another beautiful hippie girl on the way to the coast.

The three of them stood by the station, basking in a warm dawn breeze.

“You smelled that?” Sean breathed the scent of a continent’s center.

“It’s almost the West.”

“By the end of the day we should see the Rockies.”

“The miles keep piling up.”

"Even faster if you let Tanya drive." Pam sat behind the wheel. Sean in the front and AK in the back. The station wagon had a high performance and powered out of the truck stop like revolutionaries on the lam and Pam drove fast as Tanya, because California and the revolution was only two days away.

Exceer[t froom my unpublsihed novel BACK AND FORTH

Ice Age Fini

The last Ice Age ended somewhere around 11,700 years ago.

Since then glacier around the globe have shrunk from the North and South Poles.

In 2017 I resided in Juneau, Alaska. The Mendenhall glacier was fourteen miles from my house. I have yet to hike the Western Trail to the ice caves.

The couple running the salmon shack near my place of work said I had better go this year.

"Next year they won't be here."

I planned to hump the trail this coming Friday.

5-6 hours.

Alone.

In bear country.

But fuck it.

I am one of the last Neanderthals.

We loved the Ice Age.

Mostly because they were no humans.

GOP Failure Election 2022

On Aug. 8, 1925 tens of thousands of white-robed KKK marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington to exhobit their strength.

Almost a hundred years later on January 6, 2021 thousands of right-wing fascists heeded Trump's call to violently storm the Capitol Building and prevent Joe Biden's from becoming president and since that insurrection the Fascists have condemned the 2020 election as theft and the right-wing mainstream media predicted a landslide victory for the Orange Jesus. CNN and Fox News foresaw the GOP taking control of the Senate and the Congress, as Trump feuded with his upstart rival from Florida. They were just trying to sell air-time, because the Democrats retained control of the Senate and Congress only slipped out of the grasp of the Democrats, because of redistricting and vote suppression, but also because of the core issue of abortion and that fact that the nation is weary of the constant hatred promoted by Trump's fringe maniacs. Some people even imagined a holiday season where people aren't shouting at each other, because of politics, but long unaddressed family issues.

Like the film director Michael Moore I thought the election's results would un in our favor, despite the DNC's propensity to appease the rich instead of seeking help from the progressive wing of the party. Bernie Sanders was brought out of the closet to energize the young and next election progressives will demand more influence on a platform to change the way we live.

No more Old Guys.

Especially no Old White Guys.

Yeah.

Journal Entry - Poetry - November 11, 1978 - East Village

The battlefields crossed the world

Suez, Flanders, the Dardenelles, Tannenberg, Africa, Asia

1914-1918

Sarajevo to Versailles

Tear gas, machine guns, ditches, airplanes, poison gas, tanks

Death in a thousand fields Gallipoli, Verdun, the Somme

The slaughter.

Nation's will, Emperor's greed, Man's strength versus an industry geared to blood

Now empire's gone

Although will millions of yooung men and women

The War to End all Wars.

If only for one day

Journal Entry - November 10, 1996 - New Delhi

After visiting Delhi's famed Red Fort I crossed the Yamuna river and wandered through narrow streets of a working neighborhood. A choking cloud of motorcycle exhaust overwhelmed my lungs. The workers of the small machine shops ignored my presence and the sun beat through my clothing to broil my skin. There was no refuge until I found myself standing before the Jain Bird Hospital I had read about the ancient religion's reverence of life and escaped the broiling sun,surprised how the chaos of India's capitol city had been vanquished by the hospital's inner calm. Thousands of birds were recovering from their injuries under the care of Jains, who respect for all things living to achieve the eternal circle birth life, life, death and reincarnation. I swiftly realized that I had added yet another holy site which might aid my young brother Michael's soul through eternity.

Back outside I caught a rickshaw to Connaught Circle, buying a Herald-Tribune before entering the calm of the Cellar. I ordered a Kingfisher beer and read the newspaper's reporting of the presidential election. The Democrats had beaten the GOP offering of Bob Dole, a good man, but deemed too stingy by the American public. Governor Bill Clinton had been reward for helping the CIA transport cocaine from Central America to Arkansas, but no one in America had sought prison for Colonel Oliver North. He was considered a hero, as was Bob Dole, but heroes weren't getting elected in 1996, because the message was simple.

It's the economy.

Five Votes for Mayflower Descendants

Yesterday afternoon three friends from Staten Island came to visit me in Clinton Hill. We had worked on several Manhattan construction sites. The trio were full-blown Trump supporters, but honest laborers who kept their opinions to themselves around me. Especially about the 2020 stolen election. We sat on the terrace of Larina Restaurant. They ordered a bottle of Barolo and I ordered an expresso. They individually expressed concern about my health and Charlie said, "How much weight have you lost?"

"Forty pounds. Nothing fits anymore and I look like a scarecrow in my old suits, except for my tuxedo." I've dealing with a broken liver for over a year. "NYU-Langone almost killed me twice with neglect and purposely ignoring my descent into madness. the new hospital is humane and will never treat me as a criminal."

"Here's to criminals," Tony the carpenter raised his glass. They knew the Mafia and had nothing to do with them. I was the same. "Criminals."

Viktor pointed to my I VOTED stick-on.

"You vote?"

"I always vote, but never for weak-kneed liberals." I had selected a communist in the 2016 Election rather than vote for Hillary Clinton and her pedophile husband. "Or Nazi Trump supporters. Anarchists never make it onto the ballot and I consider the DNC sell-outs to the filthy rich. In 2008 Obama was elected with a simple message. CHANGE. Trump sold MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. That message lost force as the Orange Jesus showed his real color. That he has been, is, and will be only for a quick buck."

"You sound like you don't believe the 2020 election was stolen." Charlie only watch Fox News, but didn't buy into Alex Jones' madness.

"It wasn't, but I did my best and voted five times. All legally."

"Five times???How can you do that."

Firstly it's not against the law." I loved winding them up.

Like libtards Trumpettes only read memes. Both considered knowledge a danger to their way of like. America was more dangerous than ignorance.

"How is voting five times not against the law?" Viktor was a new emigrant from a frozen village forty kilometers east of Murmansk.

"As the Mayflower descendant it's written in the Constitution that we get five votes in thanks for ridding this continent of the Pequot, Abenake, MicMacs, and various other tribes. My antecedent John Howell had signed himself as an indentured servant to to join the Puritan colonists fleeing persecution. Mid-Atlantic he was washed overboard, but miraculously grabbed hold of a lanyard and hauled himself to safety, otherwise I would be here with my five votes."

It was the truth.

"Five votes???" Charlie knew me longest and I sold the lie, explaining, "If you go toTwenty-Sixth Amendment, Section 13 you'll read how we get five votes. Actually I voted only three times; Brooklyn, Manhattan, the East Village. I can't travel to Boston and Maine, so I only voted three times, but that should help the libtards win."

"No way," exclaimed Charlie. "Fox News and CNN say we are going to get control of both the Senate and Congress."

"Those that don't know say. This that know don't say. All they care about is ratings and paychecks."

"And you don't." Charlie slipped me an envelope. It felt like five hundred. He understood how sick I was and wanted me around a long time.

"We all have kids."

"And kids are more expensive thanks to Biden inflation."

"And the Endless War. Not one candidate mentioned how the Pentagon only fights war to make money for their Arms manufacturers. Kill them all."

We argued amicably until 3:30. They had to beat the traffic to Staten Island.

"Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for being here," joked Viktor. "Maybe next time you'll get to vote five times."

"I'll do my best, comrades."

We exchanged hugs and after they drove away, a young nearby diner in IKEA clothing asked, "How can you stand those people?"

"Because they care. Maybe about the wrong things, but they care and one day I will make them see my way." I stood up and sneered, "Unlike you. Did you vote today?"

"No."

"Then shut your hole, you cunt."

maybe I'm not to say that word, but criminals communicate only with the truth as we see it.

The Loss of America

On September 13, 1926 30,000 white-robed KKK members marched down Pennsylvania Avenue. The second wave of the Klan had been nourished by Woodrow Wilson, an adamant racist from pre-bellum Georgia. No police barred their progress through the predominantly black city. Warren Harding had been poisoned by Klaven assassins to prevent his resistance to the Klan, however the following presidents weakened the KKK and they almost vanished from America, even though lynching, police shootings, and racial suppression has remained a mainstay of America life, especially with the rise of the Orange Jesus.

In 2008 Howard Dean orchestrated the election of Barack Obama by attacking the GOP in every state with a simple message.

Change.

His reward for this epic from the DNC was exile from national politics and Obama's cabinet was packed with rightwing lawyers and bankers, yet the message sold in 2012, however in 2016 Donald Trump read the hinterland and spoke about the evil of Washington.

The swamp.

Hillary Clinton, a longtime Barry Goldwater inside, had spent $600 million of a political campaign run by two Beltway conservative think tanks. retort to his message and while she won the popular vote, Trump won the election thanks to the Electoral College.

2020 wasn't his year, however he had formed a religious racist cabal who attempted to overthrow the government on January 6, 2021. This hardcore nazis dedicated to bringing America back the the 1950s and tomorrow doesn't look good for the Democrats who rejected any help from the party's progressives. CNN and Fox News have been preaching defeat to their fervent;y religious audience dedicated to the Second Coming of the Orange Jesus. The Democrats had nothing to offer

Nothing.

This afternoon I went to a Brooklyn polling station. It was closed for lack of voters. Defeat was a foregone conclusion thanks to the propaganda from the mainstream media and the Second Coming Fundamentalist preachers. Am I willing to admit defeat?

No."

Tomorrow I'll go vote at dawn.

At night I watch the TV hoping for an upset.

We stole the election once.

Why not against?

Vote Early Vote Often

"Vote Early and vote often."

Those words issued from the mind of James Michael Curley, Boston's legendary mayor, representing the working classes against the rich of Beacon Hill throughout the early half of the 20th Century. He used graft to finance projects such as hospitals, schools, parks, and the public transportation. James Michael Curly also recognized the power of the black vote and fought to vanquish the KKK from the city. My grandfather worked as a 17th Ward boss turing out the vote from the trolley drivers. No friend to the nabobs of Commonwealth Avenue he was twice sentenced to prison. His motto "I did it for a friend." won him the election while incarcerated at Walpole Prison.

So today I will vote early and vote often.

Fuck the GOP and the Democratic Party sucking up to the rich.

ODE TO LOUIE LOUIE - JOURNAL POE 1981

ODE TO LOUIE LOUIE "Ah, Louie Lou-ii oh no...." Maybe 1964 or 1965 I don't remember those days to good these days, but I was in the Boy Scouts of America Trying to get a merit badge for swimming. Camp Adams Pond New Hampshire

The counselor shouted "20 laps, one underwater." "The counselors were strange. I was twelve. I knew nothing. About front seats of cars Steamy showers Dark woods

The counselor didn't know my name I din't know his, I knew LOUIE LOUIE Everyone in America knew that song.

We listened for someone shouting a mute 'fuck'. I didn't know what fuck was. Playing with Barbie Dolls held no answers. Ken dancing with Barbie to the Kingsmen.

At the camp was a boy with one leg Cancer got the other one John was strong. Not a good swimmer

He swam singing LOUIE LOUIE We sang with him He said 'fuck' at the right part We laughed He swam underwater and came up saying 'fuck'.

Radio stations across America played the song. 50,000 watts. It was a big hit From coast to coast LOUIE LOUIE was a teenage secret The counselor knew nothing. Adults knew nothing We kept a secret from coast Block Island to Monterrey

John knew the secret He told me what 'fuck' meant He told all of us So now as then

"Louie Loui-ii I gotta go Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah In the midnight hour 'Fuck'

LOUIE LOUIE by Richard Berry

The origin LOUIE LOUIE was released by Richard Berry in April of 1957. Over 55 years ago and the 45 sold 40,000 copies. Berry sold his rights to Flip records for $750.

And they stole all his money.

You know who 'they' are. To hear the original version of LOUIE LOUIE please go to the following URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-2CKsaq5r8 There's no fuck in it.