Reluctant Warrior

snapshot_1444153844169Finding courage…

It is rare to find the poetry of thought as it free flows from our divine consciousness with a presentation of what we have witnessed in our lives.

Jade hangs on me from the strife of seeking goodness in this world, I ache all the time for what might have been…

Shortly after noon, on November 22nd, 1963 John Fitzgerald Kennedy, known to his friends as “Jack”, was gunned down like a dog by dark cowards in Dallas, Texas.

I have thought of that day in 1963 many times over, in “what-if’ situations? What if he had lived a full life? What if his brother had not been taken a few years later? The Kennedys have suffered greatly, and they are to be admired in the no-stop fight that continues in the man called Robert Kennedy Jr. The last Kennedy warrior poet.

Jack was right — we are race of rising angels in this epitome of hell. We must reach for the highest ground as spirits, we should not fear death, for we are immortal. We are here for a reason, it seems some of us have amnesia. We cannot remember, or the world has blinded us to the before… We cannot fall and give in to lower vibrations of life. Have courage to love and encourage.

I was a ten years old boy on that day in 1963. I was a poor young guttersnipe on the streets of Belfast — hunger in a belly, and a greater hunger in my mind. Many catholic households at that time of darkness held pictures on the wall of Pope John the 23rd, and John Fitzgerald Kennedy on either side of Jesus Christ, the ‘Sacratissimum Cor Iesu’.

John Kennedy was Irish, and one of our own. His assassination affected the Irish deeply. For he represented millions that immigrated during the terrible times so long ago, he represented the Irish leaving for America filled with hope and a old pillowslip full of dreams. He was mourned terribly. Masses were held, old Irish crones prayed novenas for his soul and the spirit of true Christianity.

You might ask what happened on that day? His death tore the American soul, and America has been suffering in that dark night ever since. America is torn and sleepless, hating itself and hating the other, broken and debauched it has lost its way. I remember back then how everybody wanted to be American, everybody I knew imitated everything American. Because America signified new hope, it signified freedom and freedom to speak, and freedom to be and live in joy and love was everywhere — the fulfillment of dreams dreamt of the best that we could be as humans, if allowed. Our emotions were real, and earned through honesty not virtual and caricatured. Confidence and respect were earned, it was the currency of men.

I am reminded of the writings of P.K. Dick, his book “The Man in the High Castle”, narrates the world after the second world war. Only in Dick’s version the Nazi’s and the Japanese won the war and shared North America. Dick describes in detail what that would be like in the metaphors of an artist…and he was right! Philip K. Dick was a visionary and saw the future. Coincidently his book won a Hugo award for best novel in 1963 and was published a year before.

‘Operation Paperclip’ ensured what he saw as an artist, the Nazis weren’t the marching jackboots, no, not by far. The Nazis were the industrial leaders, the corporate heads and the academics and scientists and university professors who defined it, and through Kennedy’s hated nemesis Allan Dulles and the CIA, these bastards corrupted America from the inside, with Monsanto giving shelter to I. G. Farben, specifically Bayer. With the Frankfurt school and cultural Marxism that corrupted Universities and Colleges and think tanks with the virus of Socialism and a ‘New World Order’. With the Paperclip scientists that came in droves and contaminated corporate America with their Nazi filth. The head of a prestigious institution like NASA was a rocket building Nazi murderer. The research these Nazi scientists gained through evoking terrible human suffering in the death camps of Europe, and slave labourers. With the SS officers who were taken under the feather of that ever dark-winged demon the CIA, and evolved to become this police state and Internet of Things. This theater of voyeurism and spying and meddling in the lives of others.

The west lost the second world war. All that fresh young red blood spilt on beaches and fields of war only to arise eighty years later as ‘Achtung baby’, social distancing and COVID virus, and masks and secrets and snitches and tests and tattoos on our arms and contact tracers and shit storm thoughts in cartoon heads.

PK DICK’s The Man in the High Castle is an antidote to this stupidy we are in — Orwell is overrated. 1984 is a blueprint for a new world. Orwell… Eric Blair was an ardent Democratic Socialist, he hung around with the likes of Henry Miller and that communist idiot Ezra Pound. Soaked in Karl Marx and atheist to the core.

The picture of him (Blair) in Burma with his toothbrush moustache and fierce Nazi look was the gene type for Adolf Hitler. Blair once beat a boy so bad with a cane that the boy could not sit for a week. 1984 is, a wish-fulfillment for Orwell and the archetype of the world he preferred. He so wished the world to become.

The virtual world is spilling out…from a screen into reality. Up is down and down is up. We, ‘Face Time’ and ‘Zoom’ and blow cartoon kisses from emojis to the grandkids. And we fake it until we make it. And 5G will rip a fucking hole in our consciousness.

The good of COVID, if you are paying attention is the exposures of the NAZIs amongst us? The Cuomos and Newsomes, the Bill Gates and Anthony Faucis of the world who have been desperately trying to turn the world into — as Gates has said publicaly about global vaccination, a final solution, a police state. Nailed down and sterile of real life and love, catorgorized and in a bubble, each one a node on a vast global computer and labeled and watched always and allowed an immunity passport to exist.

Better to live a day standing up in the fresh air and sunshine, than a lifetime on our knees in the dark.


All images and writing are the copyright of Michael Burns.