My Native Tongue

Anyone who has ever traveled to a foreign country where theirs is not the prevalent language, has probably noticed that they can hear their mother tongue spoken even across a crowded and noisy room. My ears are keener still, for I can hear my native tongue spoken from 4 blocks away! My native tongue is Bullshit. When, in the same foreign country, a native of that land tries to converse with you in your own language, you appreciate the effort, regardless of how clumsy their attempt may be. After a while, however, even the most polite traveler, may note that prolonged exposure to the butchering of their mother tongue tends to grate on one's ear. In this, I am no different. While I appreciate those of you who try to speak proper Bullshit to me, after successive clumsy attempts, it does offend my ear. For this reason, I shall try to confine my musings to English, but, should I occasionally lapse into my Native Tongue, please, bear with me and do not feel obliged to join me on a similar linguistic tangent. If this note offends you, you should probably leave now, before my thoughts on Religion and Politics cause you serious distress.

Tears and Rage

When I was a child I was taught of America. It was a Fabled Land where the milk and honey of Freedom ran in the streets, conceived by an idealistic people who, having felt themselves oppressed for so long, rose up and threw out their oppressors. It was born of a miracle of courage and determination that led landed gentry and peasant farmers, merchants and tradesmen, Protestants and Catholics to see beyond their personal differences, band together, and rise up as one, declaring to the world, "We will bear the yoke of tyranny no more!" And I believed. From the spacious skies to the amber waves of grain, I believed. I was fortunate enough to be able to travel this land from sea to shining sea, and I believed. Then I saw poverty and hunger. I saw ignorance and bigotry. I saw hatred. I asked how these could exist in such a glorious and just land, and, much like the boy who could not see the Emperor's New Clothes, I was shushed. So I did as I was told, and I was quiet. I did as I has been taught, and I believed. I still do. The words that will follow in this place do not evince any change in that belief. Rather, it is as a result of that belief that I feel compelled to write them now. If you have known something precious when it was bright and new, and then you see it tarnished and worn, even cast down in the mud and trampled upon, do you not weep to see its abuse and do everything in your power to lift it up and repair it as best you can? If you know that abuse to be deliberate, do you not feel rage? I see this Fabled Land, once a shining beacon in the night to the oppressed throughout the world, now tarnished and soiled. Her noble flag, woven of hope in the face of despair, and defended with the blood of her Heroes, that blessed Star Spangled Banner, I see now tattered and worn. I weep to see these abuses, and I would repair them. I see the sacred parchments of "We the People" and the precious ideals they espouse cast down in the mud and wantonly trampled. I see the very precepts upon which this nation was founded twisted and betrayed for personal gain, and I rage! This does not mean that my belief has been lessened. My Faith in this nation and that for which it once stood is stronger than ever. It is those things for which it has been made to stand that give me pause. It is the flagrant usurpation of individual freedoms, once held so dear, that move me to tears. It is the brazen betrayal of the public trust for political and financial gain which leads me to rage! I am not moved to such strong emotions by any weakening of my belief, but rather by its strength. I still believe. But I also still see, and, unlike that child who questioned so long ago, I will no longer be shushed. The Emperor has NO new clothes! In fact, he's stealing yours! These are my tears. This is my rage. Where, in the name of all that is right, and just, and decent, are yours?

Friday, January 18, 2008

That Difference that’s You



I lay on the grass, may head thrown back,

And I watch the stars, and hope you see them where you are.

Hung so high up in the night, crystal teardrops shining bright,

And shining so far. Can you see them where you are?


And when you see them, can you but understand,

Or do you just see stars where I see tears?

We both have eyes that see, but our hearts focus differently.

You see the Real where I see the True; it’s that difference that’s you.

It’s that difference that’s you.


I lay on the sand, twice broken heart in my hands,

And I watch the waves, rushing mad toward their graves.

Each one like the one before, dies upon some foreign shore:

Gods, they must be brave, if not depraved.


And when you see them, can you but understand,

Or do you just see tides where I see pain?

We both have eyes that see, but our hearts focus differently.

You see the Real where I see the True; it’s that difference that’s you.

It’s that difference that’s you.


I walk down the street, asphalt beneath my feet,

And I watch the lights, of the City at night.

Cold where there was a warmth before, brazen like some neon whore,

They’re blinding my eyes, and offending the Sky/


And when you see them, can you but understand,

Or do you just see lights where I see shame?

We both have eyes that see, though our hearts focus differently.

You see the Real where I see the True; it’s that difference that’s you.

It’s that difference that’s you.

Where I see the True, you see the Real; it’s that difference I feel.

It’s that difference I feel.

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