Author: wjacobr

Visual artist, poet, novelist, activist & Street Medic, living in North. Penn Name: Jacob Russell My blog is a confluence of art, writing, politics. my Art portfolio: Art-by-Willard.com

It was the end all along

In Israel, we see how the executioners always win. If they do not succeed in exterminating their victims, they know that they will be reincarnated in the survivors.

It’s the horror of this knowledge–unacknowledged by the executioners, that drives them to ever greater carnage, to ever greater acts of cruelty. To save future generations from yet another visitation of what they have become, they are driven toward the annihilation of their victims.

Genocide as an unconscious act of mercy to future generations.

When we killed the gods, they made us their heirs.

Fascism is real. It’s here. Now. RESISTANCE IS EVERYTHING!

#559

Cannot share this too often.

“Dear Liberal Friends, you do not have the tools to fight Trump” … because it’s not

just Trump, it’s Fascism, and it’s world wide.

The particularities of historical circumstances aside, comparisons to Germany in 1932 can not be passed over as exaggerations. With existing technology, surveillance, militarized police, nuclear weapons–with global warming passing the point of no return–the seriousness of our crisis makes the disasters of the mid-2th Century pale in comparison.
 
If there were such a thing as a World Mind, our Zeitgeist would seem to be full out bent on collective suicide. No wonder, then, that such thoughts enter my own mind from time to time. I have to remind myself that Death needs no assistance from me–it will find and rally its armies on its own. Our resistance is the only vote that matters in this election.

Still Imperial His Laughter

A poem I wrote some 30 years ago, put aside and forgot. Remembered last night in a dream.
#555
The river runs — a stillness
with the city around her
runs
through the city
a stillness at its heart
of trees stripped
lifting
shadows from the bank

Here and there a leaf rides clear
water through the branching thicket

A blazing gust
blinds windily — wakes
A presence in the
deeper tempers of this November noon.

A weighted glint of cold
a flashing
eye
an understanding, silent mock

A laughter not of water stalks
across the surface of the stream, chills
the vestal air

Winter, soon.

And near, high
around its dark mass — The Colossus
strides on iron feet
ferric dust, red flakes rusting red
over red leaves everywhere he walks
the laughter goes

withering over the coming snow, spreading
his fine red rust over the white crust of snow
falling…

because he is not forest
or the wild hills
neither is he City
— built of love but broken — broken
leveler

of forest and the city’s siege, his coronets
crying over midnight seas

Still Imperial, impaler
of the singer and the song
falling

like red snow
everywhere

he goes

is Death