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Monday, July 15, 2019

The People of Babylon (If You Know What I Mean)



The people of Babylon (if you know what I mean) were gathered for the spectacle at the Duraplain stadium; it was a beautiful day, without a cloud in the sky.  Beer and popcorn venders roamed the crowds, going up and down upon the aisles to hawk their wares. The announcer addressed the crowd through the PA system, “Welcome loyal fans, and please greet with me the Babylon High School Marching Band and Honor Choir. When you hear the sound of the trumpet, and drums, and sackbut, and zither, and bagpipe, and all the musical ensemble with the choir, stand to your feet, remove your turbans and salute the symbol that your great leader has set before you.”

And when the band began to play the familiar dotted-eighth note, sixteenth note followed by three quarter notes and a half note melody of the hymn To Anacreon in Heaven, all the assembled people of Babylon (if you know what I mean) stood as one, doffed their turbans, and saluted the object of their religious worship. 

And when the final swelling tones of the hymn echoed into the distance, everyone replaced their turbans and solemnly uttered the ritual prayer, “Thank you for your service.”

Everyone but one. 

One jerk. One freak refused to stand, or to salute. This one piece of human trash refused to sing the anthem or to say the prayer. The people of Babylon (if you know what I mean) standing near him began to boo and to jeer. They hissed at him, threw rocks at him. “Go back to the shithole country you came from!” they shouted at him, and, “Burn in hell, you eunuch!”


One Bee



One Bee by Jeff Carter on 500px.com

Sunday, July 14, 2019

Saturday, July 6, 2019

Amos Doesn’t Fit in Anywhere




Now ol’ Amos was a fiery sort, and I don’t mean his red hair but like he was burning. You know, on the inside. And maybe that was on account of the fact that he never did fit in anywhere too well. He was too rough for the genteel ministerial types he met at seminary. So it didn’t surprise none of us none when he dropped out and came back to work the orchards. But he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a regular blue-collar Joe, if you know what I mean. He had himself an education, even if his hands were calloused and the back of his neck was red. But he was a hard worker. 

Anyway, Amos left the orchard a few days ago without much in the way of warning. Just told the foreman that there was something he needed to take care of, and that he’d be back. I didn’t think nothing of it till I saw him on the Fox News while I was havin’ a beer at Tekoa Tavern. “Turn that up,” I said to the bartender when I saw ol’ Amos on the screen. He was up in Washington addressing a group of Senators or Congressmen.  Or maybe they were some sort of lobbyists, I don’t know.

“For three transgressions, even four,” he was saying.

‘Transgressions,’ right? That’s one of them educated church type words. Most folks around here, if they’re church going folks, would just say sin. And if they ain’t the religious types, they might just say, ‘you fucked up.’

But there he was, on the steps of the Capitol building. “For three transgressions, even four, there will be a judgement.  Because you sell the righteous for silver, and because you would, if you could, trade the poor for a pair of flag emblazoned athletic shoes. Because you trample the refugee into the dust and push the afflicted into over-crowded cages.  Because the father is a groper and his children no better. Because you prostrate yourselves on altars – drunk on wines bought…”

We didn’t get to hear him finish his rant; Capitol security tackled him on the stairs.  One of the cops clubbed him with a baton. “Shut up, prophet.”

I expect we might see ol’ Amos back here in a few days. Though he might look a bit beat up. “I’m not a prophet” he was shouting as they drug him away. “I’m just a farm hand, but I know what I know.”

I’m afraid he won’t fit in so well around here anymore after this. He doesn’t seem to fit in anywhere.

Thursday, July 4, 2019

This Cannot Be a Surprise




There are military medals waiting at the end of the parade for corporate and corporeal thugs, as well as for the vacuous children of the President. See them standing there at the reviewing stand? Criminally debased and festooned with ink black ribbons and braids and bunting for then event. Who knew that rebuilding the concentration camps could prove so profitable, so patriotic?

Agents of the FBI – the agency now purged of all weak and failing elements – have bravely awarded themselves the highest honors that cointelpro can bestow, in celebration of the carefully orchestrated suicide of certain targeted leftists. “We did that. We are doing our part.”

They have planted thorns and snares, scattered weeds like an angry Ancient Near Eastern deity. They have reconvened the Court of Oyer and Terminer. (The magistrates are witches now!) Their collection of fingernail clippings and ear wax, used dental floss and Band-Aids will be on display across the nation until November. Get your tickets now.

There are strangers in the cemetery and we had no idea.

The welds of the Earth are weak; the foundations of the Earth have cracked. The sun is shifted in the sky. Mountains tumble, the seas foam. The void opens beneath us. All is reversed, perverse – this universe. And this cannot be a surprise. Not after the last two years.



Jeff Carter's books on Goodreads
Muted Hosannas Muted Hosannas
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