TO HOWARD DEAN of Shelburne, VT by S. Wyler 15 html 3/3 3/26 48K

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TO HOWARD DEAN

They say you’ve lost—yet losing’s winning’s friend:
Some say you’ve won fast friendships to the end.
Supporters smile, seeing some success:
Corruption cowers, ignorance is less.
To tell the truth, you’ve told the total truth:
Two-hundred proof, unsweetened by vermouth.[2/17-1]

The duck was dumpstered by the Dartmouth Drake;
Lamenting losing by the lapping lake.... [2/17-2]

Upon the shores of sparkling Lake Champlain,
Where snow-white waters chill as cold champagne,
You sit in shrouded silence—stiff and stark--
Alone and lonely in the winter dark. [2/17-3]

Vermont is Vixen—wrapped in sable furs—
Near Negro nighttime blisters blackened burrs.
The moon is pregnant—politics now sleeps—
Tranquility tears tears as winter weeps. [2/17-4]

You sense sweet swooning of some siren’s sound:
A woman’s wailing whips you all around.
A sylvan sprite sprays streaming streaks of skis:
Fantastic fountains fill your fantasy.
Kaleidoscopic colors spectrum snow:
Red rainbow arches mirror moonlight’s glow.[2/17-5]

A naked woman rises from the ice:
Directing draghooks, dealing dice like rice.
Ten thousand crapshots roll across the snow:
Lake Tahoe’s tippers track you as they go.
Seductive slapping sweeps your slipping swift:
Intoxication rips you red with rift. [2/17-6]

Her trance now trains you—magic makes you wed:
Hypnotic hooting hollers hacksawed head.
You walk in wonder—chained to center lake—
The ice is mushy as your birthday cake.
Crisp, crackling ice cuts courage to the core:
Slick ice floes fracture, open as a door.[2/17-7]

Reality is fantasy we feel:
You dive in deeply as an arctic seal.
A heart attack attacks your arteries:
Below the bottom, fastback freedoms freeze.
Aorta action axes all your heart:
Depressing dunking drowns you down with dart.
Too trunked by truth, by truculence and tricks:
Punched-down by proud, progressive politics.[2/17-8]

Vociferous Vermonters vex our vim:
Top-full of talk as tacky Tiny Tim.[2/17-9]

Enthusiastic egos go and blow
While winter whiteness covers them with snow.
Surrounding stupids scar the pristine scene:
Demented dumbos dumped dear Doctor Dean.
Machines mashed-up courageous Mr. Clean:
No man alive could save good Doctor Dean.[2/17-10]

Impatient pep—too proud to play the fake—
The truth bloats buried by the lovely lake.[2/17-11]

Magnificent—beyond the mist of Mars—
A castaway in constellation’s stars;
Dean drifted dewdrops with the graceful geese:
Aloft, adrift in universal peace....

From Burlington, bold Bernie starts his day:
Boldfaced bravura beefs his bravery.
Bright Bernie Sanders—sunshine in extreme—
As strong and sweet as Southerner’s Jim Beam;
Upon the sand, B. Sanders would beseech:
From sandy strands, now Sanders starts his speech….

"In Haiti, hatreds heave the homeboys hard:
Class consciousness now Trumps the Christian card.
Vermillion violence bathes the blackboy’s bed:
Proud Papa Doc and Baby Doc are dead.
Oppression presses poverty with pride:
How many Haitians—say how many died.
Proud poverty creates hostility:
Lip luxuries now lube loud liberties.
Minorities of black majorities
Enflame with freedom’s fired liberties.
Brash blacks bash back, brow-beating brothers blue:
The time is right to take it from the few.
Rebellion wrights with ripping, righteous row:
Rejecting wronging—wrecking wracking woe.[2/17-12]

"Bush Bubba brings bad Baghdad’s body bags:
His hates and hubris wrapped within the flag.
America! The carney’s crowd demands!
There’s too much blood on Brother Bush’s hands.[2/17-1.3]

"Where all is barren—bleak and brown as brass:
Where nothing grows, except green graveyard grass.
As toasted Texas, broasted Baghdad broils;
Sweats smoldering and smoking sick in soils.
Saddam sits sweating spitting spumes of scum:
Dejected dupes are dumber than the dumb.
'Well, was it worth it?' (Russert plays the game)
G. Bush nods slowly, hangs his head in shame. [2/17-14]

"America! All lost in CD-ROMs:
Forgetting fighting, bombs in Vietnam.[2/17-15]

"Knee-deep in dumpsters—horrors to the hilt—
Admitting all and advertising guilt,
Confessing carnage in the Capitol,
Bob Kerrey’s candor crippled capital.
Within the whiteness of his House and Hill,
Cadaver’s crypters cried from Senate sills.[2/17-16]

"Two Carries carried conscience in the cold:
Machine-gunned many as they greased their gold.
Both winning medals—trinkets of their trek—
Both big-time heroes, hailing home from heck.
Both in the Senate, both in Vietnam:
Both braved Bush bullets as they braved the bombs.
Both thin and listless, long-faced, slim and slow;
Both Democrats with tonsils in their toes.
Both Kerrey, Kerry—cash-and-carry crows—
Became big bankers—billionaires and bros.[2/17-17]

"Greened greedy Georgetown’s governmental game:
Identical in politics and name.
Financial fortunes framed a fire-fight:
Retarded reasons reasoned what was right.[2/17-18]

"In other words, don’t sing of silver’s song:
Don’t talk of honor, if that honor’s wrong. [2/17-19]

"When wartime fizzled, Kerry could return
To walk those traintracks where white bodies burned
To search for missing military men
In jaded jungle’s jagged prisoner’s pen.[2/17-20]

"John stopped a stranger asking of his friends
Who disappeared beyond horizon’s ends:
“Did you see Sammy? Did you notice Ned?
We lost our Larry near that brushwood bed.”[2/17-21]

"Amazed and anxious, all poor peasants peered:
Surprised and wide-eyed, orientals leered.
Yet none would speak—not one would dare to tell
That twisted terror of their Ten Year’s Hell.
Yes, now the natives—grown and grizzled grey—
All sheepishly and slowly walked away….[2/17-22]

"Two Senators—two Johns from Daschle (Tom)—
McCain and Kerry went to Vietnam.[2/17-23]

"McCain marched backwards to his torture camps:
Depressing dungeons dripping dismal damps.
Sad spooks so scared him—ghosts would grab his guts:
Flashbacking fire flew in crimson cuts.
Exploding sparklers—scarlet-bleeding bombs—
Vermillion visions voodooed Vietnam.[2/17-24]

"No shame’s attached to military men;
Yet shame on soldiers if they kill again.[2/17-25]

"Why waste in warring? What in Heaven for?
We’ve learned our lesson from that needless war.
No, no more murders—no more Nixon tricks:
Dean Rusk (not Howard) spit split shithouse bricks.[2/17-26]

CLARK [Sanders still speaking]
"Close calls, close shaves don’t count as coins are tossed:
Elections end when won and lies lie lost.
Good generals all suffer some defeat:
Checkmated Clark—the contest’s now complete.
Clark’s caterpillar counter-clockwise crew:
Christ’s clockworks chimed as Bubba’s whistle blew.
Flat-busted Bubba blew-out flaming fans:
Concussioned Clark’s now coloring with crayons.
Wes—Weary Willie—waxed in Waterloo:
(I’d make this line rhyme if I only knew).
Clark’s chitter-chatter chopsticks chews his cud:
Mixed multi-purpose politics is mud.\
Clodhopping Clark has stopped with starchy seize:
Cold-packed, cold-storaged, Clark is in deep-freeze.

KERRY
"No clubfoot chump, claire Kerry holds his kite:
Professional, prodigious, and polite.
A checkerboard of creampuffed charm and chic:
The politician’s—and the people’s—pick.
Cool, clean-cut Kerry caters to the crowd:
Controlled in candor, Kerry’s rarely loud.
Cosmetic Kerry—cold-creamed counterfeit:
Cassandra’s coach-house—coiffured Kerry’s kit.
Progressive pals pretending to be poor:
Capricious Kerry—cardsharp’s connoisseur.
Crap cereal cooks soldier’s sour grapes:
Clean Captain Crunch cooked Crispy Critters crepes.

EDWARDS
"A counterweight to Kerry’s clanging cash:
A Southern see-saw weighs-down Boston’s brass.
No Harry Carry, clavichord or chime:
J. Carrey, Karry—Cary (NC’s) crime.

"True textile texture—true to thatch-roofed huts:
Tobacco’s tester—bucks with bigger bucks.
A tawny tabby—taught as teacher’s pet—
As smooth as satin as the sunset’s set.
No tabloid tattoos, tee-hee teaser’s tricks:
Too few taboos, no taunting teen-age rips.
No West Point Willie, willy-nilly wisp:
No window-shopping, water-cooler pip.
Now unadorned and unaffected still:
Untouched, untold—yet unequivocal.

"Tame tactful tactics—not too taciturn—
Uncommon unction lets Bush Bubba burn.
Unique to speak with tenderfoot techniques:
Resounding smoothness speaks as Ripper reeks.
No wino wisecracks, wise guy whoops or whoas!
No whole-hog hagging as the grunter goes.
Just wholesome work-horse woodchuck workmanship
With workhouse whimsy from his lower lip.

"Yet (some would say) that Edwards is too cool:
Compared to Kerry, Edwards can be fooled.
Cool carmine crackers—carpetbaggers’ crew:
Jive’s Johnny Cash sings true “A Boy Named Sue”.
Confection’s candies Carolina’s queen:
Sweet sugared smiles spray the Southern scene.
A tenderloin on tenterhooking teaks:
Brown umber lumber drip-drops as he leaks.
Deluxe delusions dressing-gowns adore:
South’s Cinderella’s couched in coach-and-four.

"Most modern Southmen stay away from dupes:
None use the N-word, dance with David Dukes.
Yet deep inside, in all their heart-of-hearts,
Pride’s prejudice can play pugnacious parts.
True Klu Klux Klansmen—more than “just a few”:
Confederate companions knew the Klu.

DEAN
"Dean desperado—desperate to be dean—
Not dapper, darling—mightier than mean.
Complex compression—Concord’s coiled cord:
Vermont’s green fire could not be ignored.
Enthusiasm, energy and art:
In politics, he played the painter’s part.
With cataracts of reds and blacks and blues:
Bedazzling brushstrokes bashed with brilliant hues.

"As Governor—with patient pound and pence—
(Stability unquestioned, as his sense)
Dean balanced budgets, balanced beefy books:
Concrete in cashing, copious as cooks;
In economics, multiplied with math,
In frugal fairness, found the middle path.
Detective Dean denounced dumb deficits:
Aroused in action as the Senate sat.
Devoted Dean refused to trick, delude:
Determined Dean dethroned the blue-dog dude.

"Ambitious ardor drove Dear Dean to top:
Across the nation, Dean refused to stop.
Convinced of greatness, Dean turned candidate:
Expanding outward from his small-sized state.
Campaigning, gaining, growing all the time:
(Dean’s rhythm rising as this rolling rhyme)
Dean’s dioramas of America—
Uproaring raging—rode utopia.

"But mess-hall’s master fell into the soup:
Dumped dimestore Dean—duked dime-a-dozen dupe.
Devoured Dean—denuded Dean is down:
Dilapidated Dean was crowned a clown."

Exhausted by emotion and his speech,
Soft Sanders stopped to study all the beach.
The blood-red sun struck Sanders in the eyes:
Depression's darkness draped his deep disguise.
Intense ideas whacked his wits to war:
Sarcastic spinning made his senses sore:
Sleep overcame him as the seagulls cried;
Immersed in thoughts, B. Sanders went inside....

Deep blue of morning—indigo marine—
Became now crimson with the sunrise scene.
The Eastern sky made shapes and sizes new:
Burned orange and red and yellow-tinted hues.

As wombs worked witchcraft, water turned to wine:
Demonic Dionysus dipped to dine.
Without much air, with little movement left,
Dean’s damaged body seemed bereft of heft.
Adagio--life’s lento Eskimo—
Dean’s torsioned torso drifted down so low.

Now undercover, underground the lake,
Dean dissipated as a burning steak.
As slow Magoo or Captain Kangaroo:
The ice closed-in on Howard Dean’s top view.
As Statler’s bassman or as Wolfman Jack,
Dean’s voice turned low as Frisco’s foghorn stack.

No queer beer, near beer, double-dipping scoop:
No simple soda made his mind a loop.
No fountain phosphate, candy cigarette
Could soothe his senses from the wicked wet.

In coma-conscious, chilling colon cramps;
Low lights sit low like lids of lava lamps.
Too high on hooch—hard rocking rolling rips:
Stoned-straight, spaced-out—steam-rollered acid trips.
On wasted weed or acid window-pane:
Rushed rolling papers plastered packer’s pain.
Blown busted buds of beetles’ bubbling bong:
Punk rockers’ rocking made his head seem long.
Cold caustic caucus—cracked with creepy cokes--
Make mental mootness Jay-and-Jerry jokes.

Unvanquished Dean—whom no one could corrupt:
Unconscious—yet unwilling to give-up—
Saw ultrasonic ultraviolet view;
Saw salvage, wreckage in the bottom brew.
(Turned-turtle in the bottom-feeder’s brown;
A long-ton tanker sat there upside-down).

With energy impossible to gauge,
Dean pushed his power with rebellious rage.
Between the weeds, between the slimy sedge:
He made his way toward lifeboat’s lower ledge.
Entangled by the twisted undergrowth
(Long water lilies limber limbs would loathe):
At last Dean finished all his tortured trip—
Now deep inside the belly of a ship.
At least alive (though still his wits were whirled):
Unchained, unharnessed from the underworld.

Now still upon the bottom of the lake,
Dean relished air that made him move and wake.
Inside the ship, now pockets of good air
Provided power in his lower lair.
Enclosed by steel, in a steel shell,
Dean seemed to feel—seemed to feel well.

Yet Dean was weak—made weak by cold and fright:
Exhausted by the terrors of the night.

What should he do? Well, who would save him now?
So should he swim? Or should he stay for now?
A million munchkins muted muted minds:
Clandestine contours made rich reason rinds.

Meanwhile, crowds now gathered on the shore:
Tramps, twerps, and twinkies, turkeys talking more….
“Oh, boy-oh-boy! Hey, get a load a that!”
Some spoke in stridor, some in sharps-and-flats.
Moot mumbo-jumbo mixed in morning air:
A common crowd now filled with freaky flair.

Short streams of geysers from the center lake
Shot skyward, upward like a cauldron’s quake;
Pronouncing punching in the azure air
Like strands of Sybil’s or Madonna’s hair.
Like Krakatoa in the Java Sea
Geology produced psychology.
Hot springs erupted—luminous with licks:
Portending plumes of press and politics.

Dean felt the furnace, sensed the steaming spouts:
He wanted warmth, but also wanted out.

Three dozen people—mad as ol’ Queen Mab—
Made morning mix with gossip, goosing gab.
“Get it together!...Georgie—hey, get real!”
The fervid fountain—forces they could feel.

Backlit by brilliance of the morning light,
Massed muttered banter made the bummer bright.
Stupendous comments rang as steeple bells:
“Shezam! Hey, Harvey, this is something else!”
“Yeah! Man-o-man! Whoa! Wicked! What a…wow!”
Persistent prattle—perspiration’s pow.
“Boss! Bingo! Bitchin’ Bullseye! That’s too much!”
They didn’t know that Dean was holed in hutch.
“Ah, awesome! Super! Neat! That’s just too great!”
Hard heebie-jeebies couldn’t jerk their fate.

But soon enough, their party petered-out:
The fervid fountain fizzled in a pout.
The melting pot now separated soups:
Sweet social beehives split in splinter-groups.
Their crowded cooking cooled as a crock:
All went to work, enchained by Christian’s clock.

Now all deserted, Lake Champlain was still:
In winter whiteness, sunshine sparkled still.
Away from handlers—far from campaign roar—
Alone in action, Kerry stood on shore.

So where was Dean? He said he’d meet him here:
Confusion, consternation fed his fears.

John scanned the shoreline—scanned from cape to cape—
He searched the lakeline, tried to see some shape.
Watchtowers watched, the weather-vane was weird:
No mite of movement—nothing now appeared.

The lake seemed lifeless—spread-out like a sheet—
Expanded by soft slabs of snow and sleet.
Already frigid, Kerry felt more cold:
Pal politics was getting, growing old.

Hey, you out there—inside the Media—
You played the pulse of all America.
You called Dean darling. Would you wear his shoes?
Now numb by Bush and bottom-feeder blues.

Cool Kerry—crisp with cool cP air—
Now reached the point where nothing made him care.
He had his business—pride and politics—
He had no time for jesting, jokes, and tricks.

Yet—something, somewhere make JK annoyed:
Vibrations vague from vitriolic voids
Now seemed to issue from the inside lake
(Or was this sound some fantasy or fake?)

Mushed muffled moans made mystery much more:
Repeated banging far away from shore.
What was this noise? What was this rhythmic sound?
It seemed to stop, then seemed so all around.

His thoughts spoke action now prodigiously;
Urged on by boldness, curiosity;
John ventured-out upon the frozen lake:
His wanderlust and whimsy were awake.

Strong ice seemed safe—he walked with cautious step—
A panther’s paw prints politician’s pep.

The ice resounded with the ground’s rebound:
Enormous echoes bounded all around.
Crevasses cracked, but John jumped carefully:
South’s slanted sunlight struck stupendously.

As noonday sun burned, boiled, broiled, baked;
So soon enough, John came to middle lake.

Surrounded by an out-stretched skating rink,
Soft sounds grew greater—Dean became distinct.
“Hey, you up there! I need a helping hand!”
White words went wailing, egos would expand.
Dean spoke his name; he screamed “Please call some help!”
Now Kerry heard his every whine and whelp.

“I hear your voice!” John shouted to the ice:
Now phrases flowed as wind-blown wedding rice.
Poseidon politics made pals of peers:
Communication wasn’t in arrears.

What should John do? He knew that Dean was down:
Dean’s voice then told him that Doc Dean could drown.
The risk was great—and yet rewards could come
If Dean were saved from glacial ground-floor’s glum.
Ten thousand thoughts revolved within his mind:
A whirlwind of wits would wane, unwind.

Blue ribbon bluster took him to the brink:
Then, all at once, he jumped into the sink.
Refrigerated water hit his heart:
Dilemma’s deluge doomed his dares with dart.

Down, down he dove to where he heard some sound:
A beefy banging bounded all around.
He saw the ship turned-turtle on the floor:
Capsized, complacent—just as Clinton/Gore.

From underneath the ship—in liquid lair—
Ballooning bubbles told him air was there.
Exhausted now, he couldn’t hold his breath:
Exertion’s ardor took him close to death.

John grabbed the gunwhale, gave a glottis grunt;
Then bent beneath by brutal bully brunt.

(From Kennedy, he learned his liberty:
In inland ocean, or in salty sea;
Enormous egos swam with swagger’s swig:
Bluechips beefed bluster, bulled his body big).

Inside the hull—inside the cold conclave—
Constricted quarters made bravura brave.

“You’re here! You’re here!” John Kerry screamed to Dean:
McCarthy’s mother met her boy, Eugene.
As glad as gasbags, giddy as gazelles;
Both Dean and Kerry left their frozen Hell.

Now filled with air, they exited the ship:
Aloft to air through diatomic dip.

But in his haste to get our Howard home,
John Kerry flustered—fudged in frozen foam.
Now led astray by cold confusion’s cage,
Enclosing ice gooped glory hole’s gauge.
They couldn’t find the space inside the ice
(That gash or groove which made glass granite nice):
Cold ceilings covered exits with white ice;
And blocked their egress from that glossy geist.
Dean prayed to G-d as Kerry prayed to Christ;
Both fed frustration, knocked the bottom ice.

Then suddenly, the sunlight’s silver sash
Showed splits and fissures—frozen streaks of slash.

Dean pushed with power—popped white ice cakes up—
Emerging outward from their frosty cup.
John jerked with ginger from the glassware’s gleam:
Toward spacious skylines from the snowy seam.

But boozer’s blowout bunked blown bodies beat:
Both fell with fainting on the sunstruck sheet.
Detracting demons cracked cold Kerry clean;
Disabled discharge detonated Dean.
As high as Homer, low on oxygen:
Physiques were pounded—popped as puckered hens.

Yet, soon enough, the Demo duo rose:
Now next to normal, up from frigid lows.
Both stretched in sunlight now approaching noon:
To test their teamwork, tried a tacky tune.
As torn as taffy--twisted tight as tea--
Relieved (though raw), they sang in revelry.
They sang in stridor—celebrating life—
They sang to skyhawks, sparrows, swifts, and shrikes.
Though whacked and woozy—whipped by white workouts—
Dean, Kerry crowed as crows in springtime sprouts.
Narcosis sisters—scuba sicko’s style—
Narcotic Nabors—singing Gomer Pyle.

Untied, unite in union—you and you—
Create a caucus of our cockneyed crew.
Magoo met Moses—JK joined the Jew—
Both Boston brothers shared the selfsame stew.

Terrific trees in technicolor thaw
Revolve ‘round rainbows, ring the panther’s paw.
Demeter’s crowning—Ceres’ diadem—
Sweet springtime’s summer always comes again.

Befuddled brains and senses start to thaw:
Stone-cold and sober, without major flaw.

Whipsawed by wind and warblering woodwind whims,
John Kerry’s sense speaks statecraft as it swims.
As thin ice crackles, cakes of conscience creak:
Upon the frozen lake, he starts to speak….

“We both are different in our special ways;
As black to white—as Schwarzen is to Gray.
I represent the Democrat’s machine;
You represent a stuffy college Dean.
You know an ounce—I know a heavy ton:
The paths of people inside Washington.
I know their faces—know them all by name:
I know their failings, and their failing fame.
Bazooka’s Beltway—Bubba’s blowtorch broils:
I’ve seen seduction on sacked Senate soils.
I’ve smelled the shithouse stinking, stewed in sweat:
Obscene, our outhouse pukes porn’s Penthouse Pet.
My money magic makes a mad machine:
As underwear, no politics stay clean.

“You’re clean as Christians—dainty Doctor Dean—
You keep your honor (and your craphouse) clean.
Charisma crowns your classic conscience cool,
Yet Washington would wear you down to fool.

“You think you’re smart? You think they “Luv the Guv”?
Psychotic stupids hawk the darling dove.
Naïve and nice-guy, gadfly’s gala gaud;
You played the princess as I played the Maud.

“Your politics is “feeling to be free”;
My politics is practicality.
Your glowing genius never gloats in grime:
Idealism never earns a dime.

“You try too hard to stretch your every point:
Glaucoma grabs as jesters smoke a joint.
Grass roots grow gratis—gab’s gratuity:
Garbbed grease-pit gossip governs gratefully.

“The candidates caress and congregate:
Parade and press, pronounce, congratulate.
Perfumed perfection passes pimped and pined:
Too many choices can’t make up mixed minds.

“Collective consternation lopped the cop:
The tracks of Tootsie took you to the top.
Pumped pressmen preened you, put you right up front:
They played your bat as baseball players bunt.
In ignorance, the Jewman and the Goy
All danced with Dean as Babe’s Bar Mitzvah boy.
Too innocent of politicians’ ploys,
They played with you as children play with toys.

“They saw in you the keeper of their dreams:
Where all is candy, all is topped with creams.
As Sammy Davis—as the Candyman—
You took them up, then slapped them down with whams.
As Willie Wonka in the Chocolate House,
You flew with fists, then grounded goose with grouse.
As Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang blew its brakes,
You drove on downhill—trashed toward footloose fakes.

“There’re parallels (I think that you’ll agree):
We see ourselves in hardpan history….

“Like ’68 (in dumped disharmony)
I’m Hubert Humphrey, you are Kennedy.
Such shadows pass as sunrise turns to day:
Yes, I’m like Hubert, you’re like Bobby K.
Buchanan’s Wallace—warlock’s Right-Wing push;
While long-eared Johnson mocks the lies of Bush.
So here—today—let reason rule in rhyme:
High history repeats itself in time….”

Still tired from his tail-spinning trip,
Now Dean endured crude Kerry’s caustic rip.
Frost’s filibuster busted by the beach:
Cut-short by cold-chills, Kerry stopped his speech.

Responding to John Kerry’s mouth of mice;
Now Dean’s rejoinder ragged across the ice.

“I threw the dice and lost my crapshoot bets;
Yet, I did well—and I have no regrets.
I did my best—I gave it all I had:
In retrospect, I didn’t do so bad.
A well-brewed coffee takes some time to perk:
To move a mountain takes a lot of work.
I won’t look backwards as I close the door:
Mistakes were many, but successes more.
I formed full friendships, showed them all my heart:
They couldn’t buy me at their butcher’s mart.”

As Howard spoke, John Kerry listened well:
But Kerry’s clanging soon hit Howard’s bell.
Sarcastic smearing stopped Dean’s saccharine sips:
Sardonic spearing struck from Kerry’s lips.
Who cold resist another rough-house rip?
John interrupted with his comic strip….
“Your body’s better, but your fame is fried:
I saved your life, but didn’t save your pride.”

Ignoring insults and fast fencing’s foil,
Dean’s ten-strike tip-shot told the truth with toil….

“In telling truths, I let my lungs lurch-out:
Exposing cowards couched in cash and clout.
I force-fed facts—forced-down a bitter pill:
Will people change? I hope someday they will.
My message axed against the mad machine:
I asked the folks to vote for Howard Dean.

“But in the end, the voters spoke for you:
My fame then fizzled as your greatness grew.
The people spoke and chose a better man:
But I am proud because we also ran.
At lest we tried—at least we could compete:
My badges are the blisters on my feet.
My legs are hurting, but I must go on:
The weeds won’t grow around me ‘till I’m gone.
Yes, I can’t stop to chase my neighbor’s cow:
I can’t look back—my hands are on the plow.
I can’t sit down to sulk in loser’s stew:
We did much work, but there’s more work to do.“

John Kerry listened, let the teacups talk;
Then interrupted as they wound their walk.
“The Media took Howard to the top,
Then—just as quickly—let dear Howard flop.”

Now near the shoreline—serious as stones—
Dry Dean continued in his honest tones….
“I must admit the Media was wrong:
Their superficial slander skewed my song.
Then radio and television’s tool;
Emotion’s egress made me look the fool.
Conceited cash can cripple (I confess);
Yet I won’t blame my failures on the Press.
I’ll take the blame—responsibility—
For all I’ve said in animosity.

“Upon the beach, now Kerry cut again:
Red rooster’s ragtime halted haggard hen.
“Your side-show shouted in your circus booth:
Tough tempest tantrums teeter-tottered truth.”

Still unaffected by unkind remarks,
Hard-working Howard hid unfeeling marks.
Successes stood—still stoic, strong, and staid:
Unflinching force—unswerving and unswayed.

“We all are humans on high-tension wires:
High-stepping slander makes our tension higher.
An acrobat can balance skillfully
But most of us react too naturally.

“Emotion’s ego must protect our pride:
We fail, fall, and fluster when on high.
Impulsive hot-shots—big-shots hit with heat:
We catch their crapping as they shoot their skeet.
We grab the goofballs—goobers greased with grime—
Returning turdballs as their turdballs fly.”

As Dean continued, politics would play:
Dean seemed to search for something more to say.
Aroused rejection rolled in sunshine’s ray:
He thought he’d take a stab at JFK….

“Ignoring others in America,
The President is picked in Iowa.
Few blacks, few browns, few liberals are there:
Between the cornstalks, in the rural air.
All Presidents all germinate from worms:
Farms choose for cities, make decisions firm.
Unfair and faulted, freedom is amiss:
Primary’s power peters-out in piss.

“Remote New Hampshire—second now in line—
Gives states the signal—gives the rest the sign.
Such stupid systems break big bubbles, burst;
New York and California should go first.”

Sore losers slouched as fast frustrations fanned:
An argument seemed just what Kerry planned….

“Professionals in politics were knives:
Our tongues are daggers (if we’re still alive).
Some social stinging helps the honeyed hive:
Crisp conversation makes us stride and strive.
Outrageous laughter mixed with tragic tears:
Opinion’s oil lubricates our gears.

“You pout as punks—past reasoning’s obtuse:
Excuses useless—aching for abuse.
Within the middle—in the black earth bowl—
Small Iowa now represents the whole.
Cows, Christ, and cornstalks can the country cure:
Midwestern mainstream morals there are pure.
Farms flat and frameworked—like cute checkerboards—
No locks to pick, no mixed-up mental wards.
Campaigns are simpler than in other states:
It’s easier for all the candidates.

Now Howard angered at this mouthy man:
In bitterness, now Dizzy Dean began….

“Great gilded curtains gild our voting booths:
Financial falsehoods tinsel tainted truths.

“As Rupert Murdoch, Gerald L. or Hicks;
Two-timing Turner, Texas Tommy Hicks;
Iced Michael Eisner—proud with platinum picks--
Mass Media’s a Mafia with Micks.
Ted Turner’s trillions—trunked at TBS;
Seductive sweetness strips at CBS.
At NBC (or MSNBC),
Lives live in Lexus—in lush luxury.
Big billionaires balloon with bullion bricks:
Infinity parades with tinseled tricks.”

As Kerry listened—patiently and calm—
White winter sunshine bathed his brow in calm.
Windjammer windbags wound on waterways;
Unmasking meaning in a maze of phrase.
Tableaus of tacking tracked through teas to tease:
Symbolic sailors sailed seven seas.

As Howard halted handspring reasoning,
John Kerry salted seaman’s seasoning.

As sunlight spread as bright as winter wheat,
John Kerry spoke from sunny seaside seats.
As wistful woodwinds whisper on the waves,
Wry words of wisdom wafted wind-swept waves….

“A painter paints and mixes many hues
Which complement the colors that he’ll choose.
A brewer brews varieties of brews:
Some softer, sweeter—some brown, brawny booze.
A cooper casks with many strips of wood
Which bind together as a barrel should.
A symphony is sung by harps and horns
Which blend in beauty as a baby’s born.
A builder builds with bundles, bricks, and boards:
All notched and nailed—none unused, ignored.
Strong skylines stand—stay-put and always stick:
Friends stick together as a wall of brick.
As Clinton/Gore or Elder Bush and Dole;
Each part and piece must compliment the whole.

“An author uses many turns-of-phrase
Which wing like warblers from the pen-marked page.
A writer writes with multi-colored words
Which fly like toucans—treasured tropic birds.
Macaws and parrots, love birds, lorikeets
Must mix with mynahs, painted parakeets.
Such separate species sometimes separate;
But in the end, must share the selfsame fate.
In jungles, zoos—or Party politics—
Each has his place—from treetops down to ticks.
All walk on webwork—waltz on whisker’s wisps:
Enmeshed in nets of nature’s slides and lips.
All feed the forest—many make the main—
All tied together in a complex chain.
Thus, in our lives—as in the jungle wood—
We work together as all workers should.

“Within the woods, we’ll work as White House teams:
Diverse directions don’t dilute our dreams.
Astaire and Grace so gracefully would dance:
The ballroom’s better when both partners prance.
Take two to tango—test the polished floor—
Bill Clinton always needed more Al Gore.

“As Earl Grey put lemon in his tea,
A friendship’s tested by adversity.
When storm clouds strike, we need a nifty nest:
Bush blowtorch braziers bring-out all our best.
Swift squall lines lash with hailstorms of hate;
But after rainstorms, friendship feels great.
Sweet sunshine smooths the furious with friends:
We hope our garden party never ends.
A politician’s parrot plays with pals:
In Senate songs—with all good guys and gals--
Together we must meet harsh heavy weather:
‘Birds of a feather now must flock together.’ ”

As Kerry finished, Dean would interrupt:
His strength now wrangled as a well-washed pup.
“A grizzly bear now haunts our local woods:
Harsh hackneyed hacks hallucinate in hoods.”

Now John jumped-in—as Christmas candlewicks—
As smooth and slow as Cheney’s oil slicks….
“To Gore a bear takes politician’s push:
I need your help to beat the bears of Bush.”

As Kerry finished, Howard pushed his plea:
Dean turned his topic to the tinseled tree….

“To please the people, Bush now borrows big:
His deficits grow bloated as a pig.
Prolific pleasures pampered people push:
On borrowed billions bought by bunkhouse Bush.
As credit rises, discipline’s obtuse:
Low interest rates encourage cash abuse.
A home, a house, a hacienda hill
Is backed by bogus bank’s bonanza bill.
Financial fist-fights now are next to nil:
Consumer credit is a padded pill.
Down-payments pucker when the public’s poor:
(Financial fortunes few—and feeding fewer).
Stashed savings sink as spenders scrape the skies:
Low interests fall as mortgage payments rise.
Big bankers buy with money that’s not there:
Enchanted homes evaporate in air.”

As Howard ended, cold-cut Kerry called:
As glibness glided, gift-of-gabbing galled….

“Illuminated by free money’s tree,
Illustrious illusions seem to see
Charmed Christmas presents gilded gold with glee
Surrounded by seduction’s silver sea.
Greenbacks and grab-bags grace gilt greenery. INSERT

Gold’s gleaming glee club’s geniality
Gives garland’s garnish grateful, gladfully.
Guilt gifts glare glamorous and gaudily:
(Greed’s garish genie’s genealogy).
Glad glaring glamor’s grabbed gratuity:
Prosperity is mostly fantasy.

Cut-off by chilling, Kerry grabbed his guts:
Now Dean expanded on cool Kerry’s cuts….

“As silver shrinks, production’s never pushed:
Tall Christmas trees now topple-down to Bush.
Full fiscal strictness stands so straight and tall:
Tight-fisted fortunes rarely ever fall.
But Bush’s brokers break the bullion bank:
In wasted wampum, tinseled trillions tank.
The nation’s debt now seven trillion range;
While deficits depress with money’s mange.
500 billion (and some pocket change):
Diluting dollars deficits derange.”

Loquacious Democrats—now lost in talk—
Walked whirling wishbones—wavy, winding walk—
Swift spinning windmills wandered winter’s course;
Wagged wishful thinking near a white-capped wharf.

Involved ideas—tricky, twisted talk—
Made both befuddled as big brains would balk.
Surrounding silence swooning all around,
Both scanned the strand—that spanned white-collared ground.

Now Doctor Dean was searching for his things
That he had left when whimsy whipped with wings.
He looked and looked as sunlight sliced with slants—
Across the shore, among the planks and plants.
Then finally, he found—among some rags—
His picnic basket and his doctor’s bag.
He found his papers scattered on the ground
Which wind had blown with tempests all around.

Now Kerry too, had brought his briefcase there;
But all the beach—and all the snow—seemed bare.
(The Western sun split shadows all too soon:
Directions seemed so different after noon.)
Surveying strand, he studied sand and sard:
Inspecting every inch, he hunted hard.
Exploring rocks; he rummaged, ransacked trash:
Littoral mole holes, los lake margin’s mash.
He checked each chuckhole on the waterfront:
Examining as cocky Alan Funt.

Then, long at last, within the mud and mush;
Within the weeds, the bushes and the brush;
He found his briefcase buried in the bank:
Alluvium half-covered what had sank.

Unearthing papers—politician’s pride—
Relieved, relaxed, contented Kerry sighed.

Now strolling over to where Dean had stood,
He felt at ease in Howard’s neighborhood.

The sun now setting, daylight turned to dusk:
Cold evening air was sharp as mammoth’s tusk.
No mates and money didn’t matter much
In tabernacle’s tender twilight’s touch.

Now veined vermillion by the setting sun;
So far from Bush, too far from Burlington;
Without support teams and their limousines;
Surrounded, stranded inside sylvan scenes;
Without their troops, without their telephone:
Abandoned as Nanook in Northern Nome.

Exhausted by the morning’s long ordeal,
They felt as flattened by a traintrack’s wheel.
They knew they couldn’t go much further on:
Dean was so drowsy—as was jaded John.

Dean had some food he’d brought for bagel brunch:
The two could share it for an evening lunch.
But warmth was wanting, wardrobes were all wet;
Iced chills increased as scarlet sundown set.
Both Dean and Kerry—though too torn and tired—
Reluctantly agreed to build a fire.

They searched for kindling in cold snowy sags;
Thin twigs and torn-up bags in chilly crags.

Now, as he started searching for some wood,
John Kerry stepped as careful as he could;
But nature sometimes isn’t tame or nice:
John Kerry fell and slipped on granite ice.
Blown-down by bluster—bashing brow and bone:
So spinning sideways, struck a snowy stone.

Now John lay lifeless—seeming motionless—
As Harry Truman, Stevenson—or Bess.

Professional in practice—pay or play—
Dean rushed to rescue as John Kerry lay.
Dean knew his job—exactly what to do:
Concussioned Kerry now seemed nothing new.
Dean opened-up his big black doctor’s bag:
Extracting gauze and long white bandages.

As Kerry lay there—still on frozen ground—
To stop some blood flow, Dean wound wrapping ‘round.
True tested treatments as hot coffee perked:
Dean’s outdoor clinic seemed to want to work.
Alive—though aching—ground in goose-grass grooves:
Some minor movements turned to major moves.
So soon enough, John Kerry roused himself;
And gradually got up from snowy shelves.

“What is this pounding? Where are you? And me?
My head’s now big as Teddy Kennedy.”

Blue Devil’s breakdown—Bubba’s bowery blues—
Crushed Kerry flat from scalp snow to his shoes.

But just as soon as Kerry realized
That Howard saved him, sweetish sense surprised.

“I do not know your Yiddish treatment tricks;
I owe to you my life and politics.”

Now Howard hit him with some wanton wags:
Rejoining jokes—returning gags for rags.

“No charge for Louie and fat Senate cats;
No charge for Bubba, big-shot Democrats.”

Befuddled Bubba—beaten as a bell—
As wishy-washy as a wishing well;
With well-done wits and bashed bubonic face;
Now walked while woozy toward is black briefcase.

Extracting slowly—yet methodically—
Some dark brown bottles banging noisily;
He then returned to sit at Howard’s side;
Bright beer brought brother—beer became his bride.

“My medicine—my Massachusetts brew—
Now almost froze…I only brought a few…
Sam Adams beer—as brazen as its name:
Loquacious liquid—fire-brewed in fame.”

Dean’s picnic basket housed a Thermos can;
Three Tetley tea bags—tannic treats to tan.

As muscles moped, both men got up to work:
As Senates sleep, punched politicians perk.
They gathered garbage in the glowing gloom:
Havana heat was brought by brush and broom:
Assorted objects carried to the core
Made massive mounds of sugar maple more.
Both brought big bundles of bright burning Bush:
Now urgent action made production push.

Dean found a page on pin-pricked New York Post;
Then struck a flint to start the sheet to roast.
Dean drew attention to the coming race:
“Let’s start our fire with George Bush’s face.”

Now gradually, good garbage grew untamed:
It sparked and smoldered, flared into a flame.

Combustion chattered, Kerry calmed his crash:
Bonfire’s brilliance blushed them red with rash.

As sundown shrouded, red revolved in rap:
Horse-laughter lightened as the embers snapped.
As harmless hobos hobnob hoi polloi,
Hearth’s hoity-toities traded comic joy.

END OF SECTION ONE
START OF SECTION TWO—unfinished

Their clothes were wet, yet drying by the fire:
Heroic highballs made high-fliers higher.
They talked their tales—talked through throngs of trees—
Informal friendships flamed frost forest’s freeze;
Heard heart-to-hearts—horse-laughter by the hearth—
Surrounded by soft sable somber swarth.
Now next to nature—nested in the night—
Hypnotic highlights lifted lazy light
By slabs of shale—blackness by the sand—
Hard hoarfrost hardwoods’ hush-hush hinterland.

Past farms and footpaths—farthest from fast folks
Who crowd congestion as the city chokes.
Away from hucksters—hubbub’s hoopla howl—
Harsh hurly-burly, hurry-scurry’s yowl.

Out here in Heaven—next to Canada:
Now isolated from America…

No velvet villas, vast vacation homes;
No dazzling domes with coronation chromes;
No bed-and-breakfasts, four-star restaurants;
No highbrow hick-towns, haughty hash-house haunts.

Yet right outside this pocket of thin woods,
Drab dairy cows comprised the neighborhood.
Big bovine backwoods—far from Daschle’s desk:
Pastoral parkland—pastures picturesque--
Just 40 miles from hauteur’s hall:

A twenty-hour walk to Montreal.

Mattheau and Lemmon salted lemon licks;
Odd Couples couple inside politics.
In sleeping nightshades, still so far from dawn;
Yeshiva yokels yap and yaw and yawn….

John played sweet Shakespeare great as William Booth:
Through hints and tangents, touched on tested truths….

“From all this lakeshore to New Hampshire docks;
From Northern Maine to rough Rhode Island rocks;
In all New England, pyroclastic’s flow
Made minerals a billion years ago.
Long, long before the first cave men and apes;
Long, long big brontosaurus rapes;
Volcanic lavas lit light liquid lakes,
Made mountain metals, brisk bitumen bakes.
Vermont (as Boston’s) hit by pyro pocks:
All igneous or metamorphic rocks.

Most other parts in other US states
Are sedimentary (sands of lesser weights):
Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, too
Have lazy layers of a lighter hue.
Great Basin politics is also bland:
As sandstone strata, voters vote in bands.
Where politics is playful, trivial;
Geology is flattened as a wall.

Here in New England, fire made our stones:
Our politics is filled with wailing moans.
Our politics are fire-forged in fuss:
Vermont and Massachusetts—igneous.
With Webster, Adams, Quincy, Kennedy:
Complex in conscience and geology.

Continuing upon this threaded track,
Now Howard’s headlines joined the Party pack:
Agreeing with this kiss of Boston bliss:
Augmenting all of John’s analysis….

“Our mines make money—granite is our gold—
Our mints make micas from full feldspar’s fold.
At Barre is bedrock hard as hammered Hell:
Its rocks are rip-torn as a red-hot bell.
Compressed and crunched—quartz, quartzite’s quarry’s queue:
Fine feldspar’s furrowed as fool’s Frenchman’s fou.
Mad masochistic marbles never moan:
Great grog-shop granites never gallstones groan.
Our pride is power—pile-driven power—
Hard hernias and hemorrhoids by the hour.”

[the above must be regarded as incomplete/unfinished] ------------------------------------------------

I saw the skyline burning on the blue:

They cannot bear their bullies any more.

We I

jonsoneandonlygirl@yahoo.com...

JOHN EDWARDS FOR VEEP! 2 by S. Wyler 3/25/04 7K

The three rules of politics are:

1)Don't assume you have won until you have won
2)Don't assume anything
3)If you don't understand #2, go back and read #1

The addition of Ralph Nader into the political soup seriously complicates matters for John Kerry. Now, he must not only please Moderate Democrats, Southern Democrats, and the 11 per cent of Republicans who vote Democratic; but he must also try to please the Left-Wing who (he fears) may vote for Ralph Nader. Now, Kerry cannot just choose anybody for Vice-President--he must choose a candidate who will be acceptable to BOTH the Right AND the Left wings.

Publicly, at least, Kerry seems unconcerned about the threat of Ralph Nader. He brushed-off comments about Nader with a "well...it really won't matter much" type of attitude. But I really hope Kerry gets serious about Ralph Nader, because if history repeats itself (and it frequently does), Nader will be a serious challenge to the Democratic Party and (possibly) throw the election to Bush.

If Nader can manage to pull-off even a small percentage of votes from Kerry, he can swing the election to Bush in those critical states where Bush and Kerry are almost equal. This time, Nader may get even more votes since people are even more anti-Bush, they already know Nader, and there is less anti-Clinton animosity hanging around from the late 1990s, and (most importantly) Kerry is not particularly attractive to the Left-Wing. In other words, Nader is (at least) as strong as he was before; and, if Kerry does not beat Nader, he won't beat Bush; if he ignores the Nader threat, Kerry will lose. Period.

Al Gore used my line "A vote for Nader is a vote for Bush" and this line helped him to win the popular vote (and possibly the election). But Al Gore forgot to use my other line "Don't leave the Left-wing--whack their terrored tush." Actually, this additional line would have been just as important to Gore, as it would have centerized Gore even further, helping him to win the moderates in Northern Florida and other states. You cannot run a national election from just one wing of the Party; you must have a broad-based appeal to all elements of the political matrix, or you will not win. By hitting the Left-Wing hard, Gore would have drawn Republicans and some independent conservatives into his ranks.

Gore also did not read my line "A vote for Patrick is a vote for you," even though that line would have also helped Gore to win big. Strange as it may sound, helping the extreme Right-Wing will be (for the Democrats) as important as placating the Left-Wing. By supporting (and even funding) the extreme Right, the Democrats will help to break-up the monopoly the Republicans have on the Moral Majority and move them all into Democratic Ranks—where they all started in 1828 with Andrew Jackson. There is no reason why the Democrats cannot claim what is rightfully theirs—the Southern Dixiecrats who broke ranks with the Democrats in the 1960s after racial riots in the Deep South. The best way to attack the Right-Wing is by joining them and helping them to beat George Bush.

The most important issue the Left-Wing shares with the Right-Wing is pro-American workers rights. Both the extreme Left AND the extreme Right are vehemently anti-free trade and anti-NAFTA. It is only the center and the Republican Right-Wing that supports free trade. The rest of us—Kennedy, Gephardt, Pat Buchanan, etc. are all against Bush on this issue. Likewise, the extreme Left and the extreme Right are both anti-immigration, preferring to support Americans here that those who leave their home countries for purely economic reasons. The message from both Nader and Buchanan is this: IMPROVE YOUR OWN COUNTRY BEFORE YOU COME HERE. LOWER YOUR POPULATIONS, RAISE YOUR LIVING CONDITIONS, AND GIVE YOUR PEOPLE FREEDOM AND EQUALITY SO THAT THEY CAN STAY THERE AND NOT COME HERE.

Both Nader and Buchanan are against the large Multi-national corporations that send jobs overseas and compromise American workers. Both Nader and Buchanan are against letting large corporations have large tax breaks so that they can leave the United States and re-organize elsewhere. Both Nader and Buchanan support American workers and American jobs. Both Nader and Buchanan want the American economy to come back. Both Nader and Buchanan can help John Kerry be the next President of the United States!

The best way to fight Nader is to join him and to invite him into the Democratic Party. Only when Nader joins the Democrats in a complete coalition party will the Left-Wing have any official voice in the political process. Only when the Green Party joins the Democrats will those on the extreme Left be able to effect any real change in America. Only when the Greens join the Democrats will the Greens be able to be molded and modified by John Kerry and the Democratic Party. Here is my message to all the Left-Wing: UNITED WE STAND! DIVIDED, WE FALL! DON’T LET PRIDE, VANITY, AND EXCESSIVE EGO DESTROY YOUR POLITICAL PARTY!!!!!

If John Kerry has any common sense at all, he will start to deal with Ralph Nader right NOW before it is too late. At this point in the game, it is still early, and there is still time for the Democrats to talk turkey. Nothing yet has been cast in stone, and all politicians are free to deal the cards as they please.

Thus, John Kerry’s choice for VP more difficult than it would be if Nader were out of the race. Kerry must not choose an unknown Democrat who is too moderate and too strong in the Deep South. On the other hand, Kerry cannot pick a Northern liberal or someone who would be unacceptable to Southern moderate Democrats. His choice is crucial.

For me (and for many others), John Edwards is the best compromise candidate. He is popular and well-known, and he has proven that he can get the necessary votes to challenge other rivals. He is a strong moderate—neither too liberal nor too conservative. And (perhaps most importantly), he is intelligent enough to clearly delineate the issues and to avoid flubs and scandals which could destroy his candidacy. In other words, Edwards has proven himself to be the best man for the job.

During his Senate campaigns and his campaign for President, John Edwards has shown himself to be a man of outstanding character and personal repute. He did exceptionally well in Iowa and New Hampshire—two Northern moderate/liberal states where virtually nobody had heard of a Southern boy named John Edwards. Edwards presents himself well, speaks well, dresses well, and has an immaculate appearance. John Edwards has the necessary drive and physical energy to do some heavy campaigning in the coming months. He has the ability to reach-out to ALL of America—North, South, East, West; both Left and Right wings. John Edwards has a certain amount of charisma and personal charm which would enable him to attract a variety of voters who would not otherwise vote in a national election. John Edwards is your man. It would be absolutely foolish to choose anybody else for the job of Vice-President.

DANGEROUS REPUBLICANS 1/20/04 1.3K

The total area of the US (including water) is 3,794,085 square miles. Divide that by the number of people, and you get .013454 square miles (or about 8.61 acres) for every person. That means that every man, woman, and child should get 8.61 acres. But even if you take out all of the wasteland—all land that is too hot, too cold, too dry, too wet, too remote, too mountainous, or too developed—you still get 1.03 acres for every person. That means every person in the United States should get at least one full acre of prime cropland.

The total yearly income in the United States is 8,319 billion dollars, or 8.3219 trillion dollars. The net per capita income (after taxes) is 7.031 trillion dollars. That means that every person should get at least 36,000 dollars each year. The amount given to charity from that 7.031 trillion dollars is only 20 billion dollars. That means that the average person gives only 67 dollars to charity each year.

Now Bush’s tax cuts amount to 1.6 trillion dollars every 10 years, with substantially higher amounts going to those with incomes over 100,000 dollars. The tax cuts are accelerated, which means that they get larger each year, so that the average tax cut for the highest income bracket amounts to over 15,000 dollars. Bush’s tax cuts are going all to the rich, who don’t need the money and need to be taxed at a much higher rate.

“They didn’t have a voice,” said John McCain about the Trade Center hijackers. Indeed, they DID NOT HAVE A VOICE! Intelligent men who were trained pilots couldn’t get jobs because of their Arabian accent and their brown faces. My own Jewish Mother, who knew the hijackers in Delray Beach, Florida, refused to invite them in for some coffee or casual conversation. Had the Jewish community of Delray Beach been more open-hearted and accepted men of different colors, the 9/11 hijacking would not have happened. The Arab hijackers were lonely men without women and American friends; they sought hijacking and terror as the only way out of their predicament. Bin Laden had much less influence than most people think. He was high—hopped-up on heroin or opiates—and could hardly think straight. To believe that Muhammed Atta and Co. could have been mere puppets of foreign criminal organizations is sheer lunacy. The Arabs attacked because (as John McCain said) they didn’t have a voice in the political process and could not vote and effect meaningful change in the American Fascist political machine.

As the great Martin Luther King said, If you are faced with a situation where you are expected to obey an unjust law, it is not only your right—but also your OBLIGATION—to disobey such a law. For it is only with civil disobedience (as the great New Hampshire writer Henry David Thoreau said) that true and effective change can start to take effect.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
HARMONIOUS ARABS (SONG)
PIANO COMPOSITION BY S. WYLER

Notes in capitals have half-note value; other notes are quarter-notes....

c-f-f-f-e-G-D
c-f-f-f-e-D-C
c-f-f-f-e-G-F
a-g-f-e-D-C

low a-c-e-e-c-e...............low a-c-d-a
low a-c-e-e-c-e..............low a-c-d-c-d-c-d-c-a
low a-c-e-e-c-e..............a-d-f-d-c#-d
f-e-d-c-b-a
c-d#-f-d#-c-c?-d#-f-
f-e-d-c-b-b-a................d#-f-d#-f-d#-c

c-d-c-d-c-d-E-c-d-c-d-c-d-B
c-d-c-d-c-d-E- f-e-d-c-d-b-a
f-e-d-c-d-b-a
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

People of one mind and one body are easier to manipulate by Bush’s government: people who dress alike, act alike, and seem similar are silly putty in the hands of a skillful dictator like Bush.

Since 1970, the American economy has been in a state of permanent decline, prompted by the flight of American industry to Asia and cheaper labor markets. Such rich entrepreneurs are viewed as great patriots by Bush and free-trade Republicans, yet they are really selfish traitors who merely seek slaves to produce their products.

RARE DISEASES SPREAD BY REPUBLICANS
On “Talk of the Nation” (a National Public Radio show), BSE (Mad Cow Disease) was discussed. Little attention, however, was paid to the disease itself, its prognosis, and the reason for its dissemination in Washington State. New diseases such as AIDS, Legionnaire’s Disease, BSE, the West Nile Virus, and Monkey Pox seem to spring-up overnight. Thousands of the US Armed Forces in Iraq come back to the United States with rare diseases and vague disorders which are rarely discussed.

For about 20 years, I have had a mild mycosis—a case of ringworm which manifests itself as an itchy rash on skin folds or sweaty areas. I have tried various over-the-counter medications (such as Micatin, Tinactin, etc.), but I have failed to be cured by such creams, sprays, and ointments. In fact, I believe the Micatin has been counter-productive, allowing the ringworm to become resistant to the medication and spread even more.

I have not taken Lamisil, mainly because it may be too powerful; or conversely, allow the ringworm to spread even more (as the Micatin has done). Additionally, there are possibilities that Lamisil may affect the liver and produce jaundice. Also, Lamisil is very expensive and probably won’t do much to cure the ringworm.

At the present time, I have another mycosis—a second mycosis--a much rarer mycosis--which probably has its origin in Republican criminals. Approximately three years ago, I discovered a red mycological growth in a sample of my urine which had been sitting for approximately 2 weeks. The red fungus manifests itself as small rectangular pieces which have the appearance of paint chips which settle at the bottom of the dormant urine. Each red rectangular chip is approximately 2 mm long and 1 mm wide. Approximately 200 chips (or about 10 grams) of the fungus grow on the bottom of various pint-sized urine samples. This red mycological growth is almost certainly related to symptoms which I have experienced for exactly 2 years and one month.

This mycosis (which is probably related to these “red paint chips”) has manifested itself in the following symptoms: chronic fatigue, dizziness (especially in the morning and early morning), stomach rolling (burping), excessive gastro-intestinal gas, itching, dermatitis, excessive thirst, and mouth dryness.

Another fungus—which is bright yellow, and approximately 9 cm long and 7 cm wide—I found growing on a rotting stump just outside my cabin. In many year of traveling the North Woods, however, I have never found such a rare fungus—which I believe to have been planted by friends of George Bush or the Republican Party. Why would I jump to such apparently illogical, erroneous conclusions? Hear me out, and you may find yourself agreeing with me. The “yellow mystery fungus” (which I believe to have been deliberately planted), changed (after approximately 2 weeks) to a tawny brownish color. The fungus then expelled spores; the remaining spores on the fungus would fly-off when shot with a stream of a garden hose. Shortly after the spores disseminated, I became infused with a mycosis which perhaps was related to this yellow fungus.

When I visited a physician 2 years and 1 month ago (in December of 2001), I neglected to tell him all of the symptoms, hence he did not get a clear idea of the mycosis which I had. Recently, however, that same physician has made a diagnosis based upon my own personal diagnosis of dermatological ringworm. However, I believe I have misled him into making a false diagnosis. I indeed have the ringworm (as I have had for several years), but I believe I also have another (additional) mycosis which has its origin in Republicans or Conservatives who have visited the area.

In 2001 I was employed at the Handicapped Center where I unloaded bags of used clothing. There, I worked closely with a tall man (we’ll call “Waldo”) whom (I believe) developed the same rare mycosis which I presently have. Approximately in April of 2001, a stranger, a US Army veteran, began temporary employment at the same Handicapped Center where I was employed. This person (whom we shall call “Larry”) worked at the Handicapped Center for about 2 days, just long enough to spray the area with deadly spores. Larry was a talkative man who had just recently become heavily involved in Republican political activity. In fact, he told me that Governor Scott McCallum, knocked on his door asking him to get involved in a political fundraiser.

Just following Larry’s visit, Waldo became ill with a disease which (his mother thought) was a brain tumor. It probably wasn’t a brain tumor, but rather the same mycosis which I now presently have. Waldo described the annoying symptoms as: dizziness, fatigue, etc,--the same symptoms which I now have (and have had) for 2 years and 1 month. About a month later, a woman worker at the Handicapped Center (we shall call “Bea”) also became sick with (presumably) the same illness. Her symptoms were “that she just didn’t feel right”—symptoms very similar to Waldo’s and mine. After a few weeks, Bea confided in me that her physician thought that her illness was related to a gastro-intestinal pathogen—probably the same mycological organism that Waldo had previously.

Since I didn’t develop the mycosis while I was employed at the Handicapped Center, I thought nothing of it. I left the employment of the Handicapped Center about November of 2001 and developed the symptoms of mycosis almost exactly 1 week before Christmas of 2001.

I ignored the mycosis until one year later, December 2002, when I visited a physician. The physician then diagnosed my illness as stomach cramps or peptic ulcers and gave me stomach pills (none of which I took). The doctor also gave me a hematological examination which produced normal results.

The vague illness dragged-on for another year. At that point (in December of 2003), I visited the physician again, this time accurately describing all of the symptoms. I told him that I thought that the disease was related to a micro-organism. I told him about Bea, her problems, and her diagnosis. Unfortunately, however, he dismissed my self-diagnosis. He preferred to give me another blood test (which was absolutely useless to detect the mycological organisms which were in my system). My physician also disagreed with my findings that Micatin and Tinactin were useless; he thought that the creams would have been effective I had given them more time to effect the mycological cure. He analyzed the rash on my leg and prescribed Ketoconazole (2%). I protested, feeling that the Ketoconazole would be as ineffective as the Micatin and the Tinactin.

Indeed, since I was prescribed Ketoconazole (dermatological application only), the symptoms disappeared for one day only, then returned gradually. (That is the way I know for sure that the disease is only a mycosis and not related to another pathogen.) The application of the Ketoconazole (as I had previously told the physician) was either ineffective or counter-productive. I gave the Ketoconazole 3 weeks to produce results; unfortunately, however, my mycological condition did not improve; and, in fact, got somewhat worse, as the itching spread somewhat. Thus finding the Ketoconazole fairly worthless, I abandoned the Ketoconazole treatment. Now that I am off of the Ketoconazole treatment, I am better, but still much the same as I was before the Ketoconazole treatment.

(In the three week Ketoconazole treatment period, I tried one-half of a tablet of Lamisil, then another one-half table a day or so later. It had a very bitter taste, but was ineffective).

To sum up: Anthrax senders mail spores to Tom Daschle, Tom Brokaw, and Thomas Leahy—all Democrats (or Left-leaning). Taking the cue from Saddam, I believe Republicans have done additional damage with biological warfare; I believe my mycosis is only one example of what the Republicans are doing. Republicans are more dangerous than we think.

What will cure my present mycosis? Through rigorous self-examination, I have found that three things seem to make the mycosis a little better:

1) Hard, rigorous exercize--especially fast walking or running.

2) Extremely cold, dry weather

3) Not eating--especially not eating greasy, fatty foods like spices, butter, etc.

4) Constant bathing or showering

The final mycological cure, however remains rare and elusive!

[unfinished!]

LAWSUIT AGAINST BUSH AND NBC from S. WYLER 7K 12/17/03

For more than eight years, I have been sending newsworthy ideas and political commentary to NBC, Big Media, Politicians, and other individuals. Big Media and Government have been using my words and my ideas without mentioning my name, without proper reference, and without financial remuneration; yet in the long time that I have been writing, I have yet to receive a reply from anyone except for a few private citizens. And though I have endured such silence without complaint and without request for direct compensation, the ethics of Government and the Broadcasting Code DEMAND that adequate exchange be given for my endeavors. In 8 long years, I have been sending a great number of essays to the Media and to Government with the unwritten understanding that specific remuneration shall be forwarded at an unspecified date in the future. There was an unwritten contract between me and the Media which stated that, after as certain number of years, I would be compensated for my mailings to them. Thus, the codified Law of UNJUST ENRICHMENT shall serve as my flagship in this massive lawsuit which shall envelop both Big Media and Government.

As everybody knows, the Media is governed by the FCC. The FCC is directly involved with Big Media, its business conduct, and fraud in the usage of newsworthy items. Needless to say, the misuse and fraudulent handling of newsworthy items can be a source of fraud, and is of intense interest to the FCC and the general public. Needless to say, a long list of complaints shall be forwarded to the FCC for final adjudication.

Likewise, the National Code of Broadcasters (which serves as the generator of a binding code of ethics for the news media) has strict guidelines about the handling of premium sources of newsworthy items. Needless to say, a complaint will be registered with the National Code of Broadcasters about NBC and other Media broadcasters who have used my words and ideas for their own selfish ends.

But doesn't the Media have the Right to broadcast what they want, when they want? Yes, indeed, I will be the first one to assert that the First Amendment rights must apply universally and unequivocally to all who communicate in any form of Media at all. And I am including television, radio, and wireless broadcasting in those unalienable rights. Furthermore, it is quite true that I have claimed First Amendment rights for myself, and I should not be hypocritical in denying those important rights to any and all who care to assert them. Yet our First Amendment rights are not the issue here....

All societies are governed by law, and all laws are (in theory) governed by common law--the people's law--and common sense. When a judge makes an important decision, he abides not only by statute (written) law, but also by common (common sense) law which stipulates that justice must be done, regardless of WHO is in the court room. In other words, ideally, a judgment will be rendered in conjunction with what is LOGICAL, not necessarily what is WRITTEN.

Now is my chance to get back at the Media and Bush. In my lawsuit, NBC and Bush shall be named as defendants; I shall be named as the Plaintiff seeking specific damages against corporations, partnerships, and individuals who shall be jointly and severally liable for their torts.

The Paula Jones lawsuit against President Clinton paved the way for legal action against the President of the United States. Now that Bush has (illegally) claimed the Institution of the Presidency to be his own, I have the right to assert my legal rights against him in a massive suit involving a great deal of money, political, and religious power.

The lawsuit against Bush shall allege (and endeavor to prove) a Republican conspiracy which is both illegal and immoral. The Republicans have used my words and my ideas for (up to) eight years without compensating me directly or indirectly. Now, they will (literally) have to come to court to explain themselves. They will be given an opportunity to defend their sinister behavior, but inevitably, I shall demark how ugly and how shitten they have come to be.

The lawsuit shall further state that the Media is involved in a grand conspiracy with Bush and Government, so much so that the Media has (in essence) become a Forth Branch of Government which has abused its power and attempted to censor important newsworthy items.

As wealth has compounded upon wealth, so power has compounded upon power and defaulted as shitten. I SHALL HAVE MY DAY IN COURT!

The Supreme Court (in a fit of reckless partisanship) nominated George Bush to be the President of the United States. Yet, as the Constitution make abundantly clear, (in the case of a disputed election) the House of Representatives MUST decide who the President shall be. Yet, the Supreme Court intervened and did what they should never have done: chosen George Bush as President of the United States. And thus, the course of Justice was never done, and never completed in 2002.

Ex-Governor Bush must be Impeached and impelled from the Office of President of the United States. Yet, (you might reason) since Bush is not legally President, HOW can he be Impeached?

If Bush is not President, he cannot be Impeached; but he CAN be ARRESTED for illegally occupying the White House for three years without the consent of the governed. Indeed, BUSH MUST BE ARRESTED, INCARCERATED, AND TRIED FOR illegal actions which have transpired both before his "Presidency" and during his assumption to the Office of the "Presidency".

But "President" or no "President", Bush can be sued by me in a leviathan lawsuit for (yet) unspecific damages. Most of Big Media, many governmental officials, and ALL Republican Senators will also be a Party to that lawsuit.

to be continued........

NEW IDEAS FOR THE SAHEL 15K 11/06/03

The Sahel (pronounced “sah-HAIL” or “sah-HELL”)—also called “The Sudan” is a large barren wasteland just south of the Sahara Desert. The Sahel extends the same length as the Sahara Desert—3000 miles—from the Red Sea on the East to the Atlantic Ocean on the West. From North to South, the Sahel extends about 1000 miles—from the Sahara on the North to the more well-watered grasslands on the South.

The Sahara is a lifeless desert in which nothing grows—not even cactus. The Sahel, on the other hand, has some rare patches of grass and ugly-looking bushes which grow about 9 feet apart; otherwise, the Sahel is almost as unproductive as the Sahara is. In fact, the Sahel is (in some ways) even more unproductive than the Sahara: the Sahara has oil and some minerals, while the Sahel has virtually nothing.

The Sahel—which produces little of value to the rest of the world—is the most destitute area on earth. The people there exist in dire poverty, which, owing to its isolation from the rest of the civilized world, is virtually helpless in times of drought, famine, epidemics, war, or other disasters. Adding to its problems, the political instability of the region makes distribution of funds and the initiation of progressive reforms difficult indeed.

In bygone days, the Sahel acted as a bridge between the civilized Arabs of the Mediterranean and the Negroes of Central Africa. Gold, ivory, salt, and slaves were traded back-and-forth across this barren countryside. Many prosperous towns—even cities—sprang-up as the result of caravan routes which passed through this inhospitable land. Over time, however, numerous events have served to disintegrate the Sahel--to turn it into the wasteland which it is today. Environmental destruction, cattle raising, population pressures, and natural climatic changes have all conspired together to make the Sahel as worthless as the Sahara. And, up until the present time, ignorant people continue to destroy the Sahel—to convert it into a dead place just like the Sahara.

The revival of the Sahel depends largely upon the people and a determined international effort which could save the Sahel and return it to it former productivity.

The most important thing now to do is to modernize and increase well production, efficiency, and purity. Wells are the mainstay of the Sahel—its lifeblood and its heart. Most wells are polluted by bacteria from human and animal feces living or staying around the well. Diseases are usually transmitted from the well water to people, and then to their animals. Well users are unknowledgeable about micro-organisms and simply do not know the basic rules of sanitation. SOLUTION: public education, encourage well users to use chlorination tablets, coffee filters for water, to boil water, and to report suspect contamination; also--filtration of wells, mechanical chlorination, construction of closed cisterns, and frequent sampling of wells to insure purity. In addition, cattle-raising should be discouraged, as cattle are the major source of well pollution.

Most all wells in the Sahara and the Sahel are unreliable and produce an adequate amount of water only sporadically. Some wells are merely mud soups which have no pure water. SOLUTION: dig more and deeper wells; hire well-drillers to find large groundwater deposits; construct large cisterns to hold water that has been pumped out. Most wells in the Sahel are, shallow dug wells (traditional wide-mouthed wells) which are difficult to keep clean because they are always open. Machine-driven wells, on the other hand, can go deeper, are more cost-efficient, and can be kept very clean because they are closed and nobody is polluting them from above. A machine-driven well could be operated by hand pump or an electric pump. If an electric pump is used, a windmill or a solar generator could be the power source. (A diesel generator would be an unacceptable alternative because it would be too expensive and time-consuming to constantly truck-out fuel to generators all over the desert. )

New wells would be difficult to find in the desert. Some signposts will help guide some to the wells. Closer to the well, red helium balloons would help camel-drivers, nomads, and other residents to find the wells. Such helium balloon would be monitored by helicopter and would be replaced periodically. High cell phone antennas (with top lights or balloons) would also help the traveler locate the wells. A GPS navigation system will be more costly, but will be easier and more accurate than signposts, balloons, or cell phone antennas. The camel driver will simply point the GPS at the sky, and it would tell him which way to go. The current cost of a GPS is about 500 dollars, but it may be well worth it if it could help the bedouin find water.

A bonus for the well-driller may be the discovery of oil. The Sahel is not known for its oil deposits, as most of the petroleum in this latitude is in the Northern Sahara, the Hasa, al Kuwait, and the other Persian Gulf regions. The proper OPEC geology—the traprock, the salt domes, and longer horizontal sedimentation--is lacking in the Sahel. Yet, since almost all of the world was (at one time or another) a tropical rainforest, it stands to reason that oil would be in the Sahel too. In OPEC countries, approximately 1 out of every 20 wells produces oil; I am no geologist, but I would guess that in the Sahel, 1 out of every 200 wells could produce oil. In other words, if 1000 wells are drilled for the Sahel people at a cost of 2 million dollars, 5 petroleum wells could be produced, paying for the rest of the whole project.

Yet, in the long run, I am against oil exploration because it would add to inflation and introduce too many modern ideas too quickly into the isolated Tuareg and nomad cultures. The Sahel could become another al Kuwait or Saudi Arabia in which greed and arrogance take the place of traditional Muslim values. The people need to guard against such possibilities. Additionally, agreements should be worked-out to insure that the poorest people reap the most benefits in case oil is indeed discovered. In other words, the rich guys shouldn’t take all the cash from such ventures which were originally designed to help the resident populations.

More importantly, oil is only a temporary resource. Indeed, all OPEC countries will eventually run-out of oil. At that point, they had better know what they are doing, because at their present rate of consumption, they will be back on their camels again if they do not start planning for the future.

But, believe it or not, Saudi Arabia, Libya (and all hot desert countries) will have a resource far more valuable than oil. It is a resource which requires no engineer, no geologist, no money, and no hocus-pocus to extract. It is a resource which is free, unlimited, and (at the same time) a thousand times more valuable than oil. What is this strange and powerful commodity? It is the SUN!!! Yes, the SUN!!!! It is the sun which will make Saudi Arabia even more powerful than it is today. In 80 years, when their oil runs-out, Saudi Arabia will have firmly in-place huge expanses of solar panels which will produce all the energy that they need. With no muss or fuss, no mess, no horrible spills, no ugly black stains on the landscape, and no pollution; sun-rich nations will have a virtual monopoly on sun power, selling it to shady jungle nations and the cold, frozen north for premium prices.

In the Sahel, solar power could be used in a variety of ways. Large solar panels could be used to produce the electricity needed to power the well’s pumps and all of the various accessories near the well. A mini-oasis could be constructed which would offer cold ice, refrigeration, air-conditioned housing, electric stoves, and the rest of modern appliances. Indeed, small self sufficient villages could be built in the middle of the desert which would not require any assistance from the outside. And the best part of all is—it would all be free!

But solar power is not the only renewable resource in the Sahel. Wide, treeless expanses for 3000 miles across Africa afford more than adequate space for huge wind energy waves to build-up. Hundreds and thousands of windmills could take advantage of this bountiful wind energy to produce even more energy than solar power. But, since wind energy is not as constant nor as reliable as solar power, some method (such as DC storage batteries) would have to be in-place in order for the wind system to operate efficiently. Still, windmills have produced power in Holland for hundreds of years; and today, wind energy is used in the United States to produce an increasing fraction of its electricity needs.

In coastal areas of the Sahel (like Mauritania), desalination plants could be built which would provide even better quality water than that obtained from well. That is because the water (that would be distilled from seawater) would be absolutely pure. The salt (the by-product of distillation) could be used for fish processing or meat preservatives. In addition, salt has a variety of metals and minerals (like magnesium and bromine) which, if extracted from the salt, could pay for the energy consumed by the desalination plant.

With the water, the proper planning, and the proper power, a desert Sahel oasis could be a magnet for increasing progress. Large storage sheds could be built for meeting places and for protection from the intensity of the Sahel sun. Small houses could be built from adobe and local materials. Energy-efficient heat pumps (called “desert fans” in Arizona) would cool better than regular air-conditioners, and use only a fraction of the electricity. Irrigation could be used for hydroponic (soil-less) gardening which would utilize the unproductive Sahel soil with animal manures to grow vegetables. Drought-resistant plants, date palms, acacia, and frankincense could be grown successfully. Jojoba (an oil bush common in Arizona) could be grown and exported for its use as a skin conditioner and beauty aid. American cactus gardens could be started for their beautiful flowers and their usefulness as additional water repositories.

But non-traditional modes of living could be experimented with too. The hot desert sun of the Sahel (which, on some days, exceeds 125 degrees Fahrenheit or 50 degrees Centigrade) is sometimes too powerful for even the natives to tolerate. Surface air-conditioners would be constantly fighting with the torrid furnace of the sun, and would be frequently over-taxed. Much better, would be underground housing which would be somewhat costly, but would pay for itself in reduced energy consumption. Additionally, houses underground would be immune from the sandstorms and high winds which generally ply the wide plains of the Sahel.

Transportation systems could be vastly improved without constructing costly roads. Helicopters and small personal Bensen gyrocopters could be utilized to replace existing Jeeps and ATVs. A surface vehicle is always vulnerable to puncture and flat tires, getting stuck in the mud or on sand dunes, and being besieged by bandits. Air transportation could be made cheaper by locally constructing the helicopters in Africa—using local materials and labor.

Even the traditional camel could be improved upon. Software could be devised to direct a remote toy robot (which runs in front of the camel) to guide it and lead it through the trackless desert. The camel would be trained to follow the robot across the sand dunes while the rider simply falls asleep, enjoying the ride. The software would take the camel’s temperature and tell its trainer when the camel would be getting too thirsty and require water.

A Jeep which runs entirely on software could be easily invented. No steering wheel, no brakes, and no windshield would be necessary because the vehicle would be completely automatic. The driver would simply get in, start it, and go to sleep. The software would be doing all the work.

But perhaps the most important aspect of the Sahel is the health of its people. The Sahel (as I have stated) is the most impoverished region on earth. Many diseases such as malaria, leishmaniasis, and the Guinea worm are endemic to the area. Clinics should be set-up at each well to monitor the health of the travelers and to treat various diseases. If no doctor or nurse is present, software would direct the patient to take certain steps and to take certain medications (which would be dispensed in a vending-type machine). Software would also monitor who is getting the diseases and where. Birth control and population control would be discussed; a heavy emphasis would be placed on family planning.

But religion must never be neglected. In such a devoutly Muslim area as the Sahel, religion is of primary importance. At the watering place, a gazebo could be set-up to shade and cool travelers. That same gazebo would have prayer rugs, prayer cloths, and Korans for all who enter. Those who can’t read the Koran would be given special Korans with software designed to speak all words which are pointed to.

It should, of course, be realized that the implementation of all of these improvements could not take place unless the full co-operation of the government and the people is obtained. A population and government which are genuinely concerned about the future of the Sahel would make the whole job a lot easier.

ILLEGAL ATTACKS ON S. WYLER BY BUSH 6K 10/23/03

On Friday, April 12, 2002, a 1998 1040A form was mailed to the BushIRS in Kansas City, several days before the final date. The letter was not sent registered or certified, and no receipt was received because it was mailed c530AM, before the post office opened. I had faith in the post office that they would mail the letter promptly, and that it would be received on time in Kansas City. Within the return, I requested a refund of approximately $1500 that should have been sent back in 1999.

About the time that I mailed my return, Bush illegally changed the Treasury Secretary in order to secretly audit my return. Bush knew about my return and probably was attempting to re-direct the money I should have received from the BushIRS. That is no joke.

Many months later, the Kansas City IRS claims that they did not receive my return until May 10, more than 3 weeks after it was mailed. It is my belief that the return was taken from the drop-box at the post office and illegally re-directed to the Bush Pigs, or to Bush himself. It is simply beyond belief that it would take 3 weeks for the letter to reach Kansas City.

Several months later, a form was sent to me from the Kansas City IRS requesting additional information, since a number that I put-down was (according to them) incorrect. I sent the new form, assuming that I would get my refund in short order. But I did not hear from the Kansas City IRS until late in 2002, almost 6 months after I mailed the original return.

Meanwhile, I called the BushIRS hotline about 50 times, requesting information as to where my refund was. In every instance, I was given the run-around; ignorant Satanic assholes who intentionally misled me and gave me false information. Each person I talked to gave me different information and a different answer. No one seemed to know if my refund was coming or not. Each operator called a supervisor (or called Kansas City) during a long hiatus of silence. When the operator returned to the phone, I was not given any concrete information. I was usually told to write to the IRS. Why couldn't I call Kansas City directly. "They don't take phone calls" I was told.

They usually told me to write the IRS in Kansas City, suggesting that I would receive the refund after I wrote. One IRS agent in Jacksonville told me that I could send my information to any office. Therefore, since I was not getting any response from Kansas City, I sent the information to Fresno.

The Fresno BushIRS replied to me, in November or December 2002, that they were going to disallow the refund—even though I sent the return on time.

I called the BushIRS hotline again, asking what had happened. In late December, a Mrs. Dickey told me that I should “write a nice letter” to Kansas City requesting that the statue of limitations be extended (even though I had mailed the return on time). In January, I sent a long letter to Kansas City explaining the situation, including a “request” for a waiver of the statute of limitations—even though I did not have to do so. That was 10 months ago—and I never heard from Kansas City since then.

Meanwhile, I wrote several more letters, and made numerous calls about the situation. Heeding advice from the IRS hotline, I contacted the taxpayer's advocate's office in Milwaukee, who was also apparently working for Satan. A woman talked to me for about 40 minutes, saying that she would call Kansas City to get more information. I believed her lies, hoping that success would result. I asked her to get the envelope (which the IRS said they had) with the postmark on it; however, she did nothing of the sort--no such envelope was sent.

I my Wisconsin return has been illegally audited, even though I am expecting a refund of only several hundred dollars. (On one return, I am expecting a refund of only about $30) I They are simply holding my funds illegally until Bush leaves office. Bush pads the wallets of rich Satanics, and takes funds from those who need it the most.

It is to be underscored that all of these Satanic crimes will be punished severely by the Lord. Bush must be impeached for such crimes—and be prosecuted as the STINKING SATANIC ASSHOLE THAT HE IS!!!
...................................................

.

ILLEGAL BUSH PIGS AND SPIES

Bush has put asshole spies near my cabin--assholes who are spying for Bush Pigs or Bush. I have found my antenna wire cut, and numerous small items misplaced. The Shitten Bush Pigs are in for a big surprise if they think they can escape the Wrath of G-d!

Bush Shits (the Military) have been placed in a cabin near mine. The Bush Shits are simply wasting their time, spending Bush's borrowed money...

unfinished http://www.bulletinboardforpeace.org/

http://esa.sdsc.edu/esalanduse.htm

http://www.restonweb.com/community/politicstalk/messages001010/7180.html#followups

http://www.niehs.nih.gov/emfrapid/html/Q&A-Workplace.html EMF

http://www.cwp.org/watershed_quiz.htm
watershed,runoff
[answers to quiz] b a b c d c cegh a b c c b b a a e e b d c d b a d a e a c c d

http://www.niehs.nih.gov/emfrapid/html/Q&A-Workplace.html EMF

http://www.cwp.org/watershed_quiz.htm
watershed,runoff
[answers to quiz] b a b c d c cegh a b c c b b a a e e b d c d b a d a e a c c d

http://esa.sdsc.edu/esalanduse.htm land use

http://www.ydms.org/guestbook.html ydm mississippi dems