WHAT ABOUT MY TEMPER?

There have been numerous times when I've considered changing the name of this blog to be more representative of the content - my virtual reality Van Halen concerts and associated haiku poetry. The question must come up often about the title "What A Temper" and here's the answer. My original intent was to use the blog as a vehicle by which I could vent about the current state of political affairs, as expressed through haiku, infuriated by the stupidity of the leaders and policies of our great nation. Some examples of this politically inspired poetry include:

Through clouded vision
Their self-congratulation
Amidst smoking ruins

Wartime shopping spree
Bush buys gifts for all his friends
Our kids get the bill

Corpse wrapped in plastic
Muscle and flesh holding bones
Stench fills roadside air

Movement on the roof
Tense soldiers raise their weapons
Six year old throws stones

Lords of the ghetto
The most fearsome militia
Our US Army

An urban desert
Sea of half-destroyed buildings
World sees our promise

No celebrations
Anniversary passes
Five years of war crimes

Laser guided bomb
Stands before corpse strewn rubble
Not cool anymore

Bush commands the surge
Troops fan out across Baghdad
They guard the gas pumps

They burst in firing
Gray clad troops dole out their gift
Freedom of the grave

Humvees in pursuit
Driver chases masked gunmen
Scooter eludes them

Lament what we've done
Cruelty towards our brethren
Then do it again

Joint forces raid home
Door riddled with bullet holes
Like people inside

Changing strategies
A rich mans sporting event
The chess pieces bleed

Like a slow dripping
Death greets soldiers one by one
Resigned acceptance

Low attention span
Public forgets the carnage
Denial is high

The pre-dawn darkness
Low pitched thump of the choppers
Drum beats Deaths approach

Dawn commando raid
The men, women and children flee
Count the dead terrorists

Mirage-like image
Peace wavers in deserts sun
Heat from tanks exhaust

Fear of the shadows
Battle the apparitions
A war without end

Holy rollers preach
Claim a direct line to God
Their phone is unplugged

Street sweeper pauses
Hears the volley of bullets
Blood soaks the gray dust

Caught in the crossfire
The girl has no place to hide
Sixteen short years end

Corpse on the stretcher
Watch the battered soul depart
Buzzing cloud of flies

Looks across the land
Bush says the future looks bright
Nero's Rome burning

Lies lull us to sleep
Their fables become our dreams
Sleep walk with eyes closed

Gun ships roam above
Bring rain in a cloudless sky
Bullets pelt the ground

It all tastes so wrong
Lofty words grind on our teeth
We swallow the lies

What happened back there?
Crimson horror kept silent
Locked it in his head

Red mist fills his eyes
Mind begins to disconnect
Rampage of the beast

Tanned skin unbroken
Witness to the slaughter
Red scars lie within

No Child Left Behind
Except for Bush who tells kids
The "childrens do learn"

Hands bound, on their knees
Our guns pointed at their backs
Their hearts filled with rage

Wrong place, the wrong time
His raised hands are no defense
Shots fired in the night

Sunglassed militias
Roam our concrete walled ghettos
Dole out their justice

New al-Anbar peace
Sunni sheiks pledge loyalty
To the dollar bill

Wear pearly white ropes
Hides the blackness of their hearts
Sheep contently graze

The great sucking sound
Swirling down the toilet bowl
Fifty billion gone

Nation in ruins
No need for Democracy
Back in the Stone Age

Battle over oil
Militias vie for control
Exchange red for black

Mothers, sons, daughters
Lie dead in the battles wake
"All are al-Quida"

Horror and disgust
Barbarous acts leave us numb
The TV sedates

Thousands swell the ranks
They occupy the trenches
Army of the dead

Lies piled upon lies
Propaganda convinces
Believe it themselves

Preach from the Bible
Christian soldiers sent to war
Search for the Profits

Business is booming
Four, five funerals a day
Their death toll meter

The crew assembles
Commence work at dawns first light
Harvest the bodies

No water to drink
Bush responds by sending pumps
To remove their oil

Topsy turvey world
Turn our plowshares into swords
We arm the Reaper

Marine collapses
Bullet pierced the hardened man
Kills the boy inside

Venting this poisonous brew no longer appeals to me and I find writing about all things Van Halen is a lot more fun, and that's what is and will be when it comes to this blog.

Enough of this seriousness. Here are two video clips that merge the two things I enjoy that this blog was/is meant to be: music with a strong beat and irreverent political commentary. Enjoy!

Ministry with "Lies Lies Lies"



John Jackson (aka "Fabolous") and his "Where Brooklyn At"