The Money God

I sit here in my secluded womb, a small town at the base of a dormant volcano sacred to Native Nations but despoiled for money by business interests. Though secluded, I feel the pain across America, a country I served in the Marine Corps, my country, our country, as we mourn once again. 

In the material world, the world of money, we are told again and again that this is not our nation, not our country anymore. We are to bow to corporate interests and their bought representatives, their lackeys, who feel no pain but give lip service with their talk of serving "the American people." Talk. The Money God talks through his ass and expects us to fall into line. 

The America I know lives in the world of spirit (for what is matter after all but condensed spirit?). We are warriors of spirit and do not fall for the hypnotic imagery of the puppet masters. We not only rebel (re-bell: strike the bell of liberty once again), we re-volt, come out fully charged -- one more time.

Seven times down, eight times up! The motto of the Samurai.