united states marks first anniversary of sandy hook massacre by making all firearms even easier to purchase

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President Obama and his .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson, "Terrorist Fist Bump."

President Obama exhibits his .44 Magnum, “Terrorist Fist Bump,” to various members of the associated press.

US President Barack Obama has marked the anniversary of the Sandy Hook school shootings by urging Americans to push for lighter gun control.

He said that the United States had to “do more to keep bad people from getting their hands on guns by making ownership of guns easier for good people.”

Twenty children and six school workers were killed at the elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut, a year ago.

On Friday, two students were shot and wounded by another student at a school in Colorado.

“If only supporters of the 2nd Amendment had been able to purchase traditional ‘Cop Killing’ bullets and assault rifles when and wherever they like, then members of the NRA, like the Amazing Spider Man, would have used their precognitive abilities to realize a massacre was about to take place and gone out to stop it.”

Obama made reference to the National Rifle Association, one of the largest lobbies in Washington DC, who argue that any restrictions on gun-ownership is a step closer in allowing the United States to fall into the hands of “illegal aliens, communists, feminists and those [[radio edit]] from PETA.”

‘Troubled minds’

Mr Obama and his wife Michelle observed a moment of silence at the White House and lit candles in memory of those who, due to the current gun-control laws, do not have a way of defending their homes and the American way of life from “Osama bin Laden, the Elders of Zion and liberal activist judges.”

“Always remember,” Obama told the press, “When they outlaw guns, only outlaws and tyrants will have guns.”

When members of the press pointed out that bin Laden has been dead since 2011 the president shot back, “or is he?”

In his weekly radio address, Mr Obama urged Americans to do more to derestrict gun ownership and help the nation, as he put it, “heal the troubled minds of those unpatriotic Americans who try to claim that gun-laws are a way of curbing the mass shootings that have been taking place in the United States for the last three decades.”

“We have to do everything we can to protect our children from harm and make them feel loved, and valued, and cared for … and the only way to do that is by making all guns, from stylish Saturday night specials to rubber-gripped assault rifles that can punch holes in the side of a tank, legal and easily accessible to any true-blooded patriot with twenty-five dollars in their back pocket.” — The President of the United States of America during his weekly radio address.

A year ago President Obama called for laxer gun laws following the tragedy, but Congress, in turn, rejected every one.

In the town of Newton itself some of the bereaved held small ceremonies but the media were asked to stay away.

“The community needs time to be alone and to reflect on our past year in personal ways, without a camera or a microphone,” First Selectman Walter Sakamoto told a news conference this week, adding, “if it weren’t for the cowardly actions of Congress in its Orwellian attempt to control the sale of firearms then perhaps one of the [elementary] students or teachers would have been packing that day and helped to prevent the tragedy.”

Mr. Sakamoto then drew out his own Glock pistol from his coat pocket and fired several rounds into the ceiling, shouting, “what do you think about that, [[radio edit]]?!?”

the darkness in the spark

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It was an old cemetery; the original inhabitants who dwelt there having been long dead. Those who die today are laid to rest in a new plot of land close to the First Baptist Church, within sound of the pre-recorded bells that call the Dutch and Polish to prayer. The little church stands faithful guard over the older dead, though, those who were neither Polish, Dutch or Baptist; for there are stranger and darker faiths and they remember when the ghost of a dead nun, Sister Mary Janina, murdered up in the village of Isadore, began to haunt that forgotten corner of West Michigan. One night strange women’s footprints were found in a nearby swamp. Some were a few days old while others were fresh. Later in the day more women’s prints turned up along a road leading toward the church. Three days later a neighboring farmer reported hearing a woman singing from the swamp near his home; he said that he saw a flickering blue lantern-light through the trees. That had been in 1907. Since then Robber Barons had built empires only to watch them collapse when the Great Depression struck. Ships plied the channel that ran through the center of town; great iron hulks passing the rolling hills, farms and forests from which Manistee got its name, an Ojibwe word, meaning, “spirit in the woods.” Today a low fence, enclosing those age-old grounds, has been kept in good repair; there are no weeds, no toppled headstones as one might find in larger cities such as Grand Rapids or Muskegon. And yet, despite what the local nuns might claim, there remains a sinister feeling dwelling in the First Baptist Church’s cemetery. Even on sunny days it feels gray and desolate, for off in one corner are the graves of the angry bodiless dead, those of all the sailors and fishermen of Manistee who have ventured out upon the raging surface of the lake and never returned. There are some dead who will never be silent until their long lost bodies are finally laid to rest.

the lie that runs

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A film, as in flick, as in cinema,
as in a tale, once told, that would change us,

change the world. But that’s not film’s role. Dogma
dictates that our art will make us famous,

that we’ll work in ivory towers, prattle,
publish and die beloved. I don’t want that.

Who makes films for the transgendered? muscle
women? tomboys? femme toys? Who makes hellcat

art? Who’ll smash the patriarchy with blood
money stolen from Hollywood? I touch

on this as if I had a clue; my lie
that runs on discontentment and hatred

of an art movement that promised so much
but gave so little while bleeding us dry.

][][

“buy my album and make me a millionaire. I want a house in the country.”
— Johnny Rotten from The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle (1980)

“punk isn’t dead, just boring”
— London graffiti (2009)

birth of my ghost daughter in blood and flame

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Dec 09, 2013 (7)

It’s amazing how simply turning a picture upside down creates an entire new image. Originally this was a woman swimming just below the water’s surface. I liked the way her arms were bent, like she was going to hug a shark. But the shark just didn’t work, and I was getting frustrated because of time wasted and whatnot when I accidentally flipped the image and suddenly it looked like the woman was rising out of water on her back, all aglow, suddenly making everything surreal. I love the red color, like blood at birth, or flame, with the blue cloud in the background. I tried writing a poem to go with it but for whatever reason this ghost poem didn’t want to be awesome, which is sad but not as sad as using the words “death’s dame” in a poem. That’s just painful.

* * *

Pity the poor ghost
who forgot her name
“You’ll always be mine,
even as death’s dame.”
I called you daughter,
soul of blood and flame.

* * *

Yes, painful, indeed.

Image

women with weapons, girls with guns, armenians with arms

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Dec 09, 2013 (2)

Dec 09, 2013 (3)

Dec 09, 2013 (4)

Dec 09, 2013 (5)

Super big shout out to Mafattiee for posting the original art I used to make this. The clothes are traditional Armenian, the gun a blunderbuss (a word I should try to work into more conversations). Cheers!

queen brute

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Dec 08, 2013 (1)

That is not me talking. Those aren’t my lips,
fingers, tongue. I stepped aside. I let in

and then exhaled out. Possess you. Eclipse
you. This Ancient will prevail. Ancient skin.

Ancient name. Ancient dreams. Balsam, wet root,
limestone. Those weren’t my scents. That wasn’t my boast.

They all came when I stood down. This queen-brute
dressed up in a kimono. This girl ghost

who came back from the other side. Karma
means not a thing. No one is saved. Ancient

soul from before time who will make your death
rattle sound like a low hallelujah,

the gasp of surprise and awe a moment
before orgasm, faith’s very last breath.

Dec 08, 2013 (2)

holocaust angel

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Maybe my problem (I stop, think about
that and laugh. Then) is English. In Paris,

perhaps, I might find a teacher without
students, a great grandchild of the rootless

tribe that escaped Der-ez-Zor. Holocaust
angel, I’ve seen photos of you holy

in a torn sack dress. I’ve seen your bones, frost
white, dug up across Erzurum, Ani,

Van. Teach me French, teacher, then the ancient
tongue. The one that I wish to know. I wait,

I wait, I wait. In English there are none
who will speak. I don’t want to be silent

like a photograph. I wish to translate
this whole dark world into Armenian.

][][

note:

Let’s call this an obsession. The whole problem with wanting to learn a language that no one who lives near you speaks is that it is very hard to find a tutor. There use to be an Armenian community in Grand Rapids, Michigan, but not any more. I know this because in the city’s museum there is a display of a store run by an Armenian shop-keeper. But whoever they were and wherever they went to I do not know. One day I will meet an Armenian-speaker who will love poetry as much as I do and help me translate all the dark poems of my heart into the language I want to love but can’t speak. One day …

onna-bugeisha in fox mask holding a naginata

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Dec 05, 2013 (6)

note:

There is some debate with Japanese historians whether or not the female warrior class of feudal Japan, the Onna-bugeisha, functioned in the way today’s popular culture currently portrays them. The more conservative view is that there might be two or three of isolated occasions when high-born women trained for and participated in warfare, but to say anything more would be pure poppycock dreamed up by wishful thinkers. I don’t personally buy that. The Onna-bugeisha were a real social class, much like their male counterpoint, the samurai, and as such to simply write them off speaks much more about the embedded sexism that is still found in those who call themselves historians than anything else. The Onna-bugeisha in this picture wears a mask of a fox (a trickster) and holds the long blade known as a naginata. Behind her is a folding screen depicting two of her ancestors practicing (or fighting, hard to know) using similar weapons.