Speak No Ill of the Dead but Shout Out Our World is Living

Speak No Ill of the Dead but Shout Out Our World is Living  or
A Letter to His Mythical Home before His Last of Battles

L. Edgar Otto     20 October, 2013


We live free in a least government state to follow our individual purposes, fit in smoothly with the expanding society, or even ride the light of a God not our will unto a weapon unto others.

For as we are distracted by the fantasy's of those who see the state as everything, and hold its people individually without it do not exist at all, lies and charging all outside it conspiracy, the leaders feel the state is fixed and real so too the people fill their empty lives to heed, or fear, or redirect their path as salvation to the puppet strings they give attention.

The dead do not belong to the state that like in primitive tribes they can be tried for non-participation, their self-sacrificed corpse put on public display, confession by the ceremony of the circus.  The memorials merely serve to rewrite history, maintain regimes of accidental or ruthless victors.  The dead belong to the mothers, lovers, children and the soldier who sacrificed for what he believed, believing in others in sincerity or fool hardy, so serve a deep or small part.

The dead do not belong to the soldiers who dispatch them, not for superstition as once we ate the heart of our enemy, gained their power, gave them honor. The times moving us without control the fallen leaves in turbulent wind, here and there a pile of molding leaves to walk around, permit the living to forget lest it wounds their lives and lives to come, the troubled minds with flashback of the job, the test but unto death of strength, defense of genes pools and territories not forgotten the nagging guilt that we may have grown callous and uncaring to our fellows.

But far worse the departed and those caught in the crossfire, the hopeless rising in the ghettos, the children at war with each other overlooked as long as contained on the other side of tracks, and those who forgot their roots so to use the law as their chains... thus and is the machine of drones that moves by design and cold gears, inertia growing strong, that myth of spring we who recall its passion in the rants and rage against the twilight of autumn night far worse, as if above the clouds the bombs fall distance, our hands are washed from troubled dreams and face to face reopen wounds with bayonets, one military man to another,  the missing limbs not buried at Arlington hold no regrets.

The military man was not meant merely to just supply the seed, to grow fat on free loaded pension honey, the queen is slow to pay them anyway if they don't die but fade away.  For what, that his sons cannot bring to the world some poetry, or that his daughters are infertile workers for the hive without dreams of her own?

Work it is the ethic on which we build and self-rely, and work it is sacred that we bring to it what we can to ease life in this world, and work is the enemy in that it feeds on slavery with promises that it will make you free,  busy work for its own sake to learn the habit as routine so accept moving pointless objects around to sort them and if efficient find them jumbled again before the clock shift is over and the conveyor belts grow silent there relentless bone crushing sweat shop explosion.  Work is that which we find absurd to do if an animal, another, or a machine can do better.  But if we promise the least of that for a place in the society it is perhaps that the state still fears that we have learned to use our stingers and our ladies to make their own honey. Or worse that deep down they know but cannot test that we will not break down to violate in faith our good hearts without limits.

We may not fool the dead, our leaders some of the time for as such they fool themselves all of the time, and if the dead can vote or the voting dead the state remains unreal to which no rite of legitimacy or span of hegemony can insure a state endures- not when divided in its life and the life of its people.

* * * *
Perhaps for Open Link Monday  Imaginary Garden...

A thought in the back of my mind, I of lesser sacrifices alive but faded away, no more the sting of false promises reaching the summer outings, parades of Memorial Day that Lincoln promised care for the loved ones of those fallen...