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The real 196s began on the afternoon of November 22, 1963....It came to seem that Kennedy's murder opened some malign trap door in American culture, and the wild bats flapped out.

quote by Lance Morrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The real 1960s began on the afternoon of November 22, 1963. It came to seem that Kennedy's murder opened some malign trap door in American culture, and the wild bats flapped out.

quote by Lance Morrow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder” (The Billion-Dollar Question)

We must all stay aware…..,
Of the Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder….,
It’s been increasing for years….,
The Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….! ! !

Can’t dare turn our backs….,
On the Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….,
It’ll sneak up and kill us…,
The Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….! ! !

It’s hard to believe and conceive….
The Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….,
That’s why so many are blind….,
To the Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder …! ! !

We’ve seen the bloody attacks…..,
Of the Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….,
So we must face the facts….,
On the Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….! ! !

Yes they’re after us all…,
The Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….,
Their radical religion condones it….,
The Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder ….! ! !

Can we control it or stop it….,
So it won’t go any further….? ? ?
That’s the billion-dollar question….,
On the Insane Culture Of Mass-Murder …! ! !

poem by Trade Martin
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I had been in so many towns and cities in America with John Kennedy, but I was not with him in Dallas, Texas, on November 21, 1963.

quote by Pierre Salinger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If sexual intercourse, as the poets tell us, began in 1963, it was another decade and a half before the American political system began to take notice.

quote by Michael Kinsley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Knife

Slit and
Slither knife
Penetrate in phallic push
To perforate the pulse of tissues in the flesh
Slice a vein to drain the unsuspecting victim
E’er they bleed and plea
Their scream
Of death

murder
murder murder
murder murder
murder murder murder murder murder murder
murder murder murder murder murder murder murder
murder murder murder murder murder murder
murder murder
murder murder
murder

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Premeditation

Oh blade you'll warm tonight!
Awash in crimson-purple flows,
Your sheen will dull with aching flesh:
Palpating anatomic mounds
Caressing, dancing, writhing round
Your metal form-
Whetted ‘gainst a lonely bone,
Then to probe the pounding, begging heart.

And all the while the prey will howl
Before they crumple; greet the mud-
A taut and unbelieving jowl
Will open out for giving blood-
A vent from down below,
Once a brutal show
Of metal in the man.

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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If most American cities are about the consumption of culture, Los Angeles and New York are about the production of culture - not only national culture but global culture.

quote by Barbara Kruger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I believe in the forgiveness of sin and the redemption of ignorance.

Adlai Stevenson in Time, November 1, 1963
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What is Culture

What is Culture?
What we think of in Rumbek
What we think of in Jerusalem
What we think of in Moscow
All different things we think, say,
Do and make at different places at the same time
What differentiate a man from insects, birds and beasts?

If you don’t have a culture
You’re a housefly
If you don’t keep your culture
You’re a beetle or cockroach
If you adopt a culture
You’re a tick
If you hate other’s culture
You’re a toad
If you don’t hate or love other’s culture
You’re real man

poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Piano {Klavier}

They say to me
Open this door
curiosity screams
Whatever could it be
Back behind that door
A piano
The keys are all dusty
The strings are all untuned
Back behind that door
At the piano
But she plays no more
It so long ago

On the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away

She said to me too
That I'll stay with you
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
I poured her blood
On the fire of my rage
I locked up her shrine
They questioned in time

At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
I stand by her
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me

They opened up the door
And how they cried
I heard her mother plea
her father struck out at me
They tore her from her chair
No one believed me there
I was so insane
With the strech and the pain

At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
She's who I hear
As I began to play
I took her breath away

song performed by by Rammstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wild Boys

Wild boys, wild boys, wild boys
Wild boys
Wild! (wild)
Boys! (boys)
The wild boys are calling on their way back from the fire
In august moons surrender to a dust cloud on the rise
Wild boys fallen far from glory, reckless and so hungered
On the razors edge you trail because theres murder (murder)
By the roadside in a sore afraid new world
They tried to break us, looks like theyll try again
Wild boys.. never lose it
Wild boys.. never chose this way
Wild boys.. never close your eyes
Wild boys.. always shine
You got sirens for a welcome, theres bloodstain for your pain
And your telephone been ringing while youre dancing in the rain
Wild boys wonder where is glory where is all you angels
Now the figureheads have fell?
And lovers war with arrows over secrets they could tell
They tried to tame you, looks like theyll try again
(chorus)
-
(chorus) (chorus) (chorus)

song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Aunt's Murder

She was a gentle elderly lady
Who was always helping everyone, not shady
She tended to the sick and gave to the poor
She loved all so much, she was so pure
She had a cat, she loved so much
That was always in her lap, in her clutch
She left the garage door, cracked opened each day
She never worried about being another's prey
One day on the couch, she sat reading a book
When in her garage door entered a crook
She screamed and she cried, 'What are you doing here? '
He grabbed her by the throat and she was in great fear
He stayed and tortured her for so many hours
She was so overcome by his strenght and powers
I feel great sorrow as I write this story
Her murder was mother's day, much to his glory
I was at her trial, November of last year
And since her death, I've shed many a tear
He sat there glaring at us so proud
The picture's we saw, shouldn't have been allowed
I felt rage and grief and stared back at him
I hoped his outcome would be real grim
He said he was guilty when the judge asked how he pled
It took four days for the verdict to be read
I held my breath, while I awaited the sentence
I knew death should have been his pentence
The jury, they couldn't come to decision
The judge decided it would be life in prison
In Texas, that's not a long sentence to pay
You can get out in forty years, not another day
It was capitol murder and he should have got death
I will see he stay's in prison, till I take my last breath
The picture's that they showed, are etched in my mind
This animal shouldn't live among mankind
She is in heaven now, living with my mother
At least once more, they have one another!

poem by Donna Nimmo
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Sunday

Sunday
Blank screen waits for me to fill it with strange letters,
but there is no haste as this is a lazy sunny afternoon.
Earlier today when the window shutters were still on
someone knocked on my door, I hid in the bedroom
didn’t want to open. Been alone for a month now and
don’t like to meet people and talk idly about nothing,
be polite and offer coffee and cakes.

Just been reading about the Portuguese in Zaire,
they took their culture with them and thought their
sweet African life would last forever- what a useless
word forever is- and now it is all memories in books,
few bother to read. This afternoon too will glide away
as I sit here, wondering who knocked on my door.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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American Child

I was ten, I was thin,
I was playing first base
With a secondhand glove
And dirt on my face
In nowhere, Virginia
Who'd ever figure that kid in the yard
Would go very far
It was 419 Lakewood ,
had no silverspoons
Just an old beat up upright
that played out of tune
Now I'm singin' and living the life that I love
And when I count my blessings
I thank God I was an American child
An American child
'Cause dreams can grow wild
Born inside an American child
Seven pounds, three ounces,
She's got my nose
And she's into my heart as deep as it goes
With a promise that's more
Than just someone's last name
Anyone's equal, in late August came
An American child
An American child
'Cause dreams can grow wild
Born inside an American child
My grandfather would have been eighty today
But in '45 he fell down beside
An American child
An American child
Oh, an American child
'Cause dreams can grow wild born inside
An American child

song performed by by Phil Vassar
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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African American Beauty

Brown skin, black hair, brown eyes, and sweet personality.
That is my culture.
My culture is about the beauty of black women
who are not afraid to show their curves
and express their beauty in the most sexiest way.
We come in all shapes and sizes.
Small, curvaceous,
voluptuous, and more to love.
From that neck bone to that chicken bone,
we are African American beauty.
We invented the big booties and big breasts.
Nice think healthy hair, some nicely wrapped.
We are truly a God sent creation.
Extremely talented to bless people across the country.
We have made ways for so many people.
Step by step
Minute by minute
Day by day
We continue to show people that we are a serious culture
Love to play n have fun
But knows when to stop to take life
And grab it by the horns.
Being strong and not intimidated
Holding on to what we know is right
Being of the minority
When it comes to
Sex
Drugs
Murder
Being of the majority
When it come to
SUCCESS!
What more can I say
We are truly what we say we are
African American Beauty.

poem by Carrie Suter
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Racism and the Culture Of Racism

We must be aware…..,
Of the Culture Of Racism….,
It’s a slur and a swear….,
The Culture Of Racism….! ! !

Can’t turn your back….,
On the Culture Of Racism….,
Or you’ll feel the whack…,
Of the Culture Of Racism….! ! !

It’s hard to believe….
The Culture Of Racism….,
That’s why we all grieve….,
The Culture Of Racism…! ! !

We must face the facts….,
On the Culture Of Racism ….! ! !
Cause we’ve seen the attacks…..,
Of the Culture Of Racism….,

It follows us all…,
The Culture Of Racism….,
But we must stand tall….,
Against the Culture Of Racism….! ! !

Can we control or stop it….,
As long as it’s been livin’….? ? ?
That’s the priceless question….,
On the Culture Of Racism…! ! !

poem by Trade Martin
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Bullets # 2

when i opened the door, and really saw myself for what i am,
with all the dirt, grime, mistakes, and desires....
i began to understand the problems, the struggles,
the hurts, and the needs of humanity.... began to know
what love feels like...
as for loving God, we cannot begin to till we learn to
love each other!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sweet November

Sweet november.. you stole my heart
I let it go with all the fear and doubt
Sweet november.. you opened my mind
With all the sweetness that you left behind
And I'm living, with a vision of you
All the days grow colder, but I know
It's not the way I'm holding on but how I'm letting go
And how I will remember
Sweet november
And now you're with me
You're with me in the sun
I'm a baby in a world that's just begun
And now you're with me
You're with me in the rain
I'm so glad that I will never be the same
Cause I'm living with a vision of you
All the leaves are falling, falling down like snow
It's not the way I'm holding on it's how I'm letting go
But how, I will remember
Sweet november
Sweet november

song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dire Wolf

In the timbers to fennario, the wolves are running round,
The winter was so hard and cold, froze ten feet neath the ground.
Dont murder me, I beg of you, dont murder me. please, dont murder me.
I sat down to my supper, twas a bottle of red whisky,
I said my prayers and went to bed, thats the last they saw of me.
Dont murder me, I beg of you, dont murder me. please, dont murder me.
When I awoke, the dire wolf, six hundred pounds of sin,
Was grinning at my window, all I said was come on in.
Dont murder me, I beg of you, dont murder me. please, dont murder me.
The wolf came in, I got my cards, we sat down for a game.
I cut my deck to the queen of spades, but the cards were all the same.
Dont murder me, I beg of you, dont murder me. please, dont murder me.
In the backwash of fennario, the black and bloody mire,
The dire wolf collects his dues, while the boys sing round the fire.
Dont murder me, I beg of you, dont murder me. please, dont murder me.
No, no, no dont murder me. I beg of you,
Dont murder me. please, dont murder me.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A glimpse

a glimpse
the half opened door
some would say
a half closed door
it all depends on the
state of mind you are in
well half closed for pessismist
and half opened for optimist
half opened or half closed door
so long as it is open
and not close
a good exercise for the mind
of a story teller, novelist, a film maker
a glimpse at the half closed door
the mind is thrown open
like the kick you would give
a half opened door
so that you and pet cat could
glide through easily
the stories that start coming out
from a glimpse at the half opened door
agatha's murdered corpse lying behind
a stalker, a ghost in the corridor of the mind
from the glimpse of the half closed door
a million possibilities, ideas pouring forth
half closed door, half opened door
whichever way you may say
it is an opened door
a million stories, ideas, possibilities
knock at the door of my mind
a glimpse of the half closed, half opened door
my half closed half opened eyes
open themselves to my ever curious mind
boundless as the universe

inspired by

A Glimpse
A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove,
late of a winter night-And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going-of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.
Walt Whitman

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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