The Eye of the Prophesy

depositphotos_2440446-USA-Shaped-FlagMany people are talking about what’s going on in the country, and speculating about which book and chapter we are approaching in the Bible. Some say we are in Ezekiel, some say we are in Revelations.  There are still others that believe that the Bible is just a book of stories  made up by shaman to control the thoughts of lesser men.  But what cannot be denied is that religious belief and lemming thinking is being used to set us against one another.  For whose gain. I don’t know.  We seemed to have reached an impasse in our relationship with each other,  and we now argue over incidental things.  Which bathroom should a body use?  A man says, “there a woman inside my body, but she a lesbian!”  We also have protest marchers, snipers targeting police for suspected brutality, a mythical group called “Isis”committing terrible acts in the name of Allah. The Israelis detonated a nuclear bomb in Yemen.   Trump wants to be President,  so he can build a wall between the US and Mexico, and vet all immigrates coming predominantly Muslim countries, (I think its called xenophobia). Clinton wants to be President with her Benghazi and Emails skeletons falling out of her closet. On social media, someone makes a post, encouraging others to mow down protesters that block the public way and many people “like” the post. When a man actually carries the deed out , albeit in Nice France,  we are alarmed the a person could do such a terrible thing. It has been rumored that shadow elements of our own governments, are at the heart of these tragic events.  The imminent dollar collapse and the artificial racial animosity being fulminated by the media,  has turned what was a peaceful republic, into a smoking hotbed of strife.

I do not know for certain where we might be according to biblical scriptures, but I do know that we are in the eye of the storm. This age has been spoken of for centuries by many prophets,mediums  and other seers.  Where we stand now, is the eye of the Prophesy.


The Star of India

©2013 volcanosunsetpress

A North star is guiding star,  one that gives

directions to travelers in the dark of the night….


I have worked on the late shift at Rahman’s Market & Convenience Store ( My dad calls the store the Stop and Rob)  for the last six years now.  I started here in the 10th grade and have kept the job through college.  We had a little trouble here and there, but it’s been pretty safe to work here,  so far.  Mr. Mohammad  Rahman is a short, bald-headed, middle-aged man, with a great big gut,  an immigrant from India.  He is well liked by all the Black people in the neighborhood, I think mostly because he understands the nature of poor people.  Most of our customers are teetering on the poverty line, with many of them on food stamps.  There was a week when the food stamp cards were not working, and instead of turning food stamp customers away, he took IOU’s.  I thought he might have had 8 or 10 thousand dollars out in the community.  Many of them paid him back, a few did not, but no matter how they treated his generosity,he never changed his willingness to lend a helping hand.  In fact, Mr. Rahman even gave me a job, after he caught me trying to steal a submarine hoagie out of his store.

I had gotten up late for school that morning,  I had missed the school bus by three minutes, so it was either ride the city bus,  or go back home and have my sleeping pissed off dad take me to class. Dad’s shift at Mannington Mills was on the night shift rotation that month.  I was not up to waking the sleeping dragon that morning.  I went by the market, on the way to the city bus stop on the boulevard.  I went into the store, Mr. Rahman stood behind the counter talking that “Hindu” on the his phone.  He acknowledged me as he continued to babble in his incomprehensible language.  I walked by the snack cake rack and picked up a bear claw pastry, then headed by the cooler doors to get an orange juice. As I went by the glass door containing the fresh sandwiches, one of the hoagies called to me.  It was if I heard its voice…… as clearly as you now hear mine.

The next thing I knew I was standing at the open glass door, rescuing it from the chilling air of the cooler.  With the close of the door, I realized that I had only seven dollars.  It would be two dollars for the bus ride and a transfer, even at student fare.  The bear claw and the O.J. would be close to five, the submarine sandwich was 3.99 by itself.  I heard my Dad’s booming voice in my head. “Put it back Herman Travon Putnam Jr.!”  It started me,  and as I reached for the door handle again, my eyes traveled back towards the counter where Mr. Rahman stood, his back was turned.  He was engrossed in his conversation, his little bald head bounced as he talked.  The ear bud gleamed next to his tanned skin.  It had always seemed to me that when the Indians talked to each other, especially when they were two men talking, they were in an argument. I knew that they weren’t, because Mr. Rahman was laughing.  I put the sandwich inside my coat, as I looked at his back.  Thinking he would not miss this one, it was mostly pork anyway, they did not even touch the package of things made with pork. We bought some bacon once,  and when it came time to ring it up, he asked my Mom the turn it over so he could scan the bar code, and gave her the bag to put it in.  He handled pork as if he was handling dead human parts.  I often wondered how he got it from the Wal-Mart to his store!  I went on and got the orange juice and went to the counter to check out.

Mr. Rahman  ended his call with a shalom, and rang my two items up.  Locking eyes with me, he ask me if that will be all.  “That’s it” I said as I pulled my money out.  His next series of questions, raised a fright in me, though none of his words were threatening in any way. Still they stirred fear in me. “You are Herman Putnam’s son aren’t you?”  I had no idea that he even knew my Dad by name. Let alone that I was his son.  He had operated this store since we moved here ten years ago, and like the others shopkeepers and owners.  At the end of the day, they closed up their stores and joined the caravan of Toyotas out of the neighborhood and back to wherever the Iranians go.  Maybe even all the way back to Iran! I ‘d never thought he had ever had a conversation with his customers,  outside the normal conduct of business.  I didn’t imagine that they had  any need to talk beyond that.

In response to his question, I answered slowly. ” Yeah, that’s my Dad.” Mr. Rahman held me in his gaze and asked me “Then why would you dishonor him in this fashion? Why would you damage your family’s honor by stealing a pig sandwich?  In that moment, I knew that he had eyes in the back of that bald head.  I was looking right at him when I slipped the hoagie into my coat. There was no way he could have seen me.  That moment was worst than the day Mom walked in my room while I was jacking off.  I thought I was a home alone, and don’t know how long she was standing there, as I was about to reach that magic moment, I heard her say “Oh my God” as she turned and went out of the room.  She never said anything about it, but that incident would forever hang between us.  Just like this moment would linger between me and Mr. Rahman. Mostly with me, I think Mr. Rahman forgot about it immediately.  Mr. Rahman was not upset, just disappointed.  Until that day, I had never been made to feel small, by a man, who was essentially a stranger to me.  I felt lower than the family dog,  who has just been caught on the dining room table. Eating the Thanksgiving feast, while the gathered family gives thanks in the adjacent room.  That moment hung at the counter like a stinking fart in a small, hot, and crowded room. Mr. Rahman took a plastic bag and started putting my O.J. and pastry inside, he held the bag open waiting for me to pull the sandwich out of my coat.  He scanned it, and totaled up the register.  He took the receipt and had me sign it.  “This will come out of your pay.  When you get out of school today, you come back to clean this store.  I will see your father later when he comes in for gas. I will ask him if it is okay for you to work.  If you don’t show up, then there will be trouble for you!”  I left Rahman’s Market and Convenience Store with a job, seven dollars and my first lesson in being an honorable man.  I felt like a death row convict, that had been granted a last-minute reprieve.

As I am in my last year in college,  I have entertained what I might be doing after graduation.  Including an offer to manage a new store that Mr. Rahman is opening.  I don’t want to seem unappreciative, Mr. R has done a lot for me.  He saved me that day he caught me stealing from him, and instead of putting me in jail, he put me on the payroll.  He stood on my neck to make me finish school,  he helped me get a car,  and he sat with my family during my high school graduation. He is a Grandfather and a Godfather all rolled into one.  He always said that life is a precious gift, and it is never to be taken for granted.  Every moment should be lived to pay homage to Allah.  Just like my folks beat me over the head with the Bible,  he beat me over the head with the Koran.  And even though I am an atheist,  I still gave them respect for their beliefs.  Because they would all ask me, “Who am I, without God? What is the purpose of my life, if I wink from nothingness to life, then back to nothingness.  What was the point?”  These and other questions they would pose to me.  I have never converted, but I learned to trust them in all their faiths in God.  I met a man claiming to be the all-powerful deity once,  wearing the guise of a dirty stinky old transient.  He almost convinced me that there is….. something out there.  Almost. That was a month before the robbery.

I was in Physics class  when I got the news.  The text had only said that Mr. R was injured, and that they had taken him to the hospital.  I bolted from class and went straight to the emergency room at Central Presbyterian Hospital, the closest Trauma Center to the store.  The E.R. was filled with police officers,  I made my way through the swarm of detectives,  to the Rahman family.  Tanvir and Saifur were with their Mom, Mrs. Rahman.  When the Indian surgeon came through the door, the expression on his face told me that the The Star of India was dead.  Everyone else begin mourning at the announcement that Mr. Rahman had died, for everyone but me.  I didn’t feel sadness….I felt anger.  White hot anger.

The news cast replayed the video tape of the robbery over and over, for 36 hours straight.  One of the robbery suspects was turned in by his family,  the other was hold up in an abandoned house.  With a growing mob of Blacks, Hispanics and Whites outside surrounding  the house.  The Swat team was called to extract him from the scene, for the suspect’s safety.  He came out without resistance, handcuffed and in a Swat team vest and helmet.  The news media continued to rebroadcast the details of the robbery/murder after both suspects were in custody.  Some of the customers rumored that the altercation had begun earlier,  over the fact that the defendants did not have I.D. to buy cigarettes.  Even though one of them was over 18.  Over the days and nights following the murder.  I thought of Mr. Rahman’s concern for poor people and was always trying to help them out.  I’d asked him why he took such a risk when the food stamp machine was broken,  he took IOU’s from all those folks when he didn’t have to.  My philosophy was “No money, no ticket!”  If they don’t have the cash, then what did they come in the store for? This was not the Help Center!  He explained it by telling of his boyhood back in India, and a child he befriended that was the son of one of the “dalits ” or servants that worked for them.  He said that India still had a caste system, where people of one caste did not mix with other lower caste.  Those of the lower caste were required to remove their shoes when walking on the grounds of a higher caste.  It was much like the segregation practices of the United States up until the late 1960’s practiced by Whites on Blacks in the South.  The dalits could build your house,  but after it was built, they could no longer enter it because if they did, it would be considered unclean from then on.     His  family was not allowed to be touched by his dalits and certainly never play with their children.  So, the friendship that should have never been,  was formed anyway by Mr. Rahman and the dalit child Samir. A few months passed, with their friendship continuing to grow each day,  Then one day Samir’s mother showed up without him.  When  Mohammad ask his father where the little dalits boy was.  His father told him that his parents sold him, because they were poor and not able to feed all the children in their family. Which is still a practice done by the poor in India. Mohammad pleaded to his father to go get Samir and bring him back to their home.  His father said that it was time that Mohammad learned to accept the facts of the world.  There is a destiny for everyone, and some peoples are destined to be poor.  A tiger will always be a tiger, and cannot decide one day that he wants to be a bird.  Mohammad brood in sadness for Samir in the weeks that followed, and he decided that when he was a man, that he work try to help the poor whenever he could.  He would be the first tiger, to become a bird.


Notes Mr. Rahman is murdered by two men during a robbery, initially because he would not sell them cigarettes without I.D..  My feelings about that, and the community reaction.

Invitation to an Amway Meeting

©2013 volcanosunsetpress

I have been medically retired since 1999.  One of my Academy classmates called me about two weeks ago from out of the blue, and invited me to a Fish Fry out at the lake.  Now Mike is a younger man who I thought highly of,  and I could depend on him on every call that we made while working on our local Police Department.  I was one of sixteen African-Americans to work as a cop for this small Southern city,  and I was the only one who stayed for 15 years, instead of being lured away to some other large metropolitan city for better pay and benefits.  Our city had about 300 police officers on the force, and less than one percent were minorities.  So whenever our academy would graduate any minorities, as soon as their two-year contract was up, they were off to larger cities or armed security force with their police certificate in hand.

As I  said, I stayed with the department because this was home.  In  late 1998, I was involved in an accident, that caused me to have to retire.   Although our academy graduates stayed in touch,  we didn’t hang together like we did when we were a bunch of young adults trying to make it through one of the most stressful times in our lives.  We all just slowly drifted away from each other, much like many families do.  Needless to  say that I was shocked to hear Mike Eastwell on the phone asking me to come to a gathering.  The Eastwells were a  fine White family in our community,  but Mike had told me the his Grandpa was a Klan member,  and that he had tried to pass it on to his children.  Mike said that his Dad and the rest of his siblings would not openly defy his Grandpa, but they didn’t share the same sentiments with him, except for his Uncle Roy. Mike said that Uncle Roy had once said to him that  “Niggers are just obsolete farm equipment”.  He said “Uncle Roy got killed on a deer hunt accident that following fall, on of his son’s friends accidentally shot him on when he tripped, trying to climb over a fence.”  I was fairly certain that he wasn’t inviting me to a Klan rally or anything like that.  But it did raise my suspicions as to why he’d call me to a meeting out in the sticks and I seen he maybe eight or ten times since I left the department.  I agreed to come, and he gave  me all  the when, what and where.  As I hung up I thought aloud “I hope this isn’t one of those damned Amway things!”

Me and my current wife, May went to the gathering.  It was well laid out and I was shocked to see that there was no alcohol being served or consumed at a meeting of cops and firemen.  There were many military types among the throngs of people, of all different races.  The American flags re-ignited my fears the this was the preamble to an Amway or Amway like rally.   The crowd was called to order, we said the pledge of allegiance, and the nation anthem was played.  The thoughts of the oncoming Amway sales pitch dominated my mind.  An older gentleman approached the podium.  He  announced  himself as Retired U.S Air Force Lieutenant General Ray Lewis.  He  continued with ” If you were invited here today, be sure and thank the one who had invited them, they may have saved your lives.   And no, despite all the flags and the patriotic setting, this is not an Amway meeting! ”   There was a  roar of laughter from the crowd.   “There are some information packages circulating among the guest, it is a membership application that needs to be filled out before you leave today.  You must fill them out or you won’t be allowed to hear about our organization.  But let’s take a short break and eat and socialize,  then we will take up the applications and adjourn those not willing to go any farther.”

The food was delicious,  some of the best prepared fish, coleslaw, potato salad that I’ve ever tasted.  While I ate, I glanced at the membership package.  It was a simple pledge to follow the rules of something called the “Dawn of New Mankind”.  It smelled of a cult, a brain-dead, poison Kool-Aid drinking, dying to meet God kind of cult Flashes of Jim Jones and David Koresh went through my thoughts.   Maybe that’s why there is no beer!   I looked at May, and we both seemed to have the same thoughts.  “What the fuck has Mike Eastwell invited to?” Right on cue, Mike sat down besides us with his food. How he responded to us,  it was as if he knew what we are thinking,  “Jonesy, you need to trust me on this.  Go ahead and fill it out so you all can hear the rest.  This is a small leap of faith.  If would still want to opt out, we will burn that piece of paper in front of your very eyes, and you will have nothing else ever to do with us again!  But you all need to hear about what’s about to happen, I beg of you to listen.”

I had known Micheal Devin Eastwell for 29 years,  after we serve our rookie year out on patrol, we were partners on a squad.  He was the one who suggested that I get a DNA tests performed on my third child with my first wife,  it saved me tens of thousands of dollars in child support.  He had backed me on hundreds of calls, as I had  backed him.  He camped out with me at the hospital, after the MVA (motor vehicle accident)  that ended my police career.  He had said that I should trust him on this.  I felt as if his hands were tied, and that he wanted to say more but he was being prohibited by some unseen force.  I looked again at May, and I asked her with my eyes, “What do you think?”  She glanced at the pledge, and back to Mike, who sat  waiting on a verdict.  “Let’s sign it, it is obviously very important to Mike.  He has been with you in the worst of times in your life,  and if it is important that we hear what going on, then let’s hear him.” A sigh of relief came from Eastwell,  as if he was waiting on a prognosis from an emergency room doctor about whether a loved one will survive the lifesaving surgery.  He said ” I promise you that you won’t regret it.”  About forty-five minutes after everyone had finished eating,  many of the host were bidding the guest goodbye.  Many of the departing guest seemed sorrowful at not being able to sign the pledges.  Most of them just didn’t have enough faith, in their host to become involved with this group because they needed to know more about what they were pledging to.  As to the host, many were visibly shaken by their invitee’s actions,  and seemed to be looking at them……. as if they were seeing them for the last time in their lives.

The General took to the podium again, and after a quick prayer for those who did not sign the pledge,  he called us to order.  He scanned the group of maybe 150 people left at the gathering and said to us  “You and your immediate families and a few other families in groups like this, scattered all around the world,  will probably be all that is left,   of the human species on Earth.”  A gasp of fear, crawled through the crowd.  Murmuring began and the speaker held up his hand, calling for silence. ” In about ten days, a comet will collide with Earth’s only natural satellite, the Moon. The expected the fallout, will turn the Earth into a shooting gallery.  It will be an Extinction Level Event. 96 percent of all life will die on Earth, within 9 days of this event.  Because we can save only a few hundred thousand people, it was decided to choose them in this fashion.  You will be sequestered today,  our security teams will gather you family members and bring them to your assigned bunkers.  I am sorry that I have to tell you of this horrific news, but this was our only chance to save humanity.”  My assistants are circulating pamphlets containing all the information on what we know about the upcoming collision, and our hasty contingency plan.  The transports will be here soon to carry you to a bunker that was created for the nuclear exchange scenarios of the 196o’s,  they have been updated for probable other world disasters,  most recently this one.  I have decided that I won’t be joining you, because at my age I’d be more of a liability, than a help.  Besides, a new world will need strong young folks,  if we are to have a shot at living  through this.

The Awful Mess She Left Behind

Most times we never know the turmoil a person goes through.

Through the Looking Glass

©2013 volcanosunsetpressimages

The scene opens at a graveside prayer for a woman who had been missing for sixteen years. “Today, we lay to rest the remains of Sheila Elizabeth Holt.  To our Heavenly Father, we commend her spirit.  That she may dwell peacefully in His presence, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, forever Amen.” said the voice of the clergymen in the near empty cemetery.

They had discovered her remains under a side-walk that had been disturbed to fix a leaking water pipe.  The plumber that was repairing the pipe, was observing the backhoe operator as he used the bucket to bust up the concrete.  The plumber halted the operator, when he saw what looked like an old canvas bag……… and bones.  Long bones.  Human bones.  The police took over the small three bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood,  as a crime scene. …

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Song of the Cicada the short story

On this trip “down home”, I met some new friends and one new enemy.  The first new friend was Benny Roy,  though I couldn’t truly call him a friend,  because he was my third cousin.  But he was the first kid I met when we got to the bus station in Clarksdale Mississippi.  We arrived about 10 o’clock am and it was already 90 degrees. I knew immediately that this place was not where penguins and polar bears lived.  The heat was stifling.  Another thing that I would have to get used to was the lack of tall buildings, and concrete.  The bus station itself look like it was left over from World War 2, and there where no cabs or city buses that I could see. Benny Roy arrived with his Dad, in a 1963 Chevy station wagon.  “Atlene! Atlene! came a booming voice from the stationwagon. Mom moved forward toward the darkest colored man I’d ever seen.  We all stood there while Mom hugged this big black bear of a man.

When their embrace broke, Mom turned and said ” Come and meet your cousin Lucious Ray!” As I stood before this  huge black man in bluejean coveralls,, I felt a toddler.  Don’t get mey wrong, but I had seen dark complexion people, but cousin  Lucious was as black as a frying pan.

That evening just before the sunset, out in the piney woods, I heard a trilling sound, like some one operating a tiny little outboard motor. It was the oddest sound I’d ever heard.


the song of cicada

published by Volcanosunset Publishing ©2014

The cicada is an insect of the locust family,  it makes a queer trilling type of sound in the woods. I had never seen or heard one in all of my life.  But in the last summer of my childhood. I would come to know of the locusts, witness a homosexual rendezvous , and see a man attempt to coverup the accidental death of another man,. and leave my boyhood,  deep off in the piney woods.

  I had lived in the city all of my life,  and hearing them sing, for the first time,  from the high tops of the trees of Mississippi, changed my whole view of the world.

I had never breathed the air outside the city of Chicago in all of my life.  I had never met my mom’s mother.  It was the Summer of 1969  a few days before the Eagle landed on the moon, in the Sea of Tranquility.   Momma came to me on the eve of July 6  and had me tote the suitcases down to Reverend Wren’s  58 Ford.  The Reverend and his wife took us to the  bus station and we ( mom, my little sisters and me)  caught a Greyhound bus to a state mom called Mississippi.  Where Momma was born and raised.  My folks had gotten another argument the other day,  they sent us kids downstairs and outside..  But I went to the bottom of the steps, and crept back up. and listened in anyways.  I knew even then that my step-dad would never lay a hand on Mom,  I knew that Uncle Monroe didn’t like her husband.  Whenever he would visit us, he seemed anxious to beat Walter Turner to a pulp, he was always looking for a good enough reason to start an argument with him.  But Mom would always step in and tell Uncle Monroe that if he didn’t respect her house, then it was time to go back to Detroit.

They were arguing about that woman again,   I don’t know what her real name was, but Momma called her Jessa-bell.   Momma saw the woman at the laundry mat on Thursday night when we went to  do our weekly laundry.  We used to go on Saturdays, but it got to be so busy that we had to wait too long to get a machine.  That woman was in the washertia, drying and pressing her clothes.  I felt the onset of trouble as soon as we came in with our laundry.  Their eyes met as we came through the glass lead doors , and they stared each other down for a few seconds, I almost run right up Mom’s back when she came to such a sudden stop.  It made me think of what happens when two male dogs when they spy each other from across the street.  That moment before they begin to fight, with their fur standing on end, and they snarl at each other.  Although they never exchanged words or blows, the look in their eyes , said everything that needed to be said.  Miss Jessa-bell, finished up her clothes and left after maybe five minutes.  Momma stopped sorting the clothes and watched her leave.  The look of sheer hatred on Mom’s face didn’t seem to fit her demeanor, but Momma showed extreme disdain for the woman, as I had never before seen.  Not before that day,  and never since.  As I stood on the stairs, leading up to our apartment,  I heard Momma’s voice say, “If you want that sleazy trifling heifer, then you don’t need to sneak around!  I will happily get the hell out yall’s the way, and let your sorry ass go with her!  Everybody in Chicago is talking about the fact that y’all been screwing.  They say you got two kids by that ugly cow!  So, you don’t need to keep coming here and lying to me about where you been.  Coming home drunk and smelling like a funky fish market every Friday night! You works in a foundry, not the fuckin’ fish market.  You ain’t got no business coming in here smelling like her funky ass!  I then heard Poppa voice ” You go ahead and believe those funky mouth lies if ya want to! Gone ahead,  you don’t believe a word I say anyway! Every time I gets home you down there,  skinning and grinning in that preacher’s face.  You act like you’s married to him! Is that what’s going on?  Is he praying over your pussy?  Are you getting your share of his religion?   Momma said “God’s gonna get you for that kind of talk,  He is gonna punish you for that. You mark my words Mister, You mark my words…. came down to my listening post on the steps.  Momma didn’t say anything after that,  and she called us up for dinner about twenty minutes afterwards,  Poppa was watching something on TV and drinking a Schlitz.  They weren’t arguing any more,  at least not with words.  I could see that Momma was thinking about something,  and I knew whatever it was,  it would affect all of us,  soon.  I had ridden on a city bus, subway, and the “L” trains.  But this Greyhound bus was an altogether different ride. It seemed to float on air like a cloud,  I could picture the dog painted on the side of the coach running so silently and gracefully.   Because of the nearly soundless motion of the Greyhound coach I was fast asleep by the time the bus rolled out of the state of Illinois.

Our last name, with the exception of our Mom, (whose married name is Turner) is Clark.  Just like our natural father Stanley E. Clark Jr.  He died while saving some people in a fire,  when I was five years old. There is in every family with siblings,  a child that seems to be a born snitch.  This group of children were part of a sub family of humans called the “runandgotellit” tribe.  There are billions of them around the world, and probably some living in your own family.  One of the characteristics of them was that they appeared to be sweet and innocent.  But on the inside, they are demonically spawned imps. My little sister Aida Lee, was the entity’s name in our family.  She seemed to get a charge out of pimping on us at every opportunity.  I remember once, me and another kid named Popcorn, spotted the Cola-cola man’s truck in the alley.  We took a case of sodas each, ( the old wooden cases that held the glass bottles, were heavy as hell)  while I was escorting Aida Lee home from school one day.  I had grabbed a case of Frostie’s root beer,  Popcorn had gotten a case of Coke.  We took the cases back to our clubhouse, and stashed them inside, Popcorn gave Aida Lee a dime to keep quiet about what she seen us do.  Aida Lee ran straight to mom, and told her what she saw,  she included all the details of my crime and the ten-cent bribe that Popcorn gave her.  Well a long story short, I got a whooping, I was forced to take the root beer back to the grocery store, where I swept floors for three months.  My mom called Popcorn’s mother,  (I don’t think his mother did anything about Popcorn’s misbehavior) and Aida Lee got to keep the dime. But that was justice back in those days.  My other sister was named Wendy,  she was between me and Aida Lee.  Wendy was the quiet brainy one in our family.  She grew up to be a High school Principal of a school in suburban Chicago,  and the only one of us,  that never had any natural born children.  I think her inability to have children caused her first divorce.  Poor kid, she was really in love with Chester Thurman. but her barrenness put a strain on their relationship, eventually to the point of termination. When Wendy found out that Chester had fathered a child with another woman, mirroring the pain that Mom went though with our step-dad, she ended the marriage without another word.  She was never the same after that,  and her caring heart that she had always showed toward others seemed to cease to beat.  A few years later, she moved in with a lady and her kids.  Although I suspected that she was in a relationship with her roommate Carrie, it was never discussed.  We treat Carrie and her teenage children as if they were family.  Although Carrie and her children are White.

 When I woke up, the  city scene  had given way to the green countryside,  the sunset had began giving the landscape a golden glow.  I had mixed feelings about going to the place Momma calls “down home”,  mostly because I had no idea what to expect. I had heard Momma tell stories about her childhood in the back woods of post-Korea Mississippi,  the world was quickly changing.  Everywhere, but in the South. The former states of the Confederacy were content to leave things just as they were 12 decades ago.  Momma’s recollections of “down home” were riddled with tales of all white schools and not being able sit in the Wool worth’s and eat your food and the story that I heard the most,  Momma was helping a family friend serve at a party in an exclusive home.  Their ride home broke down and the had to walk home in the dark.  The were stopped by the police three times for being “out-of-place”.  The police had standing orders to detain anyone that did not appear to belong in the neighborhood.  Any non-white person seen walking in the neighborhood after dark would be stopped.

It was a summer vacation for me,  the first and only vacation I’d ever go on with my Mom. (My mom was running away from an abusive relationship with my Stepfather) that  took us South to my mom’s hometown, of Clarksdale, Mississippi.  The South was still segregated in many parts of it.  There was much of the old signage still in place,  it may have faded or was attempted to be removed.  But you could still read ” Whites only” or “No coloreds Allowed” through the disfigured paint.  Old Southern traditions were still around,  the Federal government could not erase 350 years of things being the way it were,  with the passing of a few laws.  I met some new friends,   found out about clandestine meetings that a local White man was having with some Black teenagers and witnessed a grab ass incident that lead to a death of another man, something that only me, God and the cicada’s witnessed.

End of the free preview

On the outskirts of Clarksdale,  Mississippi  1914 Oakhurst Stovall Road,

God: The Construct

He has the whole world in His Fumbling Hands.

He has the whole world in His Fumbling Hands.

Half a century’s long  quest, only to find nearing the end of my journey, that God is a man-made construct.  Like many of the things we see every day, such as cars, houses, our clothing, and furniture.   First of all I must explain the previous statement.  I was born into a Southern Baptist family, an arena of holy rollers, Bible thumpers, and Rapture advocates.  Any questions that I might have had, or any theories or thoughts spoken out loud,  that conflicted with the words of the Son of the Most High, “Jesus, the Great White Savior” was dealt with swiftly.  (Usually involving a leather belt, willow switch,  or razor strap.)  Over time, and more than a few ass whippings, I relented to accept Him as my Lord and Savior, because it was a battle that I would never win and I knew I would waste a vast amount of time and energy,  trying to change this paradigm. Recent events in my life, has re-awakened my quest for understanding of the world and it’s origins.  So within the confines of my  Stockholm Stressed mind, I found that I no longer had to fear the Wrath of the Congregation, or that of the world. Although,  they had indoctrinate me, to believe that God is in control of all things….. I began to question again,  if this were so,  He would have also condoned the actions of “evil” doers in this  over world of His,  by His silence or unconcerned inaction, in the wake of their unauthorized acts.  Can this be so?  I had wondered,  how could a good and loving God be tied to these kind of unrepentant action? A nursery rhyme type song that we were force to learn in Sunday school says “He got the world in his hand, he’s got the whole wide world, in his hands.”  This was exacerbated when I learn that the Sabbath was Saturday, and that the fourth of the Ten Commandments was to  ” remember the Sabbath and keep it holy”.   Needless to say that I no longer believe in this or any other like religion.  There are just too many unanswered questions and too much “just believe on blind faith” answers to validate my faith in any thing that they teach.  Then, there is this blatant overlook of simple basic logic,  oversight that would dismay any rational person.  I cite for example, where did Cain’s wife come from if Adam and Eve were the first man and woman?  Any other coupling would be incestuous, because he could only choose his kin to mate with.  It ignored the prior passages in Genesis, where the bible reads Let us make man in our own image, so He created them both male and female, and He commanded them , be fruitful and multiply and replenish the Earth.”  If you wished to get drummed out of the church, insist on saying that Adam was not the first man on Earth, but only the first and only man in the Garden of Eden.  They will quickly toss you out on your keister.

Next,  we then move along to the Tower of Babel,  where God supposedly confused the linguistics of the human race, because they refused to spread out over the Earth.  When a drought or famine would have accomplished the same thing, without confounding all language and causing thousands of years of confusion.  All you thought he was not a God of confusion?  There it is in the front of your holy book.  Babel means  confusion the Hebrew tongue.  Since He cause all of the confusion, and He is God, why is He not the God of Confusion.  There are numerous other stories in the bible that defy all logic and reason, such as the Great Flood.  In this teaching Noah supposedly built a large ship and gathered two of each animals onto it.  The problem comes in with the weight of the cargo. With two of each animal on board, (some animals,   such sheep and goats,  were brought on board in groups of fours or sevens).  The ship would have quickly sank even if the birds would have been kept flying the entire trip.  And what about the remnants of dinosaurs, of whom I was told that never existed.  I had been told that the bones of these great beast were placed here by the Devil to break our faith.  Many of those species,   were thought to be extinct, were later found alive in the after the global flood.  Maybe the”Great Flood” was not so great.  So if the entire world was inundated with water,   how did these non-swimming , and flightless, land-lubbing creatures survive this global extinction level event?  This, with many, many other inconsistencies made me realize that what they are teaching, is less about god, and more about justification of what man believes, and what money it can draw.  “God”, who was in my sleeping mind, the most powerful being in the universe,   was receiving an emergency downgrading, after my awakening.   He became for me, a human construct,  a belief conceived in the minds of men who were frightened by the dark,  and by the unknown. This fear became a good hustle for those with guile that were too aged, in-firmed or just too lazy to go out and hunt with the others for food, or to help gather the crops.  He says to them all” I must commute with the Maker of All things, and He will prepare me,  to help all of us to do His will and His wishes,  for we all have sinned.”   History is full of sages, fortune tellers and magician who commuted with the spirits.  The chiefs of these groups of gullible people,  allowed the priest to be amongst the people,  to help keep them in line, and allay their fears of the unknown.   And so…. religion was born.

If America began to tax them (religious organizations), like they tax all the people and businesses, we will see how they truly are.  We will find out if they truly trust in God, or if “In God we trust” is the true god that they worship.   Note: This sudden taxation of faith, cannot be modeled like the businesses considered “to big to fail” such as the big banks (thieves) and campaign funding big corporations (more thieves) who hold all their wealth in the Cayman Islands to prevent U.S. taxes on their money and have the audacity to borrow from our cash strapped government (more thieves, but elected ones). Putting the rest of us (the fleeced pheasants) further in debt.

  Still,   I don’t know where it all came from…… but I do know that some force, that I can only describe as a God made everything that I know,  I am  certain that the One that many of the religions around the world send their prayers to,  is not that divine creator.  Perhaps there is no good, or evil.  It is a matter of perspective.  How can God be God if he does not act godly?  So, what I see, is an impotent god construct, fashioned by a series of goldbrickers, to wrench 10 percent out of ignorant villagers. That is,  if He ever really existed in our reality,  at all.

 When thinking about my belief in God, and all the bullshit that surrounds religion, I am reminded of a scene from “Law and Order” with A.D.A Jack McCoy.  McCoy tells of visiting a friend at a hospice, and his older friend recalls his time in Vietnam.  As he lies on his deathbed, he denounces his belief in God, because of all he’s been through that brought him to his early grave.  But just before he dies, he says “God forgive me if I am wrong.”  His statement allays my feelings as well.

“God forgive me if I am wrong.”

Venger, formerly known as Volcano Sunset RIP Oct. 2, 2013

Sunday Mornings

The meaning of Sunday morning has changed for me, as I no longer follow the Christian teaching that had been instilled in me for fifty-one years.  I used to rise on the Protestant Sabbath day, and make preparations to go and worship God.  The change in belief is directly connected to the loss of my son in an incident previously mentioned in an earlier blog.  Many of my Christian friends say that I shouldn’t blame “god” for the actions of man.  I inform them that I don’t blame god for what happened, I simply state that I no longer believe in god the way that they preach and teach about god.  The very next thing that comes out their mouths is that I am falling for a trick from the devil and that I am allowing the devil to separate my me from my lord and Savior Jesus Christ.  I wonder if these people ever really think about what they are saying, or are they simply following the dogma that has been taught to all followers of religion. I do not wish for these folks to attempt to psycho-analyze me as to what is going through my mind, even if they are giving out sound advice on how I should handle how I feel. Most of these people who are doing all this advising and praying for me, are quite frankly beneath my intellect.  It is like taking financial advice from a homeless drunk.  There may be a day that I might return to their midst, but until that day, it is my desire that they keep their beliefs to themselves. I no longer share their views regarding our creator, and I hope that they will respect my views on how I see things now in my awakened state.

The Double Victim

With the advent of video surveillance being used by more and more businesses and homeowners, with the attempt to deter crime.  A new victimization has arose via law enforcement’s proclivity for seizing private citizens videos  as “evidence”.  The ability to transfer the same information onto another media, seems to be beyond the ken of police technicians and other forensic personnel, causing them to confiscate entire recording systems, leaving the victims of violent crime without any surveillance cameras at all.  When questioned about the length of time a confiscated system will be in the police evidence room, they are told that in all likelihood the property will be held until the case is settled, which on average is three years.  The system will undoubtly be obsolete by the time it is released.  In the meantime, the “victim” is encouraged to go and purchase another system in case something else should happen on the premises, and the police can come and seize that equipment as well.  Video systems cost between $1500 and $2500 dollars, for a system with decent resolution.  But a 16 camera system can be purchased at Sam’s Wholesale for about $750 dollars.  With a local government’s budget’s adding about 10-12 thousand dollars to their annual cost,  they could replace the business’s system with a loaner system and prevent the Double victimization of businesses trying to aid law enforcement in their pursuit, capture, and prosecution of criminals.  Due to recent events, I no longer wish to help the legal system because of their caviler attitudes.  They were rude, closed minded and seemed to be incensed at me for questioning their authority,  in an attempt to protect my interests in my property.  (For those who don’t know,  our store was robbed and my son was murdered. ) 

The popularity of private surveillance systems, call for a change in policy dealing with collection of evidence.  There is something wrong with the rights of the accused, trumping the rights of the victims.

Born into a World of Lies

I am not sure which lie was told to me first.  Only that I was very young when I became contaminated.  Adults shape the belief system and understanding of children, in all sorts of ways.   As I pen this, somewhere in this world there are millions of adults telling fresh lies to children.  Some of the lies that come to my immediate memory are:

America is a free country where all of it’s citizens are equal.  Children come from under a cabbage leaf,  Santa Claus, the police are your friends, be aware of strangers,  not your uncle or babysitter, money isn’t everything, the tooth fairy, there is only one true god watching over us from an endless sky, the love of money is the root of all evil…… and so on.  Being an African-American, I learned about the slavery and segregation issues far in advance of  preschool.  Yet I still believed that one day I could be President. (LOL)  I believed most of the tales throughout my young life.  Not the Santa Claus or the tooth fairy ones, but that the love of money is the root of all evil, and the free America tales.  I still remember the “No Blacks Allowed” and the “Coloreds” signage, and even though there may not be a readable sign, the atmosphere gave you the impression that you were not welcome in “their” place.  This did not go along with the teachings of a loving White Jesus.  The irony was that these same people went to church and prayed on Sunday, just like we did.  How could they be praying to the same god as me, and call me a Sambo or a jungle bunny in the same day. I was taught in school that the police are your friends, but I had been taught by my mother that excessive truth to the police, could be detrimental, because they didn’t have Black’s people interests in their heart.

cops Santa Savaoph-God-the-Father-1885-96-XX-Victor-Mikhailovich-Vasnetsov tooth_fairy_tumblr_lqjpztDMXU1qch7b8o1_1280Holy-Bible2cash money 2

I have also recently learned that there are people known as the elite, that continue to enslave us from their palatial abodes on high.  That all of the things that I was indoctrinated to wholly believe, were all lies. Yet in my heart of hearts, I still believe that there is a God, but not the one I was praying to.  In recent months, I’ve been made aware that this nation is no longer a Republic, but just another greedy corporation, that has sold me on the market, as chattel.  I must admit that before I was awaken, I was chattel.   Now that I am awake, and frustrated in my attempts to wake others.  I have come to grips with the fact that many of my friends and family will remain in a state of slumber.

This video woke me to a brave old world.  I pray it will do the same for you.

As the Ghetto Turns Ep.8 “Them Poverty Pimps”

©2013 volcanosunsetpress

It has been said that “pimping ain’t easy”,  but that statement does not include the Black America’s poverty pimps.  Now I’m sure that many of you have never heard of a poverty pimp, and don’t know who and what they are. As you might know that a pimp administrates over prostitutes.  Directing when and where to sell their bodies for the gain of the pimp. The pimp sets the financial goals and keeps them in line. Their mantra was always been “Bitch better have my money!” A poverty pimp functions in the same way, but instead of pimping whores, they pimp poor people.  In my day, there have been many of these so-called Black leaders that stand up for every racial issue that is brought across the media.  Discrimination, poverty, joblessness, profiling, etc.  The cameras flock to them to get their views on the current racial crisis.  Many times they go to the offending personality,  to receive the apology for Black America.  While it good that someone speaks of changing the racial climate in our country,  has anyone asked why do they run to them every time?  Who gave them the authority to speak for all of us?  The main media darlings are Reverend Al Sharpton and the Reverend Jesse Jackson. The Reverend Martin Luther King spoke of unity of all colors in America,  he never let himself be misguided by what was good for himself, being put ahead for the people’s needs. Though Sharpton and Jackson had made some gains in the fight for equality,  they seem to promote all their fights,  for their own personal and political gains.  I know a snake oil salesman when I see one.

Season 1 Episode 9   “The Poisonous Government Tit”                   Who’s idea was it to start giving out welfare?  It has become the final straw in the decimation of Black people.

ice cold sunshine – the rise of the New Dark ages


April 15, 2013

  I had been outside, working in my garden on a beautiful spring day.  I had not a care in the world.  Even though there was a worrisome, unnamed heaviness in the air .  If you had told me of the coming trouble that this day would signify,  I would have used my cell phone to call up the local loony bin and make a reservation for you.  That was back when you had pocket access to speak to nearly anyone around the world.   That was back when, you could get into a gas-powered car and go two miles to the local Wal-Mart and get food, clothing, and the latest electronics.  That was back when electricity was plentiful, and you didn’t have to depend on sunlight to see where you were going.  That was before the Goon squads began to gathering up my neighbors in the middle of the night.  It seems like it was an eternity ago,  but it has been only four years since we abandoned the cities, though the rural areas were not much better.  If you didn’t know someone or have something to trade, you were considered the unwanted. Needless to say, the U.S. dollar was worthless.  Food, weapons and medicines became the standard currency.

   Farmers and ranchers defended the properties fiercely, the rule of law was undone, simple trespassing often led to murder.  Looters were killed on sight.  The doom-speakers and the  survivalists would have boasted about their correct prediction the coming calamity, if they hadn’t been overrun by the “food stamp” hordes.  The irony is that if they had kept their mouths shut, and gathered the food and supplies in secret,  instead of selling it over the internet, they might have never come under attack.  Even a stopped clock is right on time,  twice a day.  Television personality Glenn Beck was killed by an angry mob,  after his security failed to keep the crowds at bay.  The report of  the attacks, was one of the last few reports broadcast over the airways before the power grid collapsed.  So, April 15, 2013,  became officially the last day of sanity in the modern world.

It all began in a place called Dubai, a city in the United Arab Emirates, (Saudi Arabia) with a perceived insult.  The insult was a handshake that had been presented with a left hand, an insignificant incident to most of the world. But this handshake would topple the world’s most powerful governments.  Some analyst have said that the handshake was the tip of the iceberg to the growing thousand-year long conflict.  They say that it was the earthquake following the dispute that triggered the global chaos.  Many others say that it was neither.  It was just time for the teakettle to boil over, but whatever might have caused it,  our history was re-shaped  that day.

My wife had come home from work via the 7-Eleven  getting some gas and I hoped,  a 12 pack of beer.  I was watching Entertainment Tonight on TV when she called out to me,  as she came into the kitchen.  ” Honey, turn it on the news! ” she exclaimed.  She ran straight to the remote, before I could even get my feet off the couch.  “There are long lines forming at the gas pumps, just like it did on 9-11! It look like the whole gas station staff is at work down there, and they say gas prices are tripling! I noticed that lines were forming at gas stations along the freeway as I was coming home from work and stopped at that 7-11 down the street from us to see what was happening!  I tried calling your phone, but it took a while to get a dial tone and then you didn’t answer!  Do you have gas in your truck?”  “No, my truck uses diesel!”  I replied in a somewhat sarcastic voiceYou know what I mean!” she said in an exasperated voice. “Is it full? It’s already six dollars a gallon now,  and three times that is $18.00!  If it needs fuel, you’d better go down and get it while you still can!”  She switched the channel over to CNN, and drew my protest. “No fair ,that’s foul play!  Now I ‘m going to miss what Justin Bieber said about Anne Frank.” I said throwing my hands up.   She glared at me with her signature  “I’m real close to throwing this remote at you” look. The news announcer was narrating a scene that showed people in the Middle east loading shells into cannon and firing AK 47′s rifles.  Both of us watched in silence as the melee played out on the 120 inch screen.  I’m sure that both of us thought at that time, that this would be another short-lived crisis, much like the one following September 11,  and all the other minor scares that followed it.  We both thought wrong, as did the rest of the world.

  It became apparent to everyone that this crisis was not going to go away quietly,  like it had the times before.  The stores were boarded up after their inventories were exhausted, the words “NOTHING ELSE LEFT TO STEAL” was painted on the ply board covering. Trucking industry refused to deliver because of the skyrocketing price of fuel and the lack of security.  In the first few days, semi-trucks were being hijacked all over the country.  Fuel truck drivers were being forced to the side of the road and the drivers executed.  It simply was not safe to haul anything, even with a police escort, starving people would resort to anything to find food.  The internet and cell phones fell first, followed in quick secession by the electric power, natural gas and water. And even though martial law had been declared, it wasn’t long until the soldiers assigned to protect order, decided to gather for themselves.  They became the looters, the hoarders, and the well-armed bands of roving warlords, gathering people in the night to use as slaves.  It was if someone had left wolves to guard the sheep.

Three weeks out, even the most beautiful cities became transformed into Mad Max’s worst nightmare.  Yes…..about three weeks out, I would say that our digital world was in its final death throes.   Right before we abandoned the city,  I traded my sequestered neighbor’s Dalmatians  for a pickup trailer and mule.  I not sure if they wanted the dogs for breeding or for food, but I needed the mule and trailer to try to get out of the city.   The roads are filled with disabled cars and other debris, even if you had a vehicle,  there is nowhere to drive.  That is,  unless you had a tank or bulldozer to push the refuse out of your path.  There was something that the doctors had called a pandemic,  that swept through right after the collapse of civilization.  Killing a bunch of people, many of whom were killed just trying to get to the hospital, and being mistaken for looters.  I saw most of these tragedies first hand, many others were I heard about over the radio.  It was the regular AM/FM radio at first, then shortwave and C.B. radios later,  as the stations emergency power gave up the ghost.  I’m glad I held on to my dad’s old C.B. radio, it was the only thing in his life, he was right about.  Nearly everything is pretty much like it was in the late 1800′s now.  With pockets of technology scattered here and there. Slavery in some areas, indentured servitude in others, but no outright lawlessness anywhere.  In any given group of survivors, there are six women to one man. This have changed the dynamics of “families” every where. Most of the imbalance in the genders was mostly because of the fighting after the SHTF.  There was always a disparity because the women out birthed the men, and lived longer than their male counterparts.

Some people said that we lost over half the world’s population,  in the first six months.  Most of the losses were from the so-called “civilized” countries, due to the pandemic.  The underdeveloped nations seemed to weather the storm a little better than most, I’d guess because the loss of comfort level was far less profound with them.

Well , it has began to warm up a bit, and time to get back to work in the aquaponics gardens. These dog-gone early spring mornings are a kind of a mixed blessing. The sunshine is beautiful, but there’s that winter wind blowing out the North, that keeps it a bit chilly.  My Grandma used to call it ice-cold sunshine, and I’d reckon it’s a good name for the times we are living in,  here in 2017……………….


A Sea of Angry Voices

We are the Voices of the hardworking, previously obedient law-abiding citizens.  We have stepped back, and allowed our elected ones, write and enforce the laws of the land.  We have allowed them to decide how to interpret the law, and mete out punishment, after it is deemed necessary, when the accused is found guilty.  For many years, we have had faith in our leaders, and their jurisprudence, through their obedience to God’s law.  It has become evident that they no longer follow God’s law,  and now depend on the dwindling wisdom of man to perform the duties of magistrate over justice in this land.  Our Voice has become steadily disheartened with the administration of the laws of our land, and now when we speak, there is a faint tone of sedition when it comes to complying with the law.


This flag has always carried the stigma of racist attitudes in the United States.  It has been carried by many to express their sentiments during rallies and protest marches all across this country.  We adopt this flag because it stands for a greater meaning than the racism that it has been for many, it stands for the sedition of all of those in this hardworking people in this country.  We,  who are simply fed up with the elected bourgeois, who live in gated communities, and trade our lives in the back rooms of a harlot’s bedchambers  (special interest groups).  Most of the violent crimes occur in the poorer quarters of our community.  That is because this is where the convicts go they when they are released from the prisons system.  Where people worry if they have enough money, to get through to the end of the month.  Where people don’t care about the Dow/Jones averages, or the Nikki Index.    The convicts blame society for  their incarceration, but the ones who had all to do with their detainment, sentencing, confinement, and parole/release.  All live in places immune to their influences.  There may not be a wall surrounding them, like you would find around an old Roman castle,  but the legions of centurions (policemen) living inside the wall,  is far more deterring than any wall of stone.  I was recalling to a gentleman the other day about coming home from the Boy’s Club in downtown one evening, I was six or seven and walked home with my older cousins,  because our car was picking up a relative at work.  The thing about being downtown,  was that it was across the railroad tracks.  Blacks were not encouraged to be “out of place” after dark.  As a kid, I could go anywhere, at any time of the night, all by myself,  as long as it was on the “right” side of the tracks.  We were about two miles from our homes, leaving from Central Boy’s Club. We  made it down as far  as three blocks from the border (the tracks).  Out of nowhere,  swooped two police cars and threw the lights on a gang of kids on a steady march back to (where we belong), east of the tracks.  The made us put our hands on the wall while the talked to us and frisk my older cousins.  They ask  who our folks were, and when we told them,  they acknowledged that they knew them by saying “Mary Alice and Mildred’s boys, you know,  down there on Maple Street….. that troublesome  Charlie Burnett’s folks!”  They let us go with a word of caution not to be downtown after the dark.  In other more vulgar words, “Boys don’t let the sun set on your Black ass!”  The new elite is more politically correct, and far less obvious.  They don’t let the color of your skin be the marker for being out of place, they can tell if you belong inside the palace by your credit rating.  But unlike in the past, when they would take you out of some desolate road and beat the snot out of you,  they take you to jail on charge like suspicion,  and have your car towed. It maybe better than an ass whipping, but it is a lot more painful.  The more things change…………

But it is not about Black and White, it is about discontent.  Discontent at all of the bullshit that been tossed all over us.  We are working harder than ever and doing with less and less, but the elite continue to get fatter and richer. The continue to support and feed the deadweight of our society, on both ends of our economic system.  To clarify the previous statement, I mean to point out those receiving government subsidies such energy, oil, and farm  subsidies.  On the other end of the spectrum we have food and housing subsidies.  My family raised me with the with the old axiom of “if a man does not work, he does not eat.”  Something this country has seemed to forget.  Now, I don’t advocate starving the poor, but I think we as a people have given them far to much.  All the will to get out and earn a living is gone, but why should they work for a living, when our government is giving food and housing away? The U.S. government gives oil, gas and coal companies money to produce less energy, to keep the prices up.  The same with farmers, and dairy men.  In the 1980’s they were dumping a million gallons a day into the ocean.  Creating a shortage to keep the prices up.  But you might say “why not give the milk to countries with staving children that we see over the television?”  If they had any money, then they wouldn’t be starving.  How do you like that logic?

I work part-time in an convenience store. I see many young people come in and shop with their EBT cards.  Most of them healthier than me.  They filled the counter with junk food, and toss their welfare card across the counter, as if they were tossing a gold coin, to a baggage handler or a bellhop.  They then cover the pin pad as if the were protecting a government secret.  After they have been approved, the ask me to ring up their beer and cigars and pay with a stack of money.  All during the week, they come in to buy one cigar, and always short with the 7 cents tax.
 How can it be justified be justified, they are always at the store, so they have no job.  But all of their needs are met, without lifting a finger?

Look what Toto’s Uncovered!

Wizard-of-Oz curtain

Has anyone else noticed that the news media has been feeding us stories aimed at keeping us at each others throat?  It makes you wonder what the Wizard of Oz is really doing behind the curtain!  We have a  one party system that operates under a the guise of a two party system.  But what we have failed to notice is that after each election, all of us that are out here busting our asses to make things better for our fellow Americans, are falling further behind and the elected officials are getting richer and more prosperous.  We used to share in the American Pie forty years ago, now  we only get the crumbs that fall from the tables and to wash up the dirty  dishes?  How about all American Natives Party Members (these are all people born and raised in the continental United States) go VOTE the entire political machinery out of office and just farm out their jobs until we can fix our country back up?  We can call it Fire Fest 2014.  We certainly aren’t getting anything accomplished with the crew that we got now!  If they were on a private sector job, they would have been fired long before now!

                                                                                                Volcano Sunset

                                                                                          presently the sole member

                                                                                           American Natives Party

Scratch’s Weekend BBQ

 ©2013 volcanosunsetpress
The Tradition

 Summertime brings warm weather and outdoor outings.  Nicky Jameson’s yearly barbecue was always a neighborhood event that brought rib seekers from all corners of the community.  Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, and Asians from throughout the city, came to sample the cuisine.  But the primary attendees were those that lived on the block and those surrounding homes of 13 Perdition Circle.  So many in fact, that Nicky would charter a City Bus to ferry guest from the nearby Wal-Mart parking lot to alleviate parking problems on his street.  He was thinking that next year he would have to move the BBQ to a entirely new venue,  perhaps at the lake, or to River Front Park.. In all the years he had been having this cook out, there had been only minor incidents that threatened to put a damper on the festivities,  it was usually due to some guy getting drunk and making an royal ass of himself.  or maybe a couple of near fights,  or maybe a fender bender or three. There was never any real trouble per say.  Not until this day.
 The Gold Rush
 Nicky, who everybody called by his new nickname of “Scratch” because he had won 2 million dollars by buying a scratch off lottery ticket.  He was an ordinary guy with a knack for cooking scrumptious Cajun Style BBQ ribs.  The winning ticket was hidden in his lunch pail for a month,  before it was discovered by his then girlfriend,Miranda.  She gave it back to him to scratch off,  after complaining to him about his wasting of fifty dollars of  her hard-earned money,  when they were busting their asses to pay all the damn bills as it is. They lived each day from cutoff notice to cutoff notice,  and a couple of times they came home to a darkened house.  Nicky had bought the ticket while on his lunch break that Spring day and forgot to scratch it off away from her critical eye,  so he hid it to prevent Miranda from discovering it and chewing his ass out for gambling.   She was truly a wonderful woman, with a heart of pure gold, but her tongue spewed acid and burning brimstone when she was brought to ire.  Especially when it came to money, and the money was all hers, both his money and hers.  She had two girls, from a previous relationship.  but Nick claimed them as  his own.   After they won the money, they moved  into a middle class neighborhood,  not that fancy.  Miranda made sure that Nicky didn’t let the money go to his head and put him on a tight leash when it came to spending his good fortune.  They went down and got married on the very day,  before he signed the ticket over to the Lottery Commission.  Something that Nick would have done whether he had won the money or not,  but they had never had enough between both of their paychecks to spare for the license.  They basically lived from one check to the next, every payday they would decide who would get paid, and who would get lied to.  The lottery winnings changed all of that,  they bought one new car and one good almost new used truck.  The house was in the 160,000 range,  nice but not fancy,  but far better than the shitty rat traps they’d been renting in the past.  Miranda insisted on paying cash for everything,  after their first payout,  they banked the rest of the money and lived off the money that came from their jobs.  Miranda was a shrewd business woman.  But she allowed Nick a few indulges.  She let him get a small Bass Buster boat,  and she let him have his yearly BBQ. Which cost about 1800 each year.  She always wears a scowl until Nick could no longer see her face,  then she smiles when he is outside with his friends, being the life of the party at his annual BBQ suppers. 
 The Street
 The street was filled with police cars, ambulances , fire trucks and further down the cul-de-sac were news vans.  The Hostage Recovery  Team was standing by as the patrol officers escorted injured detainees to a waiting city bus.  There were 26 city cops, 7 county deputies, Three highway patrolmen,  3 Fire Companies, 9 Paramedics and  as far as the eye could see, the local media, all of them.  The air hung heavy with pepper spray and CS gas from the spent rounds from the riot guns. They were using plastic cuffs on the last of Scratch’s BBQ attendees.  The sixty-eight guest, now being booked in at the police department Mobile Command Center, were in various states of disarray. The really agitated rioters,  had been whisked off to the local jails, a dozen of the BBQ revelers were now occupying the city’s drunk tanks.  All of this commotion was said to be started over a misquote of another sleazy politician running for office.  The quote was that Barack Obama has put more people on welfare than any other President in U.S. history.   Which in itself,  was wholly not true.  But that was enough to get the ball rolling. A volley of  flying statistics broke down quickly  into name calling,  attempts at being a peace maker drew more onlookers into the growing fray.   It reached critical mass, when the “RR” (Racist Republican) words flew out it mushroomed into a brawl.  Now,  most of these very same people supported the Obama re-election,  and it’s a mystery of why this turned the way it did.  The heat, the booze,  and the current state of the economy certainly played its role in this fisticuffs.  But the underlying discontent of the average American pilgrims (or more properly pigeons) is that he doesn’t see money from the rebounding economy.  They only saw the rich getter richer and that they were working harder, only to get poorer.   The flaring tempers were not at each other,  but at the “Automated System of Things”  that gave them ¹Sisyphus’ job and never told them.  The people that they were truly angry at, were unreachable.  So they turned upon one another.  There were no life threatening injuries,  only minor cuts and scrapes and of course, exposure to riot gas. The children at the soiree were frightened out of their wits  But the first officers on the scene immediately called for back up when they heard the commotion in back of 13 Perdition Circle.  Cpl Tannhauser stated that “We have a large riot in progress when they opened the side gate on the Jameson’s home.  Send all available units right away!”
  The Outcome
 The twelve that had been taken to jail and plead guilty to disorderly conduct and public intoxication.  The remaining 68  received a citation for disturbing the peace.  Nick was not charged,  but he would no longer allowed to have barbecues of that size in his backyard.  Later his wife bought a bait and tackle shop for him to run on the weekends,  in other words,  she bought him a part-time job that requires full-time hours.  He still has his annual BBQs at the lake house,  and last year he burnt the lake house down when then fire got away from him. 
The Spoils
 Those wonderful tasting BBQ ribs got rave reviews at the homeless shelter that evening,  and even Nick’s mongrel dog, Pontchartrain got his fill of  Louisiana’s best tasting Cajun Style BBQ ribs.
 bbq ribs2
 ¹Sis•y•phus (ˈsɪs ə fəs) n.
a legendary ruler of Corinth, punished in Hades by being compelled to roll to the top of a slope a stone that always escapes him and rolls back down again.

A right on the mark message!

Warning: I might shake up FB with this post but here it goes.. I’m watching a reality show that has beautiful women with jacked up emotions. It got me to thinking a lot about relationships. Women of all color, creed, socioeconomic status, please listen to me. When you present yourself as nothing, why do you expect a man to value your worth? When you present yourself as a whore, why do you expect a man to make you a housewife. When you present yourself a weak, how do you expect a man to make you strong. When you present yourself as a sideline, why do you expect to be the “only” one. When you lie with dogs, why do you expect to walk around free from fleas. Women we get what we bring to the table. Bring nothing you get nothing. Bring much you get much. It’s time for you to go back and check your self worth, self value, and get a new self appraisal done..(drops the mic and exits the stage)

The Lady under the Red Bandana

Coke segragation

©2013 volcanosunsetpress

As I was eating  my breakfast this morning,  I had noticed for the first time,  in a whole lot of years, that the Aunt Jemima character on the front of the box no longer had on the head scarf.  The missing scarf made think about a Black woman named Miss Dora, that had worked in our house for as long as I could remember.  I remember being three or four years old when I started asking her questions about her scarf, and why her skin was darker than mine, and questions of that nature.  Miss Dora always tried to be patient with me, even though that now, years later I realize that I asked some question that showed the racial ignorance of my family and of white people in general of that era.   I would sit at the kitchen table while she prepared the family dinner.  I loved to help her cook, which was rather strange for a boy in the early fifties.  She would take the flour canister down everyday,  which always pleased me to no end, because I loved to use the sifter to get all the impurities out of the powder.  I’d sift the flour whether she made bread, or fried chicken.  She prepared countless meals for us,  and on Saturday, she would cook double, one meal for this evening, and the dinner for Sunday.  During the holidays, we went to Grandma’s for dinner,  except for the Thanksgiving of 1959.  That was the year that my Granny passed away, it was right before Halloween.

I was a freshman in high school by then, and I thought that I could handle her death like a grown man.  But I broke down and loss control,  it was an embarrassing thing for me to do in front of everyone.  Miss Dora took me aside and talked to me.  I don’t recall all the things she said,  but what I do remember is these words ” It is a debt that all must pay in full,  and all of God’s creatures are born die.”  In all my thinking up to that point,  I had never thought of life that way,  oh sure I knew of death and dying, but I had never thought about death’s inevitability.  Like most of the world, I paid it no mind.  Until I had an encounter with it, such as the passing of a friend or loved one.  But somehow her words calmed me, and I was able to re-join the other mourners at the ceremony,  without any more tears.  It was unseemly for a man to cry,  it lessened him in the eyes of others, and was simply not tolerated by the menfolks of that era.

I seemed to me that every year her stomach would grow huge.   I asked her why it did that, she would say that she was growing one of God’s creations.  Once after she been absent for about ten days, and I’d endured a week of cold corn flakes.   My mother’s attempts at cooking  was hurtling us quickly towards a hunger strike, it was so bad that even Dad would not eat very much of Mom’s food.   (A couple of nights he took us to the drive-in for burgers.)  When she finally came back to work at our house ,  I asked Miss Dora ” How come God couldn’t plant his creations somewhere else?”  Miss Dora chuckled and said “It’s not for us to decide what God does with this world, only for us to live in it and obey his commandments. ”   When she went into labor in the following years, our neighbor would have her housekeeper prepare meals for our family,  while Miss Dora was away.

I was most enthralled with the head scarf that she wore everyday, while I’m sure that she got a new one from time to time, but it always seemed to me, the same red scarf with paisley symbols on it. Now Mom had scarves the she used to tie her hair at night, but all of her hers were flowered and looked nothing like Miss Dora’s.  Miss Dora’s was tied like she was a soldier on duty.   Miss Dora  didn’t work on Sundays. and one of  the very few times that she ever came to our house on Sundays,  she wasn’t wearing her scarf.  I remember a ring at the bell on our side door,  that my father answered.  Through the opened door, I saw a  colored lady standing outside in a beautiful dress on, still in her church clothes.  I didn’t recognize her as Miss Dora,  until she said hello to me as she came in, because I had never never seen her without her scarf.   Her hair was jet black.  A few days after that,  was when I began asking questions about the scarf.  While we sat at the table cooking dinner before Miss Dora went home for the evening.  I asked her why she wore the scarf all the time.  She sat for a while, mixing the dough for would turn out the be beginnings of chicken and dumplings.  It was as if she was considering her answer.  Then she said slowly “ I wear this here scarf to protect my hair while I’m cookin’ and cleanin’……..and also cause it’s a tradition.  My mammy wore one and her mammy befo’ that wore one,  it goes way back a long, long time.  I wouldn’t understand for many years,  that my parents had insisted the she wore a bandana, while working in their home.  They also carried on a tradition,  of keeping Blacks in their place.  I came to realize that the scarf was intended by the Whites of the Old South, to be a badge of obedience, a traditional “Black Mamie”  outfit like in “Gone with the Wind”,  but for Miss Dora, it was a crown, or at least that’s the way that she wore it.  There was an incident that happened later,   that showed that my folks were “traditionalist”  whites,  this I will tell you about at the end of this story.

There were many other question and answer sessions with Miss Dora in those formative years.  Some days I was an endless fountain of questions,  and many times she would get tired of answering one issue after another.  At those times she would begin to sing tunes from her church, which I never heard in our church, well at least not  like the way she sang them.  Once she began to teach me to know how the hymns were sung in her church service.  I would quickly lose my train of questions,  and like a child’s  toy soldier,  she would wind me down and I’d never even realize it.  Her voice was so melodious when she sang “Amazing Grace” that I could  imagine  myself sitting in the pews of her church, with colored people all around me, and Miss Dora would be up front singing before God himself!

I graduated high school in 1962, and went  straight into college.  I never gave the draft a second thought because I was considered to be still in school.  Which exempted me from selection. Miss Dora’s son,  Ramses, was not so lucky.  He was rated 1A and chosen by selective service to serve in the U.S. Army.  He lived for 10 months after he left for basic training,   and was killed in Cambodia in 1963.  He was a couple months younger than me and I  had only met him once.  The day he came by to pick up his Momma  from our house.  He was well-mannered and much taller than me,  hell he was bigger than Bob Lilly.  I remember thinking when I saw him for the first time that I hope he is never my enemy, that guy could put you in traction just by thinking about it.  Miss  Dora had brought the letter to me to read for her.  She knew how to read, but just basic words, and the Army letter’s  vocabulary was a little beyond her ken.  After I read the letter to her,  I broke it down to her level of understanding.  She already knew of Ramses’  death, but she didn’t understand all the words in the condolence  letter.  She thanked me for reading it, and folded it neatly and put it away.  This moment stayed with me forever because, I had never realized how being a White man of this era, had kept me from being in harm’s way.  Oh, I went in the service during Vietnam,  the closest I ever came to combat was a two-year posting in Hawaii,  as a Finance officer.  The same system of separate but equal that kept Ramses out of my all white schools,  had chosen him to go and die in a far away land defending ” his” country.  His death changed Miss Dora in way that cannot be measured,  not toward me or my family.  But something seemed to break in her,  something that I or nobody else,  short of Almighty God,  could fix.

The years wore on, and I grew up.  In my second year in college, Miss Dora died.  My parents paid for all the burial expenses, the funeral and bought a family plot in the Negro cemetery.  I came home for her burial service and we were talking about the arrangements for Miss Dora.  I said that she was like a second mother to me,  and that it would be wonderful to wake up on Resurrection Day and see her shiny face again,   I asked them why they didn’t elect to bury her in one of our cemetery plots, after all we had eight spares, not  including our own.  They just sat there in silence,  with their heads down cast.  It was my mother that finally spoke, “ Now Nelson you know what has been the tradition for hundreds of years.  You know that they don’t allow niggers to buried in  white cemetery.  Besides, if she were buried with her own kind,  they wouldn’t have any trouble visiting her grave-site.  We all have our place in this world and Dora knew hers.  That’s why she stayed in our employ for so long.  She kept her place,  despite all the Negro uprisings, and civil unrest, and trouble that those Yankee agitators have stirred up here.  She remained obedient, and never gave us a lick of trouble.  In fact,  if she were here right now, she would tell you that we are doing is the right thing.  It was on that day, I realized that Miss Dora had done more than just help raise me.  She opened my eyes to the bigotry that loomed over my family and because of her instruction,  I learned that all people’s souls are the same color.  I learned from Miss Dora one final lesson on that day, and the answer to a question that I never posed to her.  I’ve come to understand that love is blind.  But is ignorance a kind of blindness as well?  My spirit heard her sweet voice say  “Yes , but God saw through your ignorance and mine, and loved us anyway.  Now that you stand in the light of understanding, you have to do the same thing as  He,  for all them as well……..”

After all the years that Miss Dora had been dead and long since gone,  a caricature of a Negro woman on a pancake box,  brought her right back to me and we were sitting at that kitchen table,  in our own sort of school.  With her teaching and me learning, not only about food, but also about life……

The Thief I Caught

©2013 volcanosunsetpress

They found the body today. It was right where I’d left it. I never really intended to kill this person, although that is what happened in the end.  The body was badly decomposed, and the varmints had fed on it quite a bit.  To be gravely honest,  I thought they would have discovered her sooner, being where I’d dumped her.  I had thought that someone would have stumbled across her remains days after I put her out there, not two whole months.  It was one of those streets on the poor side of town, where the city had condemned and leveled all the houses.  Now the only activity was the gaggle of bums that gathered under the tree to drink and fight.  I believe that it was the cold season that kept people from frequenting that area that time of the year,  at least until the weather warmed up some.  But at the time I was getting rid of her body, I didn’t even think of that.  Ever since then,  I’ve been holding a tight ass.  Dumping my mistake in that desolate hollow and expecting to hear in the news everyday,  that a homicide investigation was ongoing,  further details at ten…..  Not to mention the nightmares of going back to the remodel and having her ghostly body lead the police straight to me, pointing at me with her mummified finger and saying ” HHEE KILLLED MEEE!” in an eerie creepy voice.  I snap awake, dripping in cold sweats,  in the middle of the night. But that dream pales in comparison, to the nightmare of being in prison, constantly fighting off hordes of horny tattooed weightlifting bull queers.  All of them vying for ownership of my wrinkled hairy virgin ass.

Someone had been breaking in at my construction site ever since we started the remodel.  I don’t know why I was angered by this, I didn’t lose any tools, or equipment in the thefts.  The customer and the bank that financed this little venture was losing money to these thieves and It didn’t seem to bother them.  It was just the aggravation on seeing all of your hard work and sweat being cast aside, so that they could steal the copper, brass. and wiring to get drugs or alcohol with somebody else’s  labor.  I didn’t intend for anyone to die, I just wanted to extract a little misery from their worthless hides.  Seeing the busted sheet rock, and the shining new copper pipes ripped from the wall,  the next morning, just really got to me.  Then losing a day for the cops to come out and take a report,  which they were going to do nothing about.  Calling back the subcontractors for another bid, and hiring that worthless security company, to come sit on their asses and watch the maggots come back and steal some more,  really chapped my ass.  That’s when I decided to rig up a 240 volt surprise for my late night visitors.  The site was running off a service pole, until the wiring was completed and approved by the County Electrical Inspector.  I took some service wire ( that I’ve used to run from the utility pole to the meter)  and rigged up a hot-shot to the pipes.  So that when those thieving fuckers went to grab the pipes, they would complete the circuit.  And ride the lightning till the breaker tripped.  It shouldn’t kill them, but it would teach them to keep their grubby hands off and maybe straightening out their hair, just a wee little bit.

When I got out to the remodel this morning,  I could see that they had broken yet another window to get in the house.  I figured they had sprung my little mouse trap overnight, and went out the back door, just like they have in to past after their nocturnal visits.  I got out of my truck, and went over to inspect the damage,  as I feared they’d busted out a pane to access the window latch.  I thought to myself that they might believe that they were saving their victims money by limiting the damage when they broke in,  a thrift-minded burglar.  It was always quicker to replace the entire frame than to fiddle with that one insulated window pane.  I went on in to see what had been stolen.  The old house greeted me with a shitty smell, once I opened the front door. I pinched my nostrils closed and thought the sons of bitches done shit on the god damn floor!  Jesus H. fucking Christ!  The smell was so strong, that I had to step back outside.  I cursed some more, thinking that I’d have to call the cops yet again,  and I gathered myself and went back in.

As I made my way though the shitty odor, and into the partially finished kitchen I saw a sight that froze me in my tracks.  There was a mummified corpse,  in an old Army field jacket and blue jeans, lying on the floor, with one hand still clinging to the pipes I had electrified.  Whoever it was, is most assuredly dead.  All of this time, I had figured it was a couple of guys that were stealing the copper.  But the mummy-like body was that of a woman.  She had long blonde hair and big drooping tits.  I stood there flabbergasted, not believing what I was seeing.  I had a cold fright within me, not really knowing what to do next.  I knew if I called the cops, they would take me to jail for manslaughter.  That much was plainly obvious to me, just for trying to stop these folks from fucking over my work.  I just wanted to put the fear of God into to these thieving sons a bitches,  not kill them.  I had figured the 5 amp breaker would have tripped and just delivered the memorable lesson of leaving other folks shit alone.  But the old breaker had been in my tool box for a number of years.  And it was probably nearly as old as me when I took it out of the old breaker box.  With so much rust in it,  that it froze in place instead of tripping when the amp-age came through it. A very bad turn for me, and much worst for this woman.  From the looks of the woman, I’d guess she was in her mid to late forties,  the smell in the house,  came from the release of her bowels while she was being electrocuted. Poor tortured soul, probably just trying to scrape up some money.  And instead of making some quick change, she had traded her life in her moment of weakness. My God, what the hell was I thinking!  Yesterday, I’d pictured myself chuckling over this moment,  a would-be-thief’s late night lesson.  Not standing here trying to figure a way out of this dumb ass situation that I’ve got myself into.  It was 7:05 A.M.,  just barely daylight.  I made the decision that when this mummified woman was found, she was not going to be found here.

I am truly sorry for being the cause of her death,  but  I’ve seen what the courts do to those who attempt to seek their own justice.  It is never just.  I thought of the pharmacist that I saw on the news, that shot the unarmed kid, as they tried to rob his store.  They served him up a big steaming bowl of justice,  for protecting himself.  The whole community was out to get him.  That pill pusher would have been better off if he was the robber. They gave him a life sentence at 59 years old, the same age as me.  At my age,  even twenty years was as good as getting the death penalty.  All my uncles died in their late to mid-sixties,  My Dad died at 71.

I went back toward the living room and got the old painter’s canvas and stretch it out next to her.  It occurred to me that those pipes might still be charged,  so I went outside and disconnected my hot-shot,  I rolled it up and put it in my truck.  The traffic was just starting to move about in the neighborhood,  so I went in and unlocked the garage door.  I came back to my truck, and backed it into the garage, pulling the old wooden door closed for privacy.   It was fairly easy to load the shitty whore onto the tarp, I dragged her stiffening body into the bed of my Ford. I rummaged through the cleaning supplies and quickly made a concoction to neutralize the odor.  I poured it liberally over the tile flooring.  As I made my way to the garage,  I’d already thought of a spot to dispose of the corpse.  If my luck held out, I could take the body over there and just pray that I don’t get stopped by a diligent cop on the way.  Or even worse,  if they thought I was dumping trash, and come over in the middle of this dastardly deed to write me a summons.  What could I say?  “Just dumping a little white trash officer!”  I went and took care of the dumping task without further incident,  but I stayed in a constant state of dread.  Every cop that I passed from that day on,  I expected him to turn around and pull me over and arrest me for killing that woman.

Why couldn’t I have just made another report, and fixed whatever they’d torn up in the burglary?  I mean other than time,  I hadn’t lost a single thing.  Was it for the satisfaction of putting one over on the thieves?  Three minutes of my dumbass ingenuity, had robbed me of a quiet worry-free life.  Now, I have to worry about if I was willing to perform homosexual favors on my three hundred fifty pound cellmate or will I just take a beating and let him rape me?  And I hope that he doesn’t decide to sell me around the prison, and I have to get fucked in ass by any convict with a cigarette. Being everyone’s bitch,  until I hang myself with some bed sheets. No,  I think that if I do get caught, I’ll commit suicide long before I get to that point.

We finished that house,  and started rehabbing another,  they broke in and stole from that one too.  But I didn’t set any more rat traps. For one thing,  I don’t have the heart,  and I don’t want to think about spending my last remaining years,  swishing around the penitentiary with Kool-aid on my lips, looking for a penis to suck….