A Rifleman

A rifleman went to war,
He kissed his mother goodbye,
His father sent him off with a toast of rye,
A rifleman walked out the door.

He lay in the cold and the damp,
He breathed hardly a breath,
As he spat whispering death,
Marking the world with his rifleman’s stamp.

His rifle in his hands as he slept,
Dreaming the gunners dream,
Life without the innocent scream,
Sleeping a rifleman wept.

By day he made art,
Painting with the leaden brush,
Sealing the devils deals in a deadly hush,
A rifleman did his part.

A rifleman went home,
Gaunt and pale as a ghost,
Quiet and without a boast,
As his soul began to gloam.

In the night he would groan,
As the nightmares came more,
A rifleman stayed at war,
And in the end a rifleman died alone.

Real History Is Not Schoolbook History

They lied to you in your high school history classes.
http://www.rense.com/general56/theforgottenblackconfed.htm

Hardened eyes,
Like a battle worn 94,
Grey steel glaring from worn blond stocks.
Hands grasping at the air,
Scarred and calloused,
As only time and hard living can provide.
He stares out the window,
Through the missing panes,and into nothingness.
The past and jaded present,
Mingling on the currents of the breeze,
Just outside his grasp,
Like everything else.

Cool feeling...

Number one cool feeling in the world tonight; taking a scrap of dry kleenex, some wet twigs, putting them on the wet ground (its been raining), shaving a few flakes off a magnesium block into their midst, and using a steel-flint and the un-sharpened spine of a knife blade to make fire.

It re-affirms my belief in the good of my own survival in a darwinian sense.
You're useless if you cannot do these things, or take the steps to learn. Your ancestors could do it, as near as two generations ago - whats your excuse?