Several billion dollars has been stolen from a Malaysian government fund over the past few years and the United States Justice Department has revealed that the Leonardo DiCaprio Foundation and the Clinton Foundation profited from the stolen money.

Oh for the days corruption, crime
Was done by guys like Harry Lime
Who plied their trade in local scenes
And never lived beyond their means
DiCaprio’s titanic scam
Sent many fleeing on the lam
And shocked we are the Clintons too
Saw dollar bills and took a few
Before the Global there was space
For men to roam, not see a face
The spaces wide, the fields and hills
Today though many get their thrills
Online or jetting to and fro
To anyplace they want to go
The crime now global, not by chance
The hills remain, but now we’re ants

It has been said that time is nature’s way of seeing that everything doesn’t happen all at once. But what if everything did happen all at once, and time is just a perception, what if the universe runs on different rules than we, and Julius Caesar is alive and well, at least until the Ides.

Julie, kid, why did you cross
That river on that day?
To change the world, to change your luck?
Collect your owed back pay?
But did you know, as you got wet
Another man set sail
In tiny ships and headed west
While elsewhere one more nail
Went through the wrist and it was done
They crowned a man who tried
To teach us all what honor means
And for that crucified
At Valley Forge they froze and starved
While elsewhere brave men flew
The bombers that brought freedom home
The brave, the proud, the few
And while these things are going on
Concurrently it seems
A million billion more are busy
Living out their dreams
An instant to the universe
When all that happened did
Look heavenward, the stars are us
Step lightly, Julie kid

Do we say this more in Soros than in anger? No. We say it in anger. The con game is over. The European elites’ vision of perpetual rule by open borders and unlimited third world immigration has collapsed like a pricked soufflé. Using American taxpayers as a piggy bank for seventy plus years is at an end. Brexit opened the door and Donald Trump tore the door off its hinges. He called out the G7 for what It is – a bunch of ingrates who insist the United States continue to allow them to live in its basement rent free. Back home President Trump will bring those manufacturing jobs back from overseas cheap labor by causing the CEOs who wittingly and willingly destroyed the American middle class for increased profits and yearend bonuses to suffer excruciating financial pain. This time that great sucking sound will be the jobs coming back and the EU’s collective mouths being ripped from the American teat. There is a striking similarity between the young Arthur and the old Donald. Both have raised the sword from the stone with consummate ease, where many had tried and failed. Young Arthur had youth and purity, old Donald has age, experience and a flair for the brilliantly inconsistent. No one knows exactly what the Donald is going to do, or how he is going to do it, which made him an x-caliber gunslinger. What we do know is that anyone who elects to meet him in the street in front of the saloon is going to be lying inert and face down in the dust.

Young Arthur stood before the stone
The shimmered inner glow
Within the shining sword, alone,
His hand extended slow
The sword rose slowly in the air
Rose of its own accord
The gape-mouthed crowd reduced to stare
Until the shining sword
Was taken in young Arthur’s hand
And kneeling, men fair pledged
Their crowns, and crops and family, land
To Arthur and the edged
Bright weapon that was bathed in light
And showed them that the way
Was lit by Arthur and the fight
Was won this sunny day
And so with Trump who grasped the sword
Where others tried and failed
And turned it on the swampy horde
Who promptly cried and wailed
Like fireflies put in a jar
The swamp made disappear
How fortunate we surely are
To have young Arthur here

The tower stands upon the hill
Surrounded by the serf worked fields
Inside the local chieftain’s will
Commands by right of force he wields
The tower stands against the might
Of neighbors who would plunder all
And enemies who take delight
In planning for the tower’s fall
But towers seldom fall by force
They fall from weakness from within
What seems to all the men and horse
On guard are but the chieftain’s kin
Who prattle long of glories past
And tell of marvels yet to be
Until the tower falls at last
The rubble there for all to see

Down the Guadalquivir, the old river of war
From Seville to the sea and then west
To the sun spattered lands of the Aztecs they bore
en of steel, men of Spain, Europe’s best
That was then, this is now, golden days are long gone
When the ships and the men put to sea
And returned with the gold to Cadiz with the dawn
A fair harbor and safety to lee
The Platte fleet now sails in the night in the dreams
Of a nation whose glory is past
But the river of war in the moonless night gleams
With the river and time running fast

The mullahs are quite sincere in their desire and ultimate aim to completely destroy the hated Zionist Entity, Israel, seemingly undeterred by knowledge that Israel has hydrogen bombs and survivable means to deliver them, and any attack on Israel will be met with the full fury of the Israeli Defense Forces that wlll leave Iran a smoking ruin. But maybe that’s the mullahs’ plan. You know – Armageddon, chaos, the release of the 12th imam from the well he;s been hiding in for 1400 years, after which the world will be subjugated by Islam and the establishment of a worldwide caliphate. Now that would be worth being incinerated for.

The mullahs seem to be quite deaf
To warnings that the IDF
Is far superior in fact
And if Iran sudden attacked
Would quick respond with savage force
That not Mohammed or his horse
Could save the Quds from quick defeat
Who run like rabbits in retreat
No Muslim army can withstand
The fury of the steel clad hand
Of Western armies, and the fight
Turns quickly into Muslim flight
So listen close, you who are deaf
Do not annoy the IDF

Flawed first drafts of history are written by flawed writers about flawed subjects and flawed policies, and read and believed or disbelieved by flawed readers. The word flawed rhymes with fraud, especially and particularly in politics. So when a flawed man such as Donald Trump who is not a fraud emerges in full public view, it is as refreshing as a cold shower on a cold winter morning, and just as startling in its effect. Donald Trump is the cold shower of reality that is so rare in public life that when it does appear it is undoubtedly sung about by the angels.

We give some slack for we’re all flawed
Until the saint becomes the bawd

Flawed first drafts of history are written by flawed writers about flawed subjects and flawed policies, and read and believed or disbelieved by flawed readers. The word flawed rhymes with fraud, especially and particularly in politics. So when a flawed man such as Donald Trump who is not a fraud emerges in full public view, it is as refreshing as a cold shower on a cold winter morning, and just as startling in its effect. Donald Trump is the cold shower of reality that is so rare in public life that when it does appear it is undoubtedly sung about by the angels.

We give some slack for we’re all flawed
Until the saint becomes the bawd

A long time ago I spent many hours in a small boat, fishing the back bays of the southern New Jersey coast. On rare occasions, when slack water, dead calm and the sun was at just the right angle, the bay would be like a sheet of glass, and when I looked over the side of the boat I could see my reflection in the water. On those rare occasions I would always think, I live on the surface and see only the surface, and see or know nothing of what lies beneath the surface. That is where we are. We live on the surface of events, seeing nothing of the roiling currents below. Yes, we know the Little Rock FBI field office is investigating the Clinton emails, but are they investigating Clinton or the fake FBI investigation of the emails? Or both? We know two District Court judges have questioned the legitimacy of the Mueller investigation, and we are constantly being told the FBI Inspector General’s report will be out any day now. But this is just the surface, and all we see are reflections. We know nothing of what is going on in the deep water. But slack water does not last forever. Come the change of tide and the deep water starts to run again, and then we shall know.

Beneath slack water lay the clues
Deep hid from surface and fake news
The baitfish dart like spattered rain
As viscera the surface stain
But who the baitfish and the shark?
At change of tide the deep still dark
Yet as the tide begins to run
The hidden currents have begun
To lift the veil on who’s the bait
And who’s the shark to settle fate

I was born in 1929 so I missed being of the Greatest Generation, and have had to live my life in the shameful knowledge that my generation was not called so much as adequate, and in fact had no name at all. Looking back I can see that my generation were ‘tweeners; between the Greatest Generation and the generation that invented rock and roll. But our children built the Internet and the smart phone, and now our grandchildren are preparing to start all over from scratch. Fine with me. Civilizations always outgrow themselves and inevitably suffer a correction, often violent. We may, with luck, escape the violence, but we will not escape the correction. We live indeed in interesting times

The times are racing breathless on
Gen Z in wings awaiting
The entrance of the deathless dawn
And calendars re-dating
Who knows what wonders lay in store
What brilliant flashed advances
It may be less, it may be more
I’ll nap and take my chances