“Alexander agreed that an attack against America's privately operated power grid, launched from another country but routed through the computers of unsuspecting U.S. citizens, poses difficult questions that the Pentagon and other agencies are trying to answer. ”
–LOLITA C. BALDOR (AP) – 9 hours ago as of 5:33pm PST
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5h02Prpewchnn1skzjV7ISlVz-H3gD9F3J0B80
“A Saudi man asked if he could make magical talisman for his sister who had marital problems. Sibat, in the kingdom on a pilgrimage, said he'd be happy to help... As soon as he hung up, religious police stormed into his room and arrested him for witchcraft. Now Sibat is on death row, sentenced to be beheaded.”
–SCHEHEREZADE FARAMARZI (AP) – 6 days ago, April 15, 2010
http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5hQ_jb3NeJqD5cjGvkNxW5Jlje9AwD9EVD3I03
“The deadliest refinery accident since 2005 was described Monday as “more of a fireball than an explosion””
–VICKI VAUGHAN San Antonio Express-News April 5, 2010, 10:39PM
http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/business/6945528.html
Texas City? Simply rookie stuff.
Blew my fucking fingers off—the blast
Spared the middle two. It made me tough.
Certainly important, yet I'm cast—
Featured—yes, for greater deeds I'd say.
Hippies turned to Weathermen before
Selling out to servitude to pay
Conscience off: a poodle can't restore
Its dignity, from ignominity.
The malcontents of prior years—
The madmen, cast to bitter street
Where urban teeth with concrete gears
Would starve and freeze and elsewise eat
The mad—they call us 'master' now.
It's they who beg we spare their minds,
Though once we plead for drugs or chow.
When Lil, or Fred escape, they find
The secrets most of you protect:
My nightmares drain your intellect.
I killed a man for hitting me; this happened long ago—
The hitting, not the killing—he became a football pro.
Before the microchips and internet enhanced my brain
The doctors said “no empathy.” They said I was insane.
This jock? He beat me down in front of class, in college days.
My rage became a pleasure, faked my way through life with praise.
The numbskulls locked me up before I had a chance to strike.
I ran away, I bought my chips and now it's what I like:
I crashed his car then cleared the trace—an accident they said.
I drop the cranes, I kill the lights—and you? Already dead.
Subscribe in a reader
No comments:
Post a Comment