Archive for July, 2013

Only real castles with moats and security and protected views.

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, labor, News, opinion, political science, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on July 30, 2013 by B Schiff

Only real castles with moats and security and protected views.

Sure, we believe in the Great Society …… the haven for man’s progress, the forward point of his dreams.

Floors and safety nets …. no no never exploitation of home grown labor …. no no never until home grown labor gets its rightful due as no different than pitiful, dirty, slovenly, unwashed third world labor … no no never gonna happen  … labor is cheap … was cheap was always thus … always will be cheap …. always be there to be kept in its place ….. always that is for winners to use, exploiters to exploit … job givers to celebrate the starvation and call it manna from heaven.

Business models cannot sustain workable labor costs.  Poor poor business models … poor poor business models, the world offers them no better lot ….. they should not have the poor poor little squeeze ,,, work for nothing or starve is only for peons and untouchables … the willing poor of which there are too damned many … like fleas.

Business models are worderous things … Labor costs computed are only on the cheap.

What is left of the economic sovereignty of this land of ours …. does not give a damn for Great Societies or metaphorical Castles on the Hill … only real castles with moats and security and protected views.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

The mean games. Play for the prize with the chips of the drips.

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, Fascism,, News, opinion, political science, Politics, power, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on July 29, 2013 by B Schiff

The mean games.  Play for the prize with the chips of the drips.

The mouths move …… the stories follow ……. the cries cry  …….  the idiots are in delight …….. puppets, puppets, puppets for those who have the smarts and need the clowns in order to reach the mass of clowns who like the happy hate and droll passion and rancid mean and crusty cruel.

The attack dogs and con men and circus freaks play and pay the needed bills and rile up and caress the humble crowd on the midway so that the clowns all can get fleeced and diced and sliced and that the good grimy gamey game runners can turn the profit, the stealing, the power grabbing, the improvement of the game rigging, and ascend to mystical heights.

Poor, poor us.  There is no accepted, acceptable, respected, respectable power structure, idea structure, purpose structure, structure structure in these great and powerful United States of whatever.  The players play and play and gain independence from law, regulation, enemies, checks, balances, challenge, the suckers.  The cream rises to the top.  Rancid cream.  Misplays put the dregs of the scum of the bottom in full blown charge and mean jack booted, loin loving splendor.

The mean games.  Play for the prize with the chips of the drips.

Let the drips think they have no master.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 5

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, fiction, literature, Mystery, noir, novels, political fiction, political novels, Politics, power, writing with tags , , , on July 29, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 5

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Babe  Kenny was cute.  Rachel  Kane had her wants.  Johnny boy could  survive.  I could laugh.  All were torch bearers for my flag.  It became hard to breathe with parodies of whatever the hell should have been coming along taking over from the parodies that were.

They were at my wedding to Kaye, Johnny boy, Rachel.  They were at my wedding to Babe.  It was all there in the pictures, the memories.  Johnny boy.  Rachel.  Dreams of perfection.  Dreams of perfect people being perfect

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed within the flowers in the photograph album of my heart.  Rachel, Johnny boy, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat beat beat of the hopeless ripple in the wind.

He was always doing a job well done, Johnny was, a job necessary for his arts, his manly arts filled with circumspection and poise.

My first wife Kaye ate up our success.

Kaye the treasure.

Lyrics were needed, clarity,

I loved the depths of hell and I loved to throw the unsuspecting into its pits so that they could be used as fodder for desires and face down the grand panoramas and vistas of those who wished to ride with the night and conquer the lights of reason.  Hope needs its loves and hope spreads the word as a present for those who could be the casting fires of forged sticks standing firm in the winds of destruction.

Characters that spring upon the hidden planes of existence, hidden planes of attack may be of an interesting kind, may be of a rancid, sinister kind and play in dominance, survival, and find themselves oriented to the mysteries of life with stories following around roots and edifices, movements through time and fate.  Dreams and drama induce momentous rides and searing portraits of self and season.

Over time those who play in the vineyards and domains of force, dominance, debasement, cruelty, occupy positions in worlds with a thousand mothers springing unseen from backwaters of rage and passion.

Players, actors, manipulators, take their journeys through the seas of the vanquished immersed in seasons of fury, flailing in spins, rushing to conclaves with the agents of delusion.  Fog cohabits with fear, wanes in its own way and waxes poetic with memory as a sometimes wisp of smoke that traps those who wish to crave dangerously amidst cunning.

Into depths unknown, fears unknown, unidentified, peace unoffered, characters find the undersides of daunting lusts, mean cravings, waiting for opportunity, seekers of prudence.

Eyes of dementia produce in their wake challenges for those who wish to undertake killing fields unchecked, unvarnished, triumphant.  Cruelty survives the potent attributes of the habitats of daily needs while paupers vie for territory, meet on fields of conquest, demand ultimatums in fields of vision and satisfaction.

Seasons of access and executions, seasons of kills, come to fruition.  Denunciations of souls and spirits, denunciations of voided lives, voided souls and sentries exist in practiced nullification with sustenance ached for and defenses against vulnerabilities a midnight dream.

All currencies of all kills seek challengers.  Voracious primal ooze finds its way through ready achievement ready to co-opt those things that time wishes to deal with.  Effervescent dreams, grand achievements, primitive stalking horses, all would have their dreams capture force for force’s sake with powers, answers, traps, life, taken as faint somewheres fused with and left to a forever that shimmers alone in the dark.

It is a hard thing to fathom.  It is a hard thing to sit here as I do and bear witness to facts, stories, charges, sealed in time and left to embrace those plowing the earth for their winks at eternity.

Long nights and scores of deadly demons wait to pounce upon opportunity and to learn secrets of paths to want and power, secrets of division and use.  Smart, vengeful, facile, evil devils wait cautiously for lost strains of lost songs to carry them to perfect combat with trouble always a friend to those who seek it, always there to prosper and to be baited by those who choose to be special.

Strong perpetual illusions wane and wax poetic, cohabit with needed diversion, risk, cohabit with lessons, tricks, meanings that are deep and dear and that are often left to test waters of eerie endeavor in places unguarded and vengeful.

Vineyards and domains of force, dominance, debasement, cruelty, can come to occupy netherworlds of rage and passion to be run from by those of fineness and strength.

Amy.  Sweet, sweet, Amy.  Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and honor.  Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters of manners and property.  She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts vigorously, in worship and adoration.

The giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain.  The killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and uncles.  The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet caress.  Amy, sweet, sweet Amy.  The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet existence.  How sweet, sweet Amy craved.  How she craved.  Sweet, sweet Amy.

Jake Green was born in New York City.  Jake became Jake the Jew early on looking out over many things.  Recollections hazy, his claims on the name Green hazy, Jake parlayed a career as manipulator, dealmaker, facilitator, into a world of forceful contacts, lucrative money.  He rose through the ranks of those whom others wished to know, Jake.  Smart, Jake.  Good Jake.  Someone had to know someone who knew someone just to get to know someone to talk to Jake.

Barbara Scott, Jake the Jew.  They were interested in establishing a priority of predator.  They owned a world of lucrative contacts.  Jake knew people.  He knew how to play people.  There was no publicity.  Jake deduced.  Jake deduced with slow happy contemplation.  Men of skill were purchased.  They were exhuming the dead, Barbara Scott, Jake the Jew.  They did that.  They wished that.

Jake Green took me to New York.  He saw that I was raised in a decent manner.  I was not his blood but he did so.  That’s what I knew.  Jake told me not to mourn, not to wear the robe of Death that was placed around me.

Jake Green fathered Kaye, fathered Vivian.

Jake told me not to mourn.  They killed my father.  Probably my mother.  My sister as well.  I’m not sure.  My father they killed.  I was a convenience, a necessity.  I served purpose.  My father was an efficient protector.  He sought out enemies.

Jake thought that I had put my careful little ass in a sling and he only wanted to see how I would handle it.  He wanted to see me bent over and trapped, burnt out like a caged rat.  He could be happy.  Me, Steele, boy wonder, eyes wide in the headlights.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Tell me Michael Steele,” Kaye would say.  “Can us mere mortals at all imagine the pristine makeup of the heart of Michael Steele,” she would say.

“Tell me of true love and deep romanticism, Michael,” she would say.

“Tell me, brave and tortured soul,” she would say. “Tell me true,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me about the insurmountable, Michael,” Kaye would purr and sigh.

“Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me,” Kaye would say.  “Of your heart, your ideals, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me of your soul’s capitulation,” Kaye would say.

 “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me about the love of a good woman, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me of its sparkle and dew, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me, young Lochinvar, of veins of ice, wills of iron, men of steel,” Kaye would say.

“Tell me young Steele,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me of men so bent and weary with the weight of the problems of the world on their noble backs, Michael,” Kaye would say.  “Tell me about the insurmountable, Michael,” Kaye would say.

“Tell me of true love and deep romanticism, Michael,” Kaye would say.

“Tell me Steele,” she would say, “can mere mortals at all imagine the pristine makeup of the heart so strong, the bearing so staunch,” Kaye would say.

* * * * * * * * * *

Babe Kenny and I got out of vehicle.  We went to the door.  I knocked.  Babe in basic black, hair blond.  No one answers.  Babe gets smug.  I knock again.  Babe gets smug again.  I hear rumbling from deep inside.  Babe hears rumbling from deep inside.  Anticipation swells up.  Phil and Kaye would be deep inside.

Phil, the useless, comes to the door.  He asks who is there and he is told.  He is not in rapture, he opens the door, wheezes, murmurs, sullies, drapes over a drink, wobbles, lets us in.  He is dressed, almost tame.  He speaks to Kaye.  She comes in and joins us.  Kaye looks like the purring cat.  She looks well behaved.

“Michael,” she said, “this is a pleasant surprise.  Miss Kenny, here, must be thrilled to be here.  I should have let you be, Michael,” Kaye said.  “I don’t know you like Miss Kenny does, Michael,” she said.  “That’s not what I’m here for tonight, though, is it, Michael,” she said.  “I’m here for bigger things aren’t I, Michael,” she said.

Phil offered a slobs outlook.  He reintroduced himself to Babe.  Phil was a strong sort of guy.  He wanted to square the circle, circle the squares, be worthwhile.

“So what gives, Mr. Wonderful,” Kaye said to me.  “What tails you have to tell, Michael,” she said.  “Are you still the boy I married,” she said.

“Michael wants to play, Phillip,” Kaye said.  “He wants to play with me,” she said.  “He wants to put on a show, Phillip,” she said.  “He came here to put on a show, Phillip,” Kaye said.

Phil sat down in the corner.  Kaye lit a cigarette.  Babe lit a cigarette.  I spit out a trim cigar.  Babe started to wonder if angels had wings.  Phil started to wonder if he was always as dull as he looked.

My Kaye was the good grace of proper form.  She was the complete necessary appendage to reality.  We would always exhume the dead, my Kaye and I.  We could always make the fates look coldly, my Kaye and I.  She would honor her family, my Kaye.

I smirked next.  Kaye was dead after that.  Plain dead.  There went Kaye.

Poor Phil.  Poor Kaye.  Beyond the pale, the script, the moth eaten rancid.  My Kaye could straddle any sweet, sweet little asset my sweet sweet little Kaye could get her sweet, sweet little tentacles on.  My Kaye could straddle any sweet, sweet little asset my sweet Kaye could get her sweet, sweet little hands on.  No more.  Loss, chasms of yearning.  Eternal emptiness for me.

“Who else are we going to kill today, Steele,” murmured Babe.  “Who else, Steele,” she said.  “More wrecks, Steele,” she said.

“Are we going to waive our magic wand and create a world of wonders, Steele,” she said.   “Are we the original fugitives, Steele,” she said.”

Sidney, Jakes driver, comes at Babe from out of the shadows, grabs her, brings her to me.  He stands over her unsmiling.  Babe was lost, Kaye was dead, the end point of desire.

Sidney had worked with Jake a long time.  He was aware of the prerogatives of survival.  Sidney was a man knew of use and utility, kept his own council, listened intently, closely with eyes grown sharp scanning rooms, crevices, doorways, the spaces of dead air.  Sidney did not wish to be surprised.  He took pride in his work.  Kiss deadly Kaye, stare down Babe, me.  Sidney would put Babe in order.  Sidney would not be made to look bad.

“Cute, Steele,” said Babe.  “Nice.  Interesting, Steele,” she said.   “That was wonderful, Steele,” she said.  “Just wonderful.  I’m glad I came now,” she said.

“Time always honors the currency of coercion, Babe,” I said.

“People die,” I said.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

Books …… Dominance Games: An Essay on Power     A Novel    …….. Lust Games: An Essay on Honor    A Novel      ……… Void Games: An Essay on Revenge     A novel ….

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39291

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39730

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bschiff

The dye is caste for the caste system not to die

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, News, opinion, political science, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 27, 2013 by B Schiff

The dye is caste for the caste system not to die

Good old America.

Survive in the streets with a balance of terror

Good old America.

Survive in the home with a balance of fear and trepidation ….. the money’s running away

Good old America.

Survive in the job with a balance of groveling and kissing rings

Good old America.

The bottom is crumbling.  The top is running away.  The middle has no mooring. The dye is caste for the caste system not to die.

Good old America.

The power struggle continues and continues and continues some more.  There is no consensus acceptable elite.  We need one.  One that all can accept as special and wonderful and worthy of acquiesce and lowered eyes and fear for ones back.

Good old America.

Pick out a victim …. bait him … get him ,,,, Stand and smile.

More ways to sin and win.

Good old America.

Patsies for the wolves in wolves clothing.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

The city on the hill

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, News, opinion, political science, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 25, 2013 by B Schiff

The city on the hill

American Oligarchy.

Too smart to be run just by run of the mill thugs.

American Oligarchy.

Damned radical Islam wants to go back to the seventh century.

American Oligarchy.

Only wants maybe the twelfth or thirteenth when lords were lords and vassal states were vassal states.

American Oligarchy.

Of and by the global whole … masters and commanders and ass lickers to those with more power.

American Oligarchy.

A system to run, plunder, keep down, sow for fodder, labor, consumer, use.

American Oligarchy.

Set up the killing fields, the posses, the separatists, the haters, the two faced prancers, dancers, fight pickers and enforcers.

American Oligarchy.

Buy the weak minded men of little accomplishment, women of no shame, make them feel big and strong and worthy and true, let them have arenas of no challenge in which to bask so that they think that they are something, know something, have wisdom.

American Oligarchy.

The wisdom of the weak.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

If you had any guts you’d wrap yourself in a flag and smother it in the breeze of redemption

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, Fascism,, gun control, News, opinion, political science, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on July 25, 2013 by B Schiff

If you had any guts you’d wrap yourself in a flag and smother it  in the breeze of redemption

If you had any guts you’d hate more

If you had any guts you’d spit more

If you had any guts you’d foam at the mouth better

If you had any guts you’d bay at the moon with sweeter voice

If you had any guts you’d love the sport of lynching

If you had any guts you’d smack down the weak, infirm and destitute worthless more

If you had any guts you’d afflict the comfortable never and sneer at the thought

If you had any guts you’d comfort the afflicted with rat poison and sharp knives … good sport

If you had any guts you’d champion the need for a permanent class of untouchables and peons

If you had any guts you’d work harder to be bought and sold …. to buy and sell

If you had any guts you’d be the proud prancer of shrouded justice

If you had any guts you’d break, own, dismantle and despise with much more vigor

If you had any guts you’d wrap yourself in a flag and smother it  in the breeze of redemption

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

Real Americans push until they can be used, bought and sold

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, Fascism,, News, opinion, political science, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , on July 23, 2013 by B Schiff

Real Americans push until they can be used, bought and sold

Real Americans don’t read, can’t delineate a fact from a fiction, have their thinking and analysis done for them, hate on principle, charge into the fray with real gusto and fists drawn.

Real Americans appreciate the power of power, appreciate the power of tough, appreciate the power of hurt, appreciate the power of “with us or agin’ us”, live to keep what little gifts and advantages God has stowed on the well deserving.

Real Americans are holy warriors and hard chargers who seek purity and stealth and seek the diminishment of idea and the celebration of hate and sneer.

Real Americans push until they can be used, bought and sold by the users who buy and sell. That is their lot.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

The evils of wicked humanity are contained by the ones who live in the castles in the clouds

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, Fascism,, News, opinion, political science, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 22, 2013 by B Schiff

The evils of wicked humanity are contained by the ones who live in the castles in the clouds

Globalization of elites and the American caste system

The world is a whole concise unit unto itself and the actors of actors see that they are players on and within the global stage and that their powers, friends, relationships, enemies and entanglements are those of members in the club, members who take from their nominal homes and countries a certain degree of use and stature or lack of same, provide a certain degree of use or stature or lack of  same and ride high wide and handsome with allegiances to those what back ’em and those what can hurt ’em.

Power struggles abound but the club is the club and the suckers back home ain’t in it.  The suckers back home are there to be seen as of the vast pool of pleasant peasant paupers … some with illusions of wealth and power … some with no illusions … but all the pleasant peasants are still inconvenient to the need of recourse and safety for the masters and commanders.  Poor Americans, for example, who live in rat holes or maybe rabbit warrens are, after all, in the top one o percent of the worlds wealthy…. cry babies …. Quit seeing yourselves as Americans …… you are of the world  ….cosmopolitan and trash.

All are in this moral struggle together … the whole of diverse and rancid mankind …… the vast pools of  unwanted, unwashed, untouchable, all too usable canon fodder, subsistence labor and happy mindless warriors ….. enough groups to fight amongst themselves so that the edge comes off of their anger.

The evils of wicked humanity are contained by the ones who live in the castles in the clouds …. with good help from their vassals who hate the same folks.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power A Novel …. Installment 4

Posted in books, dominance, Drama, fiction, literature, Mystery, noir, novels, political fiction, political novels, Politics, writing with tags , , , , , on July 20, 2013 by B Schiff

Installment 4

Dominance Games: An Essay on Power

A Novel

Johnny boy, Rachel.  I trusted them as much as I could, as much as circumstance allowed.

Johnny boy found himself to be the attenuated hero of his dreams.

He had landed in New York at the age of six as had many before.

He hustled.  He was a smart boy, in his element.

Johnny boy was three years old, stuck in the hell hole of North Africa.  One who once knew the captain of the ship that brought him there spotted Johnny boy, claimed him, made arrangements for his custody.  Johnny boy, a much traveled little boy, made his way from the steppes of central Asia to a house on a hill outside of Washington, D. C.  He had a set of neighbors at great pains to insure his happiness.  He had a home, a maid.  He had an abundance of friends who knew not why they liked him so.  Life was good.  New York City.  The city was magic, then, the place to be.  Wonder, madness, darkness, light, dreams.  Johnny boy came shortly.

Johnny had been graduated from college with a degree in Mathematics.  There was a comparative ease of economic pressures in those years.  The school offered him necessity, not fellowship which he did not crave.  The students with whom he came in contact were nice enough, a bit banal, some naïve.  Mirrors of sophistication, they offered little more than the continuation of the sophomorics he found so prevalent.

Johnny boy found no particular use for them, no particular need to sift through the chaff to get to the wheat.  Johnny boy was quite content to let college boys and girls be college boys and girls and he was quite content to allow them all to exist as happy little children, knowledgeable and all knowing, the cream of god’s creatures on his green little earth.  There was chatter and interests.  Tonics.  Flatulence.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

There were times when they had felt themselves very much apart of each other’s lives.  There were times when the thought of the other brought no more than a nod of recognition, a remembrance of pain.  Together Johnny boy and Rachel had finally conquered the devil, so it seemed.  Too wise they were to be running around like two little horses asses.  Johnny boy would not be bothered with demonic nonsense.  There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.

Rachel had done, seen.  She too loved the help.  Marriage was something.  It could exist without having to immerse itself into the world of eternal indulgence.  They would run the game for a while.  They would be romantic.

Johnny boy fought a war.  It was a mean little war.  It was everyone’s favorite little war.  He had enlisted in the Army.  The life he found after college was not overpoweringly fertile

Emiliana Garcia, his maid, had died.  He was left with no one that he cared for.  Emiliana Garcia was his family.

He was empty, Johnny boy was.  There were no great distractions.  There was a lot of noise.  Johnny wanted to do something with himself, to fight.  He wanted to be a proficient killer.  The knowledge and the discipline would not hurt him.  He might spend his life drifting.  For this he was not ready.

He learned.  He served.  Johnny fought a mean little war.  It was a dirty little war.  It was everyone’s favorite little war.  He was enlisted in the Army.  Life was an indulgence.

He went.  He returned.  A commissioned man.  He learned a great deal, Johnny boy.

Soon after he went to France, then to Africa.  He served.  Mercenary life was an indulgence.  He acquired some money.  He went to enjoy the offerings of the Mediterranean coast.  It was warm.  There was sun.  In Spain he watched searchers of truth and beauty cover the southern coast.  Exotic pleasures offered much.  Pleasures, dreams.

Johnny boy did not begrudge the new order of the lost, their fun, their enjoyment, their style.  Pleasant in some ways, interesting, the grasp at life.  He had knowledge of many things, Johnny boy.  Not yet the full degree of greatness promised.  Banal predecessors had managed to cross his path. Emiliana Garcia was his maid, was his family.

He bade his time, Johnny boy.  Johnny boy found in the companionship of some of his friends some understanding of the trials of man that he did not find elsewhere.

There was the understanding of the way of life that went with trial, trouble when it was a constant.  The world had many sides to offer the lovers of all things porous and knowing.  Johnny boy had reservoirs of mean confrontations in his wake, reservoirs of mean kills.

Johnny boy left from Spain and returned to the United States, to New York, to the Village which had been his home.  He stayed only a short while.  He moved to Washington. D.C.  He knew people in government work.  He found an apartment.  He looked for things to do.  The cynical and the snide.  The adventurous and cruel.  The smart and the just.  Nonchalance and complacency.  Simpatico.  Virtue shined upon the great unwashed in the lands of dreams.

There was poetry in the spirit that loved to implement for all the best of all possible worlds, the spirit which so nobly implemented the hopes and dreams of mankind with devotion to duty, with little implementations of fond little wants.

It was very good, John had grown to think, that there were so many who were so assiduously spending so much of their time looking out for gross deployment of noble honor.  The domesticated pets were facile and they were happy.  They were domesticated.  They were frivolous creatures who opposed the good.  They were all around.

Johnny boy had often seen the dregs of unbridled, beloved ignorance valiantly go into battle, time after time, with the greater dregs of same.  Johnny boy, in America, was becoming more and more fascinated by unvarnished confrontation, unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of bloodshed, the beat, beat, beat of beloved ignorance.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Surprise, not necessarily delight.  Rachel was a wonderful girl in her way.  Rachel was smart, he had met few smarter.  She was good, very, very good.  Rachel demanded much in return for her goodness.  She wanted much in the way of hard and cold reserve.  She was warm when she had to be warm, Rachel.  She was not always to touch.  She could be ice, ice which well protected vestiges of movement.

Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel was wary and Rachel was one who liked being wary, one who could manage to be wary.  Rachel was good, very, very good, but Rachel would not let the thoughts of her heart come out and play.  Rachel did not care to be among those who demanded that she be wise, very, very wise.

Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to let anyone prevent Rachel from following the paths she set out to follow.  Rachel was good, very, very good but Rachel was not going to open up her little heart for the sake of anything or anyone because Rachel shared her little heart with none and nothing and Rachel maneuvered from the outside looking in.  Rachel was sublime.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Rachel was not happy.

Johnny boy was true, very, very true.  Johnny would stick.  Johnny would stay and do what had to be done.  Johnny would be there if needed.  He could leave if not.  Johnny boy was true.

Johnny was a cynical bastard who was rotten and self centered to the core but Johnny boy was true.  He was a wanderer, a panderer, a bum.  He was lazy and he cared not to move.  He was unimpressed by the joys of interaction.  Johnny boy was intent on being left alone.  He wanted his peace.  Johnny boy wanted not to be put upon by anything or anybody.  Johnny was what his god had made him.  The world was full of poor lost bastards.  Johnny boy owed his god a fine steady trek through his world, sneered at the conversations of man, was not about to be anybody’s helper, chose his company carefully.

Johnny boy did not care to be to be anyone’s holy redeemer.  He didn’t trust the beautiful.  He worshipped the damned.  He thought that he was a  idiot for even opening his eyes in the morning.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  Johnny boy was true.  Johnny boy was good.  Johnny boy would stick.  He would stay and do what had to be done.

Sometimes the mirror got too ugly, sometimes too nice.

Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  God’s gift to each other.  Johnny boy, Rachel.  Rachel, Johnny boy.  There were more and more liabilities to deal with, situational liabilities.  They would run the gamut for a while.  They would be romantic.

They were exhuming the dead, Johnny boy, Rachel .

Rachel provided experience, experience pressed with flowers in the photograph album of my life.  Johnny boy, in America, more and more fascinated by unvarnished abilities to make magical the beat, beat, beat of his heartstrings.

My Rachel was a moment in time.  She was a quick fix of a moment and she was open to challenge and she was the sweet young song playing, a riff in mood, a haunting melody, a delicate tune..

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Johnny boy, Rachel.

Rachel, Johnny boy.

Sucked the life out of each other.

Sucked the death out of each other.

“I will be lusts depository for you, Johnny boy,” Rachel said to Johnny boy to make him smile.

* * * * * * * * * *

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

Books …… Dominance Games: An Essay on Power     A Novel    …….. Lust Games: An Essay on Honor    A Novel      ……… Void Games: An Essay on Revenge     A novel ….

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39291

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39730

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bschiff

Driving while black. Living while white.

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, News, opinion, political science, Politics, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2013 by B Schiff

Driving while black. Living while white.

Driving while black.

Walking while black.

Living while black.

Looking for moral equivalency while white.

Looking for color blindness while white.

Looking for color blindness while black.

Looking for evil while white.

Looking for evil while black.

Living with whites while black.

Living without whites while black.

Living with blacks while white.

Living without whites while black.

Living without blacks while white.

Race bating while white.

Race bating while black.

Walk a mile in my shoes while white.

Walk a mile in my shoes while black.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

Give it up suckers. They are smarter and tougher than you and they keep on coming

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, Fascism,, News, opinion, political science, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , on July 20, 2013 by B Schiff

Give it up suckers.  They are smarter and tougher than you and they keep on coming

Anti intellectualism, oligarchy, whip hands and feelings of being a poor, poor put upon hard working, sensationally pure and pristine comatose majority of heaven sent bashers and well wishers ….. this is the holy city on the hill … the self image of the most pure and righteous of Americans as they toil in their fields and vineyards of cry babying and festering dislike ……   while they push forward the envelope to constantly take power and powers from those that don’t deserve it and constantly give power and powers to those that do.

We need to set the stage right so that the right kind of people, the right kind of government can take over the right kind of game and meet out the right kind of proper redress to /and form the right kind of proper caste system.

Absent an all out assault upon entrenched rancid defenders of the old archaic, devalued order of powers stolen from their rightful owners then slowly putting the frog of illusory protections from scum into the fires of slick assed slogans and fanciful hates will allow heaven to triumph and the right boots to be heeled upon the right throats.

Give it up suckers.  They are smarter and tougher than you and they keep on coming.  They know the game.

Don’t cry when no one cares …. when you’re clubbed over the head and are totally useless if existing at all.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

Patsies for the wolves in wolves clothing

Posted in Commentary,, current events, dominance, Fascism,, News, opinion, political science, Politics with tags , , , , , , on July 18, 2013 by B Schiff

Patsies for the wolves in wolves clothing.

Good old America.

Survive in the streets with a balance of terror

Good old America.

Survive in the home with a balance of fear and trepidation ….. the money’s running away

Good old America.

Survive in the job with a balance of groveling and kissing rings

Good old America.

The bottom is crumbling.  The top is running away.  The middle has no mooring. The dye is caste for the caste system not to die.

Good old America.

The power struggle continues and continues and continues some more.  There is no consensus acceptable elite.  We need one.  One that all can accept as special and wonderful and worthy of acquiesce and lowered eyes and fear for ones back.

Good old America.

Pick out a victim …. bait him … get him ,,,, Stand and smile.

More ways to sin and win.

Good old America.

Patsies for the wolves in wolves clothing.

Dominance Games…..politics, news, commentary, analysis…. The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true…. the thrill…https://dominancegamespolitics.com/

books…  http://bschiff.com/

http://twitter.com/BSchiff2

refer

http://www.etalkinghead.com/

http://thepoliticalforums.com/

http://www.thejeffersontree.com/

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