Detroit. The Real Decay. Ourselves?

“The attraction of horror is a mental, or even an intellectual, excitement, but the fascination of the repulsive, so noticeable in contemporary writing, can spring openly from some rotted substance within our civilization …”
Ellen Glasgow

Think about it.    We have a form of pornography that is almost passe.   It is a horrible sin to show a nude butt or breasts but we let psycho-social imagery of young girls provocatively dressed and then brutally assaulted and maybe beheaded or otherwise violated.

We yawn if someone is brutally murdered.   And then talk about sexual deviance and ignore the greater sexual smut.    It is…   misogyny.    It depicts nubile young women as sexual objects and then murder them in a frenetic bloody massacre.    We then try to figure out why children and young people become so perplexed.   A sociopath sees a target rich environment and apologists make every excuse for that aberrant behavior.

When the truly horrific happens,  we were far too busy talking about help,  charity and sponsorship.    Where were we when a poor bullied child is sobbing and sitting on a floor in the middle of the school?   Do we call it teen angst or do we analyse the problem and get that confused person some help?

Then stories like Casey Anthony (talk about a sociopath) or Tanya Harding happen,  or Tiger Woods,  OJ Simpson and The Fish that Stole Pittsburgh and when we can’t get enough of the slanderous,  especially the sexual,   we go even further and become transfixed over the almost cult-like feel of one of these scandals.

At the same time,  sexual and physical abuse go unchecked.   We moralize,  we rant and we talk about justice and let the poor bugger die of exposure  to the cold because we were too busy with Foxy Knoxie Amanda Knox.

Yet do we try to understand and fix the root of the problem?   Do we get the person convicted of sexual deviancy a way to get better?   Or do we release these people back into the mainstream to do what they do?

Where has mercy and love gone?  We talk of no tolerance but we arrest a kid using a banana as a gun and missing that AK-47.   Teens mug and kill a feeble 90 year old and then spend weeks on a questionable murder,  in a time with potentially sociopathic cops, charlatan evangelists and parents more eager to settle out of court than helping the victim.

People say there are no rehabilitating murderers and sexual predators and yet we leave unstable people to roam the streets and they don’t even need a gun to cause a lot of heartbreak.    What do we do for the victim and why the victimizer did it in the first place?   Many times the perpetrator was hurt in the same way.   If we are consistent we realize a huge problem.    That easy fixes usually are Hollywood fantasies.

As soon as the hype dies down,  the victims are virtually forgotten by the media.   Trayvon Martin is still dead.   The poor old 90 year was yesterday’s news.   Media has become a breeding ground for narcissistic and delusional circus freaks.   They exploit the story and then do absolutely nothing.   The killer continues to kill and the sexual deviant continues his or her deviancy.

No solutions, no ideas of when some relief may come and just waiting for a chance to editorialize even more.

Seeing Nancy Grace huff and puff about the latest scandal or crime,  one gets the feeling that these crimes are the highlight of their day.

That we can talk about tolerance (or the lack of) for opposing ideas even if they are in the majority.   Wrong will always be wrong but we lack the courage to call wrong wrong and right is really right.

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Code Blue Goodbye – Building a Mystery

Spencer LakeDon

The careworn strings of the Golden Harp

pinged and softly uttered silent tunes.

While a man hacked in his own second hand smoke

his ruddy fingers stained with history

pushed aside his last beer.

 

The whir of the fans and the stale fog of ale

covered the bar in a misty layer of melancholic dew.

Their problems lurked like angry trolls at a feast

and the bridge that creaked and moaned with

never a  holiday, sighed at the slow approach

of another broken man.

bar

 

The man with his plans nears the crossing

and the clocks chime in a foreboding resonance.

wearily warning as the bell struck decisively.

His watch seemed to have shrunk and the once supple

arms now wilted and wrinkled,  protest implacably.

 

Assented to a journey to a place he did not want to go.

The cold Coliseum stood hauntingly bare.

 

In the eyes of someone who knew him less,

they may suppose a lot of things about him

and his well-traveled highway

but death is a period in a long paragraph

filled with memorials soon enough forgotten.

 

As he entered the bridge the troll grunted

and the vapors collected in the sky

and swallowed that passing man.

bridge

Pretty girl

girl2

Don

Stay In Touch my Friend – Crying for Me.

I was happy that I found you old friend.
It was great to hear your voice again.
Like a thousand years had come and gone
and I seldom looked behind me to notice

Amazingly I remember I called you and
hearing your voice as I did
in my youth and you treated me with
the same respect. Like a sentence
abruptly aborted and finished in warp time

You were a mentor, a friend and a musical muse,
you were my teacher teaching and
we clarified our memories in rarefied air.

I felt a breeze blow by one day,
as autumn leaves prepared to nest
and rest upon the earth.

Like impatient tenants going back home
for the winter they met the ground,
their lives like fodder for angry rakes
as winter was finally near,

and in-spite of your troubles, you seemed to thrive,
telling me this was the highlight of your day
when I called you each morning.

In a somber moment Leukemia was playing it’s
somber song and it’s death sentence hit like a gavel.
With no chance for an appeal
I felt your heart grow weaker and your
long life go slack.

but the harp was more insistent now.
with strains of comfort to aid your weary heart,
The skies stretched forth and down.

Like a rope or a chain that came loose
and your ship began to float dreamily by.

It was quite obvious that heaven’s gates
blew open, like a gale at sea
and the cares of this world could no longer
hold you

I saw death’s whirlpool up ahead.
I knew the end was close, I heard it
in the crashing waves, I heard it
in your voice.

Each day you were insistent,
telling me how you loved me,
your now raspy voice conceding.

When that call came, from your family
and mentioned your name. I asked how you
are doing and she said, “She was so sorry”,
my friend has passed away.

“To be certain – outside of belief in the sovereignty of God, we contend that true holiness in thought and in behavior cannot be wrought. The firmer the persuasion, the greater the consequent sanctification.”
The Desert Sun excerpt.