The Metaphor of the Whore from the Sidewalks to the Editors Suite.

Dog Poet Transmitting…….

Apparently we’re not going to hear about it from that poisoned well of engineered murder and mayhem, The New York Times; dead is dead, whether it come by the sword or by the pen and when it comes to making the dead dead and recording the means and manner of transmuting the living into the dead, the pen is certainly mightier than the sword. On the one hand they are as ruthless as Tamerlane, who used to put the defeated armies of men, while still alive, into concrete walls, where they might scream and cry and moan until the breath had left their bodies. I suppose it might be nice, in this moment, to reflect on whatever surviving relatives there might have been, slipping in by cover of night to bring them some water and food. You could be certain if The Times had been extant at the time, some variant on Judith Miller would have been around to report on it. As I scan articles about Tamerlane, I can’t find any mention of his embedding (not the same as embedded reporters) the soldiers in these huge walls. Maybe Judith Harris has been back in the archives recently for that very purpose. The longer history hangs around, the less it resembles anything close to whatever really took place.
This brings me to the front page of The Truthseeker, where you see article after article about Syria and Iraq, drones, Russia and that fine and noble icon of America’s shining knights in white armor, defending the weak at home and abroad. The strong, the proud, the brave, sacrificing themselves as canon fodder on the bloody altar of Israel’s right to plunder and kill and maim all who stand in her way.
Somewhere, out there in the electric mist, there is a single dead man walking. He is in the future so his outline is not clear. The image comes in and out of view like a sputtering hologram. He is in the future but he is dressed in an outfit from the past. He looks something like this, except he is wearing a Keffiyeh perhaps; whatever the necessary outfit needs to be, as the Judith Miller’s of the world swarm up from the desert floor like locusts.

via Smoking Mirrors | The Metaphor of the Whore from the Sidewalks to the Editors Suite.

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