Saturday, April 30, 2011

now in NC

From a response to a comment left on this blog    with some additions and edits for clarity, namely my own.

We are now in NC - arriving this morning we were greeted by my extended family as though we were the most dearly loved people of all earth. These are some of the best people I have ever known as they have always been like this toward my wife, son and I.
Lunch, attempt at a nap and dinner with dessert and some memories shared. A beautiful occasion.
It had not occurred to me when I was asked to read the poem and the paragraph from the letter that I would be the only one to read outside of the person giving the eulogy. Out of the myriad of people that my Aunt knew and were ever so close to apparently it was me that she felt a true bond outside her daughters and husband.
I learned today that she kept my book beside her bed where she spent the last eight months of her life and my letters adjacent - often rereading them with utter joy. The weight of the honor I feel and indebtedness to her and her family is immense without being burdensome. We never know how much we truly mean to someone in this life and I am now so touched to know how my letters, phone calls and poetry had lifted her - her daughters even went so far as to say that the letters were a reason she kept going. I only wish she had read the one I was writing when she passed.
though I can no longer dance, I still think every day of the twostep.
That letter along with three more I delivered today among the pile of read/received letters. The total aspect of loss hit me in that moment. If I could ever live so fully and beautifully as she - even half that I would perish a loved and good man. 

Today I read my public testament to her - my words of embrace to her loved remaining here without her deepest constant grace. The most beautiful of words can never offer what she simply did in her warmth and friendship.
Forever I will remember her, always as my beloved friend and her love's magnanimity.

for your name is scrawled across my heart, for these memories tethered there for all time.

Friday, April 29, 2011

We are on a plane at the moment and this was written before I went to sleep yesterday. I cannot express anything on the status of the planet in the last 24 hours and have no comment on even the birth certificate of Obama.

be well all.

I am sure NC is beautiful and I am told the cherry trees will be in full bloom.

a re-post from the twentieth. 

for Aunt Kathryn

My heart is broken.

the post office doesn't deliver to heaven.

and you've crossed the bridge

and are going home


this is my star.
     hanging down
     our heads
this is my star.

this is my star,
          vainly wishing and
     wishing on planets
     and suns
this is my star.

on bended knees
with clenching fists
praying or raging at your
Christian God

this is my star,
         to wonder and
     wonder and
this is my star.

 - Hoc Scripsi

Thursday, April 28, 2011

For Aunt Kathryn

As was proposed yesterday: here is the second part that I am going to read at my Aunt Kathryn's memorial service on Saturday, which we will be leaving for in the morning at approx. 4am.

There needs to be a way that I can step out of my door and straight up to yours, bend space and time, bend light and dark, dematerialize and reconstruct in an instant - there ought to be a way, not eventually, not in the next life but now. It would please me immensely to sit for a cup of coffee or tea with you right now, have a scone or doughnut and laugh at quaint jokes and remark upon the headlines of the local paper. We need this ability more than we need another war, another fastest plane, another super computer or another convening of the Senate.

I lift this coffee mug to you, be well.

with love,

There has been some push back for my want to read this and the poem (read yesterdays blog for poem) selected partially for the reason as it was the last poem of mine she had ever read and this paragraph is the last thing from me she had ever read - both are important to the relationship that we shared and her immediate family who have given their blessing.

I cannot comment too much on the push back but to say - what the hell is wrong with someone when they believe they can dictate the manner in which we grieve? When they can pretend to know what is best in these moments for others. We each grieve on our own, in an individual way; our personal memorials are largely dictated by what we ourselves actually require to heal. What we ourselves need to learn to brave the day without the person we loved so fully.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Listening to Nick Cave and I couldn't be happier about the rain

Target shooting this morning, indoors at my favorite range - going with my favorite girl and my favorite pistol. The inspiration for Guernica was laid today in typical bloodbath inspirational fashion.

One of my favorite paintings - another one would be Van Gogh's wheat field with crows painted shortly before his death - arguably his final painting.

This weekend there will be a family reunion of sorts in NC - memorializing the death of my very good friend and confidant - Aunt Kathryn. I've two siblings - A brother (an Actor of Theatre Undreground fame (yes, that is the spelling)) and a sister of Denver Co. Vet tech profession. She will be going while I am sure my brother will be home holding down the fort of my fathers business.
one and a half days there only and I wish death had better timing that we (K, Jackson and I) could spend more time.
I'll be doing a reading of the last poem I sent to her and the last paragraph of the letter the poem was sent in. I still am unable to properly quantify the loss as I continue to write her letters that I am unable to send. They will be hand delivered to her in Heaven should I be able.

the poem to be read:

the artist dreams of nightsong and thinks of his paintings
 - For Aunt Kathryn

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though the windows are never open.

I wish the birds would sing in winter
though I stoop to pet a plant
inadvertently knocking over a light fixture.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night,
lights low, the party over
and missing every painting I’ve ever sold.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though purple flowers want their bloom

 - Jhon Baker

I'll later post the ending of the letter but as of now I am intertwined in memory and bereft with melancholy.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Woke up late and decided that the coffee was perfect. Made a few phone calls and decided that I still need a new phone but am really trying to make the one I have last as long as electricity is being used. Perhaps even longer.
Waiting on a letter or two and needed to write two myself - or three but one would be to a person no longer counted among the living. I write her anyway because it makes me feel whole - or at least less wandering.
There is nothing wrong with being a wanderer or a traveler  in this world - what am I looking for? I'll tell you when I get there, this will possibly have to be a postmortem conversation.
Like the one I had with the raccoon the other day.
I've recently sent two books out that were purchased from my paypal link to the right. I hope that they arrive fine and I've learned that Hardcovers need to either be sent media mail or priority, this ends me spending more on priority as I think media mail is for suckers.
Oh, well.
installed a new printer yesterday. Bought because the old one stopped communicating with my router. The new one didn't communicate with the router either so I have determined it was the router, which only needed to be reset. now I have two printers but this is okay as my writing office is moving to the lower level of the house - next to the bar - and there is no printer down there for my laptop or to copy things which is all I tend to use the printer for. A copy machine.
Yesterdays poem must have sucked as the comments were too specific. I might rearrange it and do without the third and fourth section.

I long for slow waltzes in the company of my imagination.

Monday, April 25, 2011

Monday, isn't it?

Fortunately the Easter Bunny had already hidden and left his wares by the time I was awoken and mistook him for a six foot intruder. Needless to say there was rabbit on the table for dinner and eggs for breakfast.
being a non-christian, non-catholic, non-pagan, non witch or warlock type (did I miss something?) makes celebrating these things a bit odd. But there is the children - or child. I want to give Jackson the best of childhood memories for his impending memoir so I aside personal beliefs and offer candy, presents and a good time had by all - sans the shooting of the Easter Bunny - I don't know how I am going to cover that one next year.
I jest about the bunny but did find another dead/dying raccoon behind the house of the walk out steps from the lower level. I allowed rigor to set in as I didn't want to handle a floppy dead two stone animal. I imagine this also gave his brethren time to grieve properly and if they didn't there is always the garbage can to go to for visitation until Thursday morning.

it's starting to rain and I must bring this inside.

On the front of good news - after a year or so of waiting I finally found the most talented cobbler and had new boots and a pair of New Balance (unpaid advertising) made for me. No, I am not some rich weirdo who can only wear shoes made for him - I am some weird cripple who needs shoes made a certain way so I can walk.
The new boot and shoes are so perfectly made I almost forget that I am crippled when I walk, almost if not for the pain. On the cycle I now completely forget that my leg isn't whole, that I am not broken. My ride to the food store yesterday was the best ride I'd taken since the accident.
If any readers need shoe mending and are in the north of Illinois - I strongly suggest going to Geneva Shoe Repair for this service (also, unpaid advertisement).

But back to the business of poetry.

it's monday, isn't it?

awoke, fitful night of dreaming
a chapter before sleep or 
 Chopin waltzes
 in interstellar time space conversion.

Pleiades, the seven sisters, gathering together,
gathered and looking down
in a pirouette of secular astonishment,
or not looking but close eyed
intersection of some young girls jeans;
these are the seven wives of the stationed
star rishis of the Great Bear.


in dream,
stirring in twilight rest;
looking up,
looking out
sextant guiding the way home.

 - Hoc Scripsi

Friday, April 22, 2011

Rolling hills. grassy knolls... - First Draft, be kind.

A beginning/Setting of the scene

Let me tell you about an exquisite land. It rests above the ninth parallel and west of somewhere. I've never been to the little town located somewhere within lush valleys, rolling hills and grassy knolls, but have bared witness to many tales from a former inhabitant in a little joint on the west side. 
One in particular I would like to tell you.

A history

The flowers seemed constantly in bloom and birds of all kinds made a pilgrimage stop there on their way out and home. Honey smelled sweet in the lower valleys where millions of docile bees sucked greedily at each budding flower. The vast beauty of this land was to never be found in poetry, paintings or any other text or artistic vehicle until now and this storyteller had never seen it personally. Neither had the former inhabitant. He was, and probably still is, blind. His mother was blind as was his father and sisters and brothers. All his schoolmates were blind as were their parents and their grandparents. There were no books to speak of, as there had been little assembly to the outside world. In the history and parables passed down throughout the generations it had been lost as to how every inhabitant had evolved this way. Some said it was punishment from God for something an ancient had done to offend. Some say it was a curse from gypsies long ago while most chose to not really care to consider it. This was their life, their lot; they accepted it and sought no reprieve.
One would tend to wonder why as any of us would question or lament blindness but we never stop to question our lungs, our liver or fallopian tubes and vas deferens until we are brought to consider them and this is usually in a medical setting. They had vestigial eyes like most have tonsils, appendix and coccyx; useless and largely forgotten by all but those who have a need to know.
They knew little of the flowers and bees; they knew little of the land past the town. Some ventured out but fear of getting lost was large on the minds of everyone. The homes were built, stores erected, jobs performed and there were artists - sculpture and mostly anything tactile was in high regard. The poets told the histories, the musicians sang the songs, people fell in and out of love and life was largely unremarkable for most as it is everywhere.
Like most towns, there was a group of men, five, who held weekly meetings at the Waffle House. Seated in a corner they decided on everything that was going to happen or not going to happen. They would decide on new buildings, new businesses, approve the messages of the religious leader, create laws and give or revoke blessings. All of this was done without election or direct acknowledgment. The mayor was still elected, the police chief was appointed by him publicly but privately but the wisdom of the five. Nothing could happen without the unseen nod of these paternalistic five. 
This is like many towns, many cities, and many countries. It isn't questioned by any other than youth and that is brought into line soon enough. 

The man/the former inhabitant

I talked with this man (who we shall soon cease to call this man or former inhabitant as his name is his own, not to be shared lightly) many nights over many glasses of Merlot (when he bought) or Pinot (when I did). I never brought a recorder or took notes but often drank heavily as he spun tale after tale. He was this town’s poet/historian, whose eventual meeting of a stranger brought him to walk into the verdant green on the outskirts, walk through the bees, walk through the river and past the heavy forest. After he met the stranger (who we shall continue to call 'the stranger') his histories were redacted, censored and eventually outlawed, his journey out may not have been so much a choice as a followed mission to relate to men and women his poems, his mythos.

The Man may now be called - the Historian. This is not his name but his profession. This is how he shall be known, as his name is his own while his histories are for others.

The stranger

On a day, any day that strikes as important be it a Monday or Thursday but not a Sunday, the stranger wandered into town seeking refreshment, food and maybe a place to sleep off the miles spent camping, foraging and wandering alone. Not that it was a notice but he probably walked sure, with an even gait and like all the residents he walked with a stick but not a similar stick, a walking stick carved from fallen spruce and adorned with trinkets and a leather band where the hand was to grip. His walking stick only stuck out as it made a thud with the flow of his feet against the earth instead of the smack from the impact against walls and doorways. 
The stranger first encountered the historian in the Waffle House on the imparticular day, it was lunchtime or thereabouts. 
Without needed a menu the Stranger failed to notice there wasn't one, without looking for any direction he failed to see the lack of them, he ordered what the former inhabitant was having.
Once presented with the fare, he remarked it looked good and deeply inhaled the perfume of coffee, waffles and maple syrup. 
No one else had heard it, the unusual word spoken, no one other than the historian.
The stranger ate prodigiously, while the historian waited patiently, listening for more interesting words.

The stranger spoke first.

You have such beautiful gardens out beyond the town (thought the town had its own colors they were wholly unremarkable). When I saw the honeycombs I had to taste their sweetness and I can tell you I've never had honey as sweet, as delicious as that.

The Waffle House started to quiet.

What do you mean by these words - looked, saw?

The stranger noticed then that the Historians eyes had no color. He looked at the waitress and saw her eyes had no color. He replied

Common enough words, even blind men have heard them. 

At this the historian realized that the stranger could see. The stranger didn't have to feel, the stranger knew a different world than the towns inhabitants. 

We are all without sight.

The stranger notices now there were no signs. The Waffle House now stood silenced.

Everyone? Remarkable, how do you...

Follow me.

They exited and started down the street. Everyone else in stayed amazed and in disbelief, they moved not another inch, not to follow or to comment. This would have to be brought to the five who were to meet that next day.

Tell me everything, tell me about the sky, the flowers, the bees, the grass, the buildings. Tell me everything I cannot see.

As they walked the stranger explained everything he could but he was not a poet, he was in need of words for how can you describe blue? How would you describe black or stars to someone whose language does not possess even many of the words used to relate this story? But they walked on and the historian listened intent on experiencing the world as he never had. 

That night the Stranger spent the night in the home of the historian who fed him dinner, provided him with his only bed and blanket. The world now opened to the historian like never before prevented any sleep, provided only new words and histories to tell and all night the historian thought on them. This was a happiness that he had never known.

Morning comes as it always does.

When morning came so did an end to this happiness as the five were now informed, as the five had now begun to campaign against the stranger, the heretic who had come to destroy the way of life of the towns inhabitants.  God had not sent the stranger but an evil, for this man was full of lies and deceit, meant to capture the towns attention and steal the very food from off the table of everyone.

The stranger and historian ate a full breakfast and spoke of many things. As amazed as the stranger was to learn of the histories the historian was more enthralled with the many things that the stranger had seen along his journeys. He could not hear enough and longed now to tell of what he was learning, he also began to feel the deep loss of having never had sight to have seen clouds or rain, the shades of his own skin and whatever blue was. They left the house and started off for the fields surrounding the town, everything was described as best as the stranger could as the historian’s thirst was insatiable. 

The five had done their meaning, they had spoken to or through all the inhabitants warning of the lies the stranger brought and a plot was had. All the town now waited to hear the thud of the strangers walking stick. They did not wait too long as lunch was approaching.
As the stranger and historian walked back into town with the historian holding onto the left arm of the stranger, the stranger began to describe the towns people all gathered by the Waffle House. The descriptions went from clothes to hair, to expressions of anger on the faces of everyone. The five old men parted through the crowd and spoke first.

Stranger, why have you come here?

To rest.

A lie! he has rested and is still here, he has eaten and is still here, he has taken into the house of the historian and stolen the food from off his table! Historian, are you in danger?

I am not, I have learned much, let us eat now and I will relate.

The stranger poisons him, the stranger fills him with mendacities, do not listen! Pay no heed to his vile words! He will tell others of how easy it is to convince us, he will tell others to come! Take his eyes! Take his tongue; he has nothing but illness and pain to share!

Without another word the throng of blind men, women and children descended upon  the stranger and tore at his clothes, tore at his eyes, ignored his screams and silenced the stranger. 

Now he cannot leave, now he cannot spread his lies, let him die in the street, let him find his own way.

The Historian stood perplexed. Then wept. Then gathered the newly blinded and mute stranger who held onto the historians left arm as they walked slowly to the house where the stranger would surely die with none to tend his wounds or cease an assured infection.

The historian was isolated, quarantined. Once the kind, sighted stranger perished not only from loss of blood but a heart broken by his own kindness, the Historian quietly wandered out of town taking only a small bag of clothes, water and the stranger’s walking stick. He wandered a long time.

Moral: in the land of the blind the sighted man is a heretic.

Thursday, April 21, 2011


without dismissal

I am your opus,
your final creation,
an abstraction
from acts of love or anger.
it was accidental
without dismissal.

how do the mute seek absolution
in anonymity,
how are curtains drawn against Johari,

freedom exhausts itself drawn in circles,
concentric and misleading, misled.

I am your opus,
your final creation,
an abstraction
from acts of love or anger.
it was accidental
without dismissal.

the scars are there, mine
imbalances accounted for, mine
glass walls firmly held in situ
but cleaned.
the stale air loosening.

I am number three, four if your must know.
but I deny one as I am not denied;
bearing witness wasn’t easy but I never turned;
now bearing the marks of each life I saw took.

I am your opus,
your final creation,
an abstraction
from acts of love or anger.
it was accidental
without dismissal.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

For Aunt Kathryn

My heart is broken.

the post office doesn't deliver to heaven.

and you've crossed the bridge

and are going home


this is my star.
     hanging down
     our heads
this is my star.

this is my star,
          vainly wishing and
     wishing on planets
     and suns
this is my star.

on bended knees
with clenching fists
praying or raging at your
Christian God

this is my star,
         to wonder and
     wonder and
this is my star.

 - Hoc Scripsi

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

read this recently and thought - yep.

"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,  This phrase is a dependent clause in the sentence. and as such can be removed without changing the meaning of the sentence. Just as in this example: Like most girls, Ellen plays with dolls."

You may shriek all you wish, but the grammatical fact remains that the right of the people to keep and bear arms is independent of the dependent clause.  "People" means exactly what it does in the First, Fourth and Tenth Amendments.

Your understanding of American History is flawed as well. The event that finally sparked the American Revolution was the attempted seizure of an 'armory' of guns and powder held by the state militia at Lexington. Like your modern day totalitarians, the Brits wanted to collect the guns and ammo to prevent freedom.

I make no corrections or additions of my own to the above anon statement, but simply like what I had found.

Monday, April 18, 2011

For Aunt Kathryn

though I can no longer dance.

I think everyday of the twostep.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

but, Jhon, what have you been doing with your time?

Dear Jhon,
     It has  come to our attention that you have not been keeping up on your blog. The one that over a year ago you vowed to keep up nearly daily, the platitudes of willful resemblance. I can only hope that you recall the blog that I am talking about. After thorough research we have found that you have not been writing at another blog or moonlighting with a clandestine blog, so the short of it is - what have you been doing with this so called poetry blog lately?

all the readers you lost due to your inability to continue writing something here on a daily basis - not like it's hard mind you - just something.

Dear Reader,
I've been busy writing and breathing, AKA - the only two things I do well by any measure - although, I've taken up smoking again so I am not so sure on the breathing part.
I realize that some of you have been clawing at the walls for more poetry and I assure that the previous posts poem isn't an anomaly as of late - I have been writing and coming up with new things to compose - only I haven't wanted to share here - I want to share through other publications so my energy has been placed there.

 yours, Jhon

Saturday, April 16, 2011

the artist dreams of nightsong and thinks of his paintings

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though the windows are never open.

I wish the birds would sing in winter
though I stoop to pet a plant
inadvertently knocking over a light fixture.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night,
lights low, the party over
and missing every painting I’ve ever sold.

I wish the birds would sing
in the middle of the night
in winter,
though purple flowers want their bloom

 - Hoc Scripsi

Friday, April 8, 2011

a few publications of interest

The new issue of Bicycle Review is now out - I strongly encourage everyone to go there and read the issue and pay special attention to a little poem called - still untitled - This issue is the first issue which features Lynne Hayes as an editor and it is an astounding issue.
Also, if you haven't gotten your issue of PigeonBike "trash and crackers" yet I strongly encourage you to do so. By strongly I mean that if you don't I may have to pay you a little visit.

 - me

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Here is my answers to my own inane quiz.

1. Do you write in the margins of books?  - Yes
     a. if so, what do you write, - notes, poems, observations, arguments, agreements.
     b. if not, why not? - I just said I did.

2. How particular are you about your clothing?
Very, I wear black dockers, black socks with a gray toe - (one style, one maker, one color set, can't recall how many pairs I've bought) black boots or new balance gym shoes, black shirts, only one style/manufacturer underwear. few variations if ever,

3. Do you listen to music when you write/draw/paint/do what it is you like to do?
Classical or Jazz and sometimes blues - all instrumental - no vocal. Paint or write.

4. Do you intentionally or mistakenly mix metaphors?

both, and why not? Normally intentionally though.

5. Do you finish more than seventy-two percent of what you read?
      a. please approximate how much.
I think I complete about 90 percent of what I start - it takes a while for me to finish poetry books as I read them a bit at a time. There are only two books I can recall I've never been able to finish - My Antonia (Willa Cather) and a book on the history of Art in regard to the evolution of man. Boring stuff - but I am still chipping away on the latter.

6. What are your personal feelings about cliche?
     a. realize that it is cliche to hate them before you answer.

Do it well and you've got something, do it a little bit not well and you've lost me as a reader. I avoid them in writing but tend to use them as themes if I can do it effectively as a vehicle to move something more important underlying.

7. Do you use a thesaurus?
 Oh, yes. Many. I use the Merriam-Webster online and then the M-W Writers Thesaurus, a few more specific ones - I tend to read them cover to cover as well.

8. What is your preference:
    look carefully...

9. what are your vices?
  Writing, smoking, love

10. If you came across a bag of money, no-one around for miles, how would you justify taking it and not reporting it to anyone?
I wouldn't. I couldn't - even if I attempted I would turn it into the authorities and hope that no-one claimed it. I have a very loud conscious about taking things that do not belong to me.

11. if the coffee barista never charges you for your really fucking expensive drink, how long do you wait before insisting on paying or do you just keep the latte train rolling?

If I am a long time customer and it is occasional - okay, no problem. If it is consistent I insist on paying my way. I say thank you so much but I would rather be clear in that I think I should be paying for this.

12. How do you sleep at night living in a world without Don LaFontaine?
Badly, it wrenches my heart that he is gone and television and movie trailers will never be the same, never be as good, they ought to cancel the whole voice over thing as Don had it squared away - there can be no better than he.

13. How much research do you put into a statement before making an ass out of yourself in front of someone else who knows better.
I try to only comment on things I know about. I hate being wrong on a point or being caught unprepared for the verbal discourse - I tend to say that I am not prepared to argue my opinion when I think I am not researched enough on a topic. I will also tell other people when I don't think they are prepared to argue with me on their point.

14. Define theft.
the taking of something that doesn't belong to you. The taking of something trivial that doesn't belong to you. The taking of anything you where there is no agreement in the social contract that it should be yours unless you pay for it with money you've earned or given to you freely or bartered or traded for.
claiming intellectual property as your own that isn't. Plagiarism.
quoting without citing.
If you cannot afford to feed your family and there is no food pantry where you are - stealing food isn't theft.

15. Define theft as it applies to you.
As where I know a lot of people that do define it differently when it comes to themselves stealing something (downloading music for example) I do not define it differently for myself than for any other. I would be apt to hold myself to a higher standard.

16. Define honesty.
the alignment of words, actions, thoughts, intention without greed, malice, justification, personal gain.

17. define how you want it to apply to others about you.
speaking to me without regard to my emotional reaction so long as it isn't designed to injure.

18. quick, how many fingers am I holding up?
all of them - I'm typing.

19. This being the last question as asking 20 goes against my sadistic tendencies (I know there are the OCD sufferers out there reading this)  I will ask, simply, if you only have 30 seconds to make a permanent judgment about a man - what would your criteria be - is it the same for a woman?
I use my gut a lot and haven't been proven wrong often. I have no set criteria. That said, I can read body language quite well and will often simply feel something that turns out to be correct when I have doubted it in the past.
all that said - I try no to judge too quickly but admit that I am only a man and as a man I am prone to judgment and error.

21. kidding. lying. What is your most harmful obsession?
K. - and the working of my own self.

Friday, April 1, 2011

Is it a rant? it may be a rant...

So, I always try and succeeded in keeping this about poetry or the process of it - I do this by writing directly about poetry/writing and indirectly, but today I break this tradition.

I've largely left my politics out of my work and certainly off this blog - I appreciate that there can be a connection and sometimes things need to be said - Like my poem 'meditations on the death of a solider' - also available in my book hands on the hips (shameful, I know.) - there are other times that it has crept into my work on a slightly less obvious scale - as in 'shortform. However, I have gone to minor pains to not allow others to learn of my political leanings for the simple reason that it has nothing to do with the appreciation of my poetry and words. While other creators have made their career about being one way or another or on a particular political topic I have never wanted this for myself, it is largely a personal decision.
There are many things I am not shy about as I see them as human issues and not political and other things I've managed to comment on without divulging my personal view - like in creating bumper stickers that say - Abortion - or - GUNS - or - Gay Agenda - - on these I have managed to keep my personal viewpoint secret (well, not the gay thing, I'm pretty open about that (also, this bumper sticker business idea - it's mine, don't steal it.)) 
Those bumper sticker will available soon, Here and anywhere else I can place a button.

This brings me to today. As I read commentary about the current debt issue and spending issues and who pays and who doesn't - I let fly my political beliefs in response. I was sickened by the way our thought process has been framed from infancy. All public and private and religious institutions play into creating this framework and breaking it is near improbable - people simply cannot see where they really stand in the eyes of the political machine and in the eyes of the elite - which are one, working together to maintain status quo where it cannot simply rule.

 - my comment is below - 

I amazes me how many people are now casting blame on Obama alone for this - or how many people cast blame on the machine of the GOP - "they" will keep winning as long as they can keep us infighting about which side is right and which is evil - neither side is right or working for the better of the taxpayer/voter/citizen/mankind - both sides are in it for themselves - their own pocketbook, their own retirement. Think about how they always vote themselves new raises - every year and for a few years now there is no COLA for SS or Disability - that Vets gets their benefits razed in order to find the political machine - none of this is for our benefit - when will the populace wake up and realize that it isn't GOP vs Dem - Not Left vs Right vs Middle - but US vs THEM. That is how they see it - if you aren't in the top 3% you never will be and they will make damn sure of that - the 97% without a real voice need to work together, because combined - we have the guns, we have the numbers, we have the ability to change everything - damn near overnight - this can be done peacefully and damn well should start now. 
In its shortness it is a call to arms that will go unanswered - tomorrow when people wake up they will still buy into the America that says you can be president some day - you can be the next Bill Gates - eh, maybe - maybe that can happen, you may be able to create something that everyone suddenly needs and you become fabulously wealthy - will you still be considered one of us? or will they bring you into the fold? Question - why is it important to have more than you need? why is it important to have more than the neighbor? why is it so important that instead of paying out 800 bucks a month for insurance for yourself - you could pay out 400 bucks a month for insurance for everyone. Why is 'mine' so damn important anyway? 
I am not thinking foolish - I would not allow a stranger to come live in my home, loan out my truck or motorcycle to someone I didn't know so well that they could also be trusted to watch my child on a friday night. I am not foolish enough to say that socialism is the way - I am also not foolish enough to say that democracy works for the majority of the people, I am not foolish enough to say that this America is righteous - there is reason beyond personal protection from armed street thugs that I want to protect our second amendment. 
The first amendment does nothing for those that do not buy ink by the barrel. The first is largely controlled by others but some of us can and have cracked that - we can cause our voices to be heard - once heard it is hard to not listen. 
You can only get so close and still be able to hate another, you can only get so close to an idea to still believe it false and dismiss it. 
This is probably enough out of me - I am going to unleash the hounds of my opinion on my art - I can no longer be happy crating pretty things without saying in the same breath that all the bastards at the top need to start feeding the tree of liberty - with their blood - to allow those of us to have what we desire most - freedom and the ability to exercise it... 
Thank you Thomas J.  for the tree of liberty thing.

EDIT: - Cathy commented (see below) and I I responded with full heart about the health care thing. I thought it was well written enough to post here. a little redacted at the end and keep in mind Cathy is Canadian so the written thoughts are with that in mind.

With health care - my deal is simple. We (US citizens) are already paying an insurance company upwards of thousands of dollars a month (some as low as 400 for individual) - it would actually be cheaper for us to have our taxes raised by several hundred a month to pay for universal - if we can spend so much damn money killing people - even our own people - why can't we be bothered to heal them? What BS - and yes yes yes - the Canadian and British Health Care Systems are victimized in our press which is controlled by the government which is controlled by insurance and other big business - so the lies and propaganda trains keep rolling.
Health Care for all works most everywhere it is done. With the unbelievable American technologies and money we ought to be able to have the greatest Health care system in the world - which we don't as is evidenced by our infant mortality rate and our average life expectancy - we are below thirty on these when our supposed perfect system should and could be pulling out a top 5 - like a whole bunch of countries with Universal HC.
I don't think that in most US cities - you could get a prescribed procedure and proceed to have said procedure in four days, normal wait time for non-emergency is a week or more - maybe four days for an emergency for a doctor without some clout. All this and - my prescriptions cost me over 1400 a month. - one thousand four hundred USD per month. Such Bullshit.
To add - and this is an ugly truth - A large portion of me believes that the only reason we don't have it isn't because of some fear of socialism, which exists, and we have anyway (police, fire, USPS, DOT, Medicare, Social Security and so many others) but that those with the ability do not care and simply don't want to help the people that are different from them - the power here is held by the white privileged christian male - if you are not of the first two - they would rather you leave or perish. I said it. If you are black, Jewish, Mexican, Asian, Indian, Gay, mixed, disadvantaged, handicap, transgendered, sick... you are fucked without paying for their help - and you better pay it all in advance otherwise they own you for the rest of your life. Debt is only another way of placing people into servitude. Most debt - real debt is created from medical expenses and lost time at work due to medical necessity.
Maybe I ought to shut it now...