An Open Letter to Conservatives

To my conservative friends:

Many of you are expressing angst and opposition to Trump on the basis that he isn't a conservative. First, conservatism has conserved nothing. No pieces of the liberal agenda have been stopped, only slowed, and often brought back by “conservatives” in a weaker form. Second, look at the candidates of the last two elections. McCain is a neocon and internationalist. Romney had no stances of his own, and had nothing to say. National Review recently put out an anti-Trump issue, in clear violation of its 501(c)3 status. They CAN'T campaign for or against any candidate.

Now, what is the most important issue this election? Looking internationally, the New Year's Eve sex attacks in Cologne and the fact that Sweden is now the rape capital of Europe, that would seem to be immigration. Looking at recent crime in London, it seems to be immigration again. Let's look at some crime in the US. There's been a spike of activity in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, mostly by refugees. It's not isolated, or coincidental. It's the result of a different worldview, that doesn't value women, or people outside that view. Magic Dirt doesn't make people Americans, or French, or German, or Swedish.

A quick look at jobs reveals similar results: Disney imported a bunch of H1-B tech people and laid off the US citizens holding those jobs. It's getting harder and harder to find work for low skilled workers, and for workers who are trainable, but don't have experience. Replace the skilled, experienced workers; they go into a lower level job, pushing requirements up for everyone else.

Another point that most Republicans seem to be missing is that this election, like the last two, isn't about conservative or liberal. It's about nationalism or globalism. I know I'm going to get “free trade” arguments; free trade doesn't even happen between the states, it's heavily regulated as “interstate commerce”. It used to be that the bulk of US tax money came from tarrifs. Imports were higher quality of necessity; they had to be better to be desirable, or nobody wanted them. Free trade is an illusion presented by economists and globalists.

Now, on to Trump: is he conservative? Not really. I would rather support Rand Paul, but immigration and trade imbalances seem to be threats at least as large as the unsustainability of the Federal Reserve system. When it comes to foreign policy, I am growing convinced we have allied ourselves with the many of the wrong nations in the Middle East. We interfered with an Iran that was growing secular, and created Muslim extremism(not stating we can trust them now). We ignored the Albanian genocide, and still haven't recognized it. The Turks have been attacking the Kurdish forces, the only local groups making headway against ISIS.

Thank you for reading,

Byron Grimes

The moon's silver apples

An orchard ethereal
in a monotone land
I cannot put things in hand
perhaps it's me that's unreal

I long for solidity
and yearn for the days of wonder
how'd I let my age sunder
old curiousity?

Just a nibble, a bite
would restore some sense
let me see through the lens
and shed some light

A little graverobbing never hurt anyone

Bill Stone sweats as he digs a hole. Like the others he’s dug it will be long and deep. Bill is hoping this one will have some good stuff; it’s been a while since he had a real sale to Max. About three feet down, a thunderbolt peals and it starts to rain. Bill puts down his shovel, climbs out, and gets his raingear and ladder out of his truck. He sets the ladder beside his hole, puts his coat and hat on, and jumps back in.

The rain slows Bill’s progress, and he starts to mutter to himself. He sits down in his hole, and pulls out a cigarette. Bill puts the cigarette in his mouth, pulls on his fingers, tugs on the cigarette, and lights it. He breathes slowly, both to catch his breath and enjoy the smoke’s flavor. Once he’s finished, Bill tosses the butt out the hole, stands up, and resumes digging. A few minutes later he hits wood. Laughing, Bill clears off the rest of the lid.

As Bill brushes the dirt of the lid and begins to open it, a light shines on his face.

“Oh so you’re the one.”, says the man with the flashlight. “No, don’t get out; we’ll chat just fine with you in that hole.”

“Who are you? What makes you think you’re in charge?” Bill asks.

“Me? I own this cemetery. That puts me in charge. That, and this letter of recommendation from my friends Smith and Wesson. Now why are you here in the middle of the night opening my graves. This place wasn’t cheap, even with the cemetery. But I’ve got quiet neighbors. At least, ‘til you started bothering them.”

“Who am I bothering? Look, I ain’t found much here, I’ll get it back if that’s what you want.” Bill looks around for a way out, but there isn’t one; the owner’s blocked his path to the truck, and there’s a fence around the area.

“You’re bothering my neighbors, which means I have to deal with upset family members, police, and other unpleasantries. Like this rain.”

“Look, you wanna call the cops? Go ahead. Here, use my cell.” Bill says as he tosses his phone. “Can we go inside and wait for the cops? I’d rather be drier than wetter when the book me.”

“No, I don’t think so. Ye see, there’s a lot of people unhappy with me. First, there’s some families upset because I bought the place. Just when that was dying down, you start disturbing my neighbors. Now families are accusing me of graverobbing, and each new time the police come and toss my place after reopening the grave you robbed. So no, you’re not coming out of there.”

“Well, you are going to call the police, right? I mean, that’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?” Bill stutters with the wet and cold and fear coursing through him.

“No, I’ve seen enough police for now. I set that grave up two weeks ago for you to dig. Found me a nice old headstone, planted that pine box you’re on, and covered it. No, you’ve dug your grave, now die in it.”

Bill hears a gun roar, and falls. The owner puts away his gun, and searches Bill’s body.

A couple hundred, the landowner thinks. Not bad; that and the truck should cover things for a while.

Birdfood

The eagle sits atop its perch, watchful for its prey. Cars zoom past below, their drivers thinking only of their destination. The train rumbles by on the overpass, taking its freight from here to there. Kids fish at the pond across the street, completely oblivious to the hunter, or its prey, just beyond the tall rock.

Rush hour ends, traffic dies down; the kids finish fishing and walk home. The eagle stands watch, waiting. A bass jumps in the pond, but the eagle ignores it. Such things are not its prey, this has been ordained. So the hunter waits. It is patient, for its prey will show itself soon.

The sun sets. The town’s nightlife starts. A little later, it stops. Deer forage near the lake, foxes hunt some mice, and raccoons eat the entrails of fish left on the banks. Still, the eagle watches. Soon, it will attack and eat.

The sun rises. Across the road, past the pond, the monument is lit. Prometheus, still chained to his rock, awakens with his wounds recovered. Seeing him stir, the eagle takes flight, gains altitude, and dives in attack. The hero shields himself to no avail. His winged torturer claws his stomach open, tearing Prometheus’ liver out with its beak. Gaining its prey the eagle takes flight to its perch and eats for another day.

Midwestern Haze

Stranded in a cornsilk maze

no way out, it’s all around

for miles without end

have to get where I’m going

to another part of the maze

Call a friend catch a ride

get a lift to work, no problem

no panic no worry,

can’t hurry without a car

No rush, no flight

without haste, just wait

and see

The Lejend'ry Marshmen

Years ago, once a moved
near the marshlands; Away
Away from city noise and stink
Red tape, parking tickets and the like
Away from it all

Shortly after my escapist move
I was held awake, alert, entranced
By a nighttime havoc I'd ne'er heard the like
No brawl, no party, no wannabe band
Could ever sound so grand and terrible
Yet, it was. Yes, it was.

What? It was all three, indeed.
The men o' the marsh all played, drank and fought
Insults, shouted, bottles thrown,
Playin' together all times

No, indeed it was no fight or party
But the practice if the lejend'ry marshmen
If they play your tavern, bid it farewell
Naught it is they leave unchanged.

a second wail

Musician Haunting (II)

Through these others’ tunes

I cannot hear

The line, the sound

that I would write

My Music; killed, still born

by these that wish to return

Murderers!

My sounds are gone,

Lost to your chant; your wail, your hum

To hear my own again!

I would kill these foreigners

These invaders of my ears.

But they posses no life

And each leaves me, once writ.

One day.

I would hear mine own again.