Those dreams in which one falls,
Uncontrollably hurtling
Toward what seems like certain death, or at the very least
Grievous injury,
Like a freeway insect making an abstract blotch upon a windshield,
Are supposed to mean something.
You like to dance to the music of your body
Unaware and drowning in bliss,
Certain somehow that all will turn out as it ought to,
If only in a dream.
Here’s how: Instead of infecting young minds with mythic propaganda offered in the standard American History curriculum, texts that downplay the immorality and barbarism of our nation’s founding, expansion, and ongoing operation, we could offer future generations something much more like the truth.
Instead of telling stories that celebrate slaveholders, murderers and pathological psychopaths, we could teach our children what American life has been like for blacks, Indians, women, and poor people of all colors….
Writer, poet, artist, improviser, lyricist, former television personality, and generally decent person.
The Central Intelligence Agency has earned both renown and scorn for its “secret” programs designed to encourage American hegemony over the rest of the world. For years a tantalizing rumor circulated around the Internet: The CIA was using psychics to perform “remote viewing” of distant targets. The new documentary Third Eye Spies confirms the rumor –...
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