The Habit

Warm dark
Dream cloud
Cotton blood spoon
Wretched screaming
Morning light
Gray faces, dead eyes
Need and betrayal
Long term nothing
Small world, pitted roadways
Lead to death
Or imprisonment.

Copyright 1973 c d'angelo

What you took from me
Was the notion
That tomorrow can be a better place
For anyone who strives

What you took was belief
That people will
Be judged by who they are
Not by what happened to them

You voided the hope
That time could dilute
The horror of the past

That which I did
And that which was done to me

You robbed me of my place
In this world
My place

That I had hewn
Year after desperate year
From unyielding stone

I pity you
When it's payback time

copyright 1994 c d'angelo


Haiku (Love doesn't die)
Long time I missed you but now I understand you were always with me.


copyright 1985

     It was July when they hit Miami. The merciless humidity could melt the skin off your face. A long span of street known as Flagler was indolent, lined with squat, bleached buildings. Papo got off the bus and started walking like he knew where he was going. Juanita followed him because she didn't. Neither one of them knew anyone in Miami  except Papo's brother, and he didn't want to know them....


For Michelle, Gina and Amanda


Out of the house
Blackened, broken house
Honeycombed with secrets
Wandered the spirit
It was lost.

Into the day
Screaming morning light
Desert dry cold
Staggered the spirit
It nearly died.

Through the deep,
Dark waters swirling
Bottomless night
Swam the spirit
Rudderless, pale.

Somewhere above
Shone the light
Faint at first,
Almost not there.
Spirit kicked free
Toward the light.

Trees sway with breeze
Musk of earth
Music of sky
Spirit sighs, rustles leaves,
unsettles dust.

This will be continued...

copyright 1994 CD.


A Poem


In a garden
A place of life flourishing
Of trees and flora
And steel shimmering in moonlight.
Blood spills, mixes with mud
beneath the street.

A life
Ebbs away before it began:
the full moon witnessed all,
I would forget it if I could.

It grips my heart
like the terror
must have held you

At your sentencing
and your execution.

On a summer night

The still hot air
charged with hatred
sentenced you at 21
to die
For being you.

copyright CD 1985....2013 "Sunrise In the Cornfield" 



Copyright 1992
The Ride

Maybe I shouldn’t have been hitchhiking that night, but I did, and there’s no going back now. I was a hippie, a sometimes stoner, a street punk; young and broke. At night I slept in an empty apartment that I climbed up a fire escape to get into. One thing I wasn’t doing that night in late 1970 or early ‘71 was getting high. I was straight as an arrow that night and I’m very clear on what happened.
I had just turned eighteen. I’d been warned by well meaning friends not to hitchhike in certain parts of the city, but I was broke, not to mention homeless, so I got around the best way I could. That night I’d been hanging out in the Square, then a major hippie haven. It was my social life, I guess. My survival skills weren’t much—yet. I had grown up in a sheltered Catholic home. But there was trouble behind the scenes, and after graduating high school at age seventeen, I split for parts unknown.
Life on the streets was bad, but not bad enough to send me back home. Two gay guys I’d met told me there was an empty apartment in the building next to theirs. They showed me how I could access the vacant apartment by walking through the alley and climbing up the fire escape. The apartment had sky blue walls and a mattress on the hard wood floor. The lights were on and the shower worked. What more could a homeless flower child want?
This became my home for awhile, and I guarded its location. It was my shelter from the too friendly predators who offered a place to stay in exchange for instant intimacy. It was a safe place to unwind and regroup for the daily battle of living on the streets of a major metropolitan area.
Secondary to a roof over my head was food. I lived on junk food, scrounged from the leavings of fast food customers. Sometimes groups of us spread out and panhandled in the square: roving, ragged, child beggars.
Sometimes the money went for food, sometimes for a high. The steady diet of junk food took its toll. At age eighteen, I developed acne, something I’d never had during my middle class younger teens. To those moms who nag their teenagers about eating too much fast food: keep nagging, your concerns are valid.
By day, I carried my clothes around in an army back pack, just in case the empty apartment got rented while I was out. By night, I hung out in the square, connected with other lost souls, took trips to other places, and other states of mind. Buses were unknown to me, and I only occasionally rode the trains. When I needed to get away or get home, I hitchhiked. It was a common way to get around back then, and the world was very different. It was dangerous enough then; I wouldn’t recommend it at all today.
It was a mild night. I don’t remember if it was spring or summer. Nobody was around, and not much was happening on the street. It was peculiarly quiet, in fact. I decided to go home early, to my blue sky apartment.
I got a ride right away. The car was an older white sedan. The driver was a middle aged man, forty to fiftyish. Or maybe he just looked older because of his hair. His hair was the first thing I noticed about him, not that I really paid him that much mind. I had hitched dozens of rides before. This was routine stuff, I thought.
He was no hippie, but his hair was wild: all over the place. It was dark, maybe black, and streaked with a lot of white: Bride of Frankenstein hair. He was a white man with Don King hair. It was electric, charged—like the air that night. I was not paying attention. I thought he was a middle aged man who would give me a ride home, and I turned my attention to the street ahead to give him directions. He knew where my street was—he was driving that way—and he passed it.
“Hey, you passed my street,” I said.
That’s when he speeded up, and I noticed his eyes for the first time.
In the moment I looked into them, his eyes told me everything. They were black and bright, and--this is no judgment call, just an observation—they were truly crazy.
 Then I saw the knife shining in the darkness. It was probably a hunting knife. The blade must have been six inches long. The fear settled into me like a long winter cold. Time raced, and it stood still. Absurdly, I reasoned he would stop for a red light. I scanned the street for a red light, but ahead of us in the nearly empty street, like a string of carnival lights against the black sky, stretched a long line of green lights. I put my hand on the door handle, and he spoke with desperation in his voice:
“You can’t jump out. You can’t.” His arm reached across the front seat, holding the knife in front of my neck. “Get down!” he ordered.
Stalling for time, I tried to show cooperation. I slouched a little in my seat, keeping my hand on the door handle, while searching the blackness ahead for red lights. There were none. He drove faster, heading out of the city.
“Get down,” he said again. I knew if I went to the end of this ride I would not get out alive. I lifted the door handle. The door flew open, and I hurled myself through it. I rolled in the street a few times, before I landed in a roadside ditch. A Volkswagen van driving in the other direction slammed on its brakes, and stopped in the middle of the street. The driver asked if I was all right. I think I said yes.
The people in the van were long haired hippie types. I knew instinctively I could trust them. I’ve always distinguished between two kinds of “hippies:” the health food eating, working for positive social change types who had jobs and places to live, and the drug addicted, wandering, burnout street people types. The people in the van, I surmised, were the first type. They brought me safely to my “home.”
I didn’t go up to my apartment that night. Somehow I just couldn’t be alone. Instead, I went to the next building and knocked on the door of my two gay friends, who were already sleeping. They welcomed me into their tiny one-room apartment, made tea, listened to my story, looked at my scrapes, and then one of them shared his narrow twin bed with me. Through the night he held me, like a mother holds a child. In this world you don’t have a fighting chance unless you have a mother or somebody who loves you.
Weeks or months later, I saw a newspaper article. They were calling it the “Hitchhike Murders,” or something like that. I didn’t go to the police with what I knew. I must have been too far gone, too absorbed by my own problems. I guess I thought then that they wouldn’t believe me anyway.
You probably wonder why, after all these years, I’d write this story. Actually, I’ve written it dozens of times in my head, and I’ve told it scores of times to others—women and men and kids—to warn them. It’s because he might still be out there, never caught, that I write this, and because I wonder how many others before me and after me, went on this ride and never came back.
This is a true story.
If there are any lessons here it’s these:
1. Listen to your inner voice and always trust your instincts.
2. The driver had no gun-- that I saw, and he would have killed me.



Let's Talk

Today a new message arrived about the latest threat to our right to privacy. Say hello to CISPA -the Cybersecurity Information and Sharing Protection Act.

It's an attempt to give the government and military agencies unprecedented power to snoop through people's personal information. This includes medical records, private emails, financial information — and the government can do it without a warrant, proper oversight or limits.

Whoa! Hold on there, cyber cowboys! If I can't pry my own medical records outa the hands of that dirtbag doctor (in my opinion) or get my lab results from Quest, then neither should you!

The ACLU has more info http://www.aclu.org/. Hit the link under stop cyber spying to speak up about this legislation.

Here's my take on all this snooping by corporations in partnership with the government:
It's precisely because I have nothing to hide that I regard this as extremely irritating and insulting.

Dig all you want, but you won't uncover any offshore banking accounts linked to me. No, I'm not growing cannabis in my closet, either-even though I believe it's in every one's interest (except the pharmaceutical industry) to LEGALIZE IT. Why don't you go snoop on somebody who's selling weapons to rogue governments?

And because Google and Fakebook want more and more information about me and every other person who ever opened a web page or posted on Fakebook, (so they can sell our info to companies that want to sell us more crap), the government is happy to oblige? Or, because some security queen doesn't like my (ex) Fakebook pics, or finds me suspicious because I'm a vegetarian, let the Internet spying games begin.

What is the government-corporate gluttony for all our information really about? Maybe to appear omnipotent to compensate for the utter impotency of the government to enforce its own laws.

When government tells you it is instituting a new law to "protect" your rights, beware!

The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) of 1996 was supposed to protect our privacy. It was supposed to protect our medical information from prying eyes. It was supposed to guarantee patients rights to their own health records. It was promoted as "consumer protection." It failed.

Insurance companies, in collusion with doctors and Big Pharma have no problem getting the goods on your medical records, and using that info to deny you health insurance, life insurance, jobs. Your health information is freely available to a wide audience of "exceptions."  You know it. I know it.

Some states--like Florida-- passed their own laws circumventing HIPAA by restricting medical testing labs from releasing patients' lab test results to anyone but the doctor. If the patient doesn't want to see the doctor again, too bad. If the doctor doesn't cooperate with the patient, too bad. If the doctor wants to keep that patient coming back (and paying more ) just to get his/her lab results, there's no government agency that will enforce the patients' rights to his/her records.

HIPAA law states that doctors cannot hold patient medical records hostage for an unpaid bill. Some doctors do it anyway, and the same government that signed HIPAA into law refuses to enforce it.

The same government  that gave us HIPAA does nothing to protect patients rights that are supposedly guaranteed by this law.

Why would CISPA be any different?

Just like a sweetheart union contract, these laws exist only on paper. They are not enforced. Dirtbag doctors and labs can flip them the finger.

Don't be fooled by pseudo protection laws. CISPA will protect the moneyed interests of the corporations that back it, and their government puppets.

Yeah, we got laws. But no rights. Unless we stand up and speak up.


Why People Don't Like Government Agencies

Today's mail brought a surprise. A letter from the County Expressway Authority. It contained a toll-by - plate invoice for $3.75 for the license plate I surrendered in November 2010.

I don't own a car. I had a bike, but it rusted. I still like bikes.

I turned the license plate in to the tag office where I signed over the car to the current owner. That was in the fall of 2010--before November 2--because November 2, 2010 was the date my car insurances policy would expire.

I asked the woman behind the desk at the tag office for a receipt, and she said the surrender license plate notice would be mailed to me. It was. I have it.

The expressway is taking photos of my old license plate (if that's even my old license plate number; I'm still investigating that)-- on some unknown car driven by an unknown person. I want to know who that person is and why they're driving around with my old license plate, and why I got their bill from the county government that oversees such things.

And btw- even when I did own a car, I never ever drove on the Selmon Expressway.

So I went to the website listed on the invoice because of course, government offices close at 6 p.m. (or earlier).

On their website this is what I found:

21.   What if I get an invoice for a license plate I no longer have?
If you no longer own the vehicle, you will need to contact the appropriate vehicle registry to correct their registration information. You will also need to provide an affidavit verifying that you are no longer the vehicle owner. This affidavit form is available by clicking this link: Affidavit Form. ( don't click on it--it's corrupted)
Mail the Affidavit Form to:
THEA Correspondence
PO Box 22806
Hialeah, FL 33002-2806
Unfortunately, when I clicked the link, the Affadavit Form could not be printed, copied, saved or emailed, because..."This operation is not permitted."
So tomorrow I'll try the phone number. Stay tuned. More fun to come.

Another government screw up. Although I contend that behind every government screw up is an individual with access to a government computer--an individual either incompetent, lazy or malicious.

An individual that fuels the anti government fire.

Those individuals should be doxed.

So it turns out that one letter of the license plate was "mis-typed." Funny that, because "U" and "Q" are far apart on the keyboard.

Also, according to the courteous person known as "Laz" at the Expressway Authority in Miami, the photographed car was a Toyota Avalon. I've never owned a Toyota Avalon.
To digress for a minute...
I tend to regard suspiciously those career politicians that stomp 'n' holler 'n' campaign vigorously  for elected office because they want to represent "The People." These are the same elected officials who won't answer their phones when "The People" come calling. This is you too, democrats.

In the end it is exactly as an embattled southern factory worker said back in 2000.

When he was handed a campaign leaflet showing Al Gore and George W. Bush with the caption "Who will fight for working people?" this wise citizen said, "Nobody. We fight for ourselves."

Oh hey, government, ever wonder why tea partiers and other citizens are so fed up with you?