Letter to Bradley Manning

Dear PFC. Bradley Manning,

Your honor and your courage has truly inspired me. I became interested in the truth when I was younger; I became semi-serious about the truth when I became a writer; and–now–I am completely serious about the truth today, thanks to you.

You have inspired me to be a journalist. I believe the public has a right to know what’s going on behind closed doors. Journalists are needed to keep a check on government. If we lose journalism, we lose our government. I want to be a real journalist: the kind that tells the truth.

Even if the truth is uncomfortable, we have a right to know. Children deserve a better world then we are leaving them. I hope that someday every man, woman, and child will recognize this. War is always criminal–especially when it involves innocents. We must strive to uphold our values, or we will fall as a species.

I believe that some day you will hold the same kind of renown that will be likened to Martin Luther King Jr., Gandhi, and others who fought against injustice. I believe Barack Obama will be remembered as the person who did nothing as he willfully allowed the government to take away our rights.

I want to wish you all the love in the world. You deserve better then this.


Kevin Limiti

Friendzoned and walking in dreams

Dreams of nurturing bleed into my memory. Fantastic thoughts of silence educate my loss. So it was, and so it will be till I die. When I remember my place in a historical moment, and forget my place in the warmness of her heart.

Well, I guess that’s a very dramatic way of saying that I love someone who may or may not love me and I’m holding on to something that may or may not make it worth it. I guess there’s no way of explaining it to someone who has never experienced it before. Take my advice: be glad you haven’t.

The truth is for someone who likes to believe that anybody can make their lives anyway they want, I sure as hell like to criticize myself.

But in the end, dreams are–and shall always be– the eternal function.

Well it was only then, after beginning to write my love story I found I had nothing to tell. The whispers of the heart were naught but mere fantasy; a worthless charade; the ramblings of an unwelcome muse.

So I stopped—and never began again. Until. . .

I lost my mind when I was in high school. I turned into a walking monument to Freud. I laughed inappropriately and said extremely weird things to people. I even gave my guitar away and told my friend that I was his father. That was a typical Summer; yeah right.

And then, while still recovering from my stay in a mental hospital, my friend died. He was hit by a car when he was walking on the sidewalk. I heard all the details and I was certain that there would be no coming back from this one now. I had lost someone important. Someone who I thought I couldn’t live without. I was left to continue on the road of life without him.

I thought he would always be there. I thought I would always have a Guinness in my house cold and ready for him to stop by and drink it with me. Instead, I saw him in his coffin—one last time—before he was buried in the ground. And why? What for? What is my place in all of this? What is the endgame?

Selfishness is my number one trait. It’s funny because I try so very hard not be selfish and always end up forgetting other people. My friends would disagree—and maybe they’re right—but deep down inside I still feel like I could give two shits. Perhaps even my friendships are superficial,

It all seems so very real though. I find that even when I’m down, I’m tried and tested for discomfort of a higher level. So my only solution to that is to keep true to my dreams. It’s all I got.

Maybe that’s why I hold onto this bastion of unrequited love; this furnace of ‘the friend zone’. But is the friend zone really that bad? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe if you have the deadly combination of sexual attraction and feelings. Sex is on my mind and I can forgive but can’t forget the transgressions of my favorite soap opera.

So where has this all gone? And where will it all end? I don’t know, but if I find out I’ll let you know.

Small hands picking up cigarettes off pubescent sidewalks,
Lighting them by fires held in my palms,
Seeking, seeking the last of the nicotine that comes,
From the butts of a filter where there is no tobacco.
My head swells with ideas of greatness
At words that I pump out with my fists
Great adolescent dreams, easily forsaken
for a suit and tie and a wad of fat, steaming cash.
Note books littered with microwaveable fax numbers,
Of Psychologists who I no longer wish to see anymore,
And priests whom have long since forgotten me,
And my teachers, some of whom despise my existance.
All, in the end, lost to cause.
Lost to the invertible feeling of loss.
When Agricola stopped being a farmer.
And my true nature gave way to hallucination.
Nowhere seen is the truth anymore.
Self-pity is my own reliance.
Hatred is my only defense.
Yet I care not for these trivialities anymore.
Smoke rises from my home,
And homes across the border where millions of people live,
And breathe, and think, and feel.
And there it is.
My hope, my joy,
A renewal of Christian-atheistic fellowship
No longer just a pity party,
But exclusive to those who love one another.
This is who I want to be.
A person who loves,
Not for the sake of any return,
But for the sake of my own sanity.
Time flows on and life changes,
Things that seem the same now will soon explode,
Into varying levels of exuberance and debris,
Still no one can take away my feeling of warmth.
When the tide is over, when the war is won,
No one now can say if I am just another one.

Listening to Barry McGuire

I don’t want to listen to Barry McGuire,
Or maybe I do.
The whole thing seems depressing,
yet it gives me a perverse kind of pleasure,
like an s and m fetish,
only through politics and music.
Maybe I don’t really want change,
Maybe those who occupy are no different,
Maybe we need chaos for order,
Or maybe it’s all a natural progression,
Of mankind and political triumph,
Or maybe God,
being us,
will punish humanity,
like a masochist endlessly whipping his back,
Creating orgasms from pain,
Or perhaps the truth lies in death,
How many souls have died,
Fighting for truth?
Fighting for justice?
Maybe they know,
Maybe they always knew.
On the eve of my destruction,
I will hold my flower,
that I planted in love and haste,
I will hold the flower up to the sun,
I will say to the daffodil,
To the rose,
To the violet,
I love you, dear flower,
but I wish you were never born.

The Death of a Marine

Wrote this in high school. . .another flashback.
A bomb explodes; bullets fly; a marine falls to the ground.

Seconds later he hears the words “man down” shouted amid the bombs and bullets sounding all around him. The marine feels nothing at first except, perhaps, shock. But then…pain. A horrible, indescribable pain surges up inside his stomach and fills him from head to toe like venomous liquid. The marine gazes down. A large red spot had widened over where the bullet had pierced his fragile skin. He struggled not to fall down again as he watched the redness slowly widen. The marine knew then that he was going to die.

His squad was on a routine patrol through an area that was less then welcome to the U.S. occupation. His training was supposed to have prepared him for this moment, but he was the first man down, and he couldn’t do anything. He was a sitting duck.

The medic runs over and begins to treat his wound. As he does sow, he shouts words of encouragement. “You’re going to make it, kid! Don’t give up!”

The marine can barely hear his words but what he does hear doesn’t encourage him. The marine begins to pass out, but the medic keeps him from it. The marine wishes he would. He begins to feel a strong dislike for the medic and, if he could speak, he would probably tell him to shove off. The medic might say he will live but the wound says different…and so does the cold feeling rising up inside him that makes the marine shiver.

The marine beings to appeal to God, begging forgiveness for his sins and asking to be allowed to live though he knows immediately that this is in vain. God cannot seal up wounds just as God couldn’t stop the bullets or a car speeding down the road to an ignorant pedestrian. The idea that He would or even could seal up his wounds is simply absurd. But the very fact he had been hit with a bullet was, in itself, absurdly cruel.

He has a wife and family back home. He hopes they would be okay. They were the most important thing to him, and he feels guilty to leave them behind. He thought that he would get out of the war unscathed. That was pure folly.

Suddenly the pain, slowly but surely, begins to subside. His spirit seems to have floated out of his body and the marine felt like flying. He began to think that perhaps dying was good. How could something like dying be bad when it felt so good?

The sounds begin to evaporate. The yelling and screaming of combat disappears. The marine would’ve smiled if he could. He would soon be at peace. The medic put his face right up in front of him, mouthing wordlessly, desperately. However, the medic soon began evaporate into blackness as did all of his surroundings. The marine feels grim pleasure at not having to see his face anymore.And then, once both sound and light had completely vanished from him, the marine died.

Don’t worry anymore! George W. Bush says Prism is A-OK because he put it in there to protect the country. . .trust him!

From the Huffington Post:

“I put that program in place to protect the country. One of the certainties was that civil liberties were guaranteed,” Bush told CNN in an interview airing Monday. “I think there needs to be a balance, and as the president explained, there is a proper balance.”

Yeah it’s okay everyone. George W. Bush, our benevolent leader, has just told us that programs that spy on every single American indiscriminately, are good because he put it in place to protect us.

Our benevolent new Bush clone, Obama, agrees.

Does anyone see the irony of this?

They can’t agree on anything, but this??????


Che Lives or the Execution

Note: I wrote this years ago. Couldn’t get it published anywhere so I’m posting it here.
I saw the traitor.

He sat beneath me, his eyes fluttering nervously and his breathing erratic and short. Tears welled up in his eyes as his fate was proclaimed. This man was a traitor. He had sold us out on several occasions. He was responsible for the deaths of at least four of our former mates.

Knowing this, I still faltered at the order. The commander pronounced that he would have to die; my rifle suddenly felt a great deal heavier. I did not want to kill this pathetic man, however distasteful he was.

I looked toward my fellow soldiers for help. We stood in a circle around the traitor, who was on his knees weeping like a little child. They looked from one person to the next as though hoping someone would fulfill the order.

Suddenly, there was rain. I felt it on the tip of my nose, and I used this as an excuse to pull my eyes away from the figure on the ground. It started slowly, with only a few scattered drops but then there was the sound of distant thunder and the rain came down, with ferocious quickness. Our commander watched us there, his hair and beard now damp. He shook his head expressionlessly and turned, walking towards a hut in the distance.

The long silence was broken by the blubbering of our disgraced comrade. We watched him, indecisively. Only recently, he had been a friend, a true comrade. Would we kill him now?

I gazed over at Ernesto. He stood watching the traitor silently. His eyes showed no hint of maliciousness but all the same it was a cold stare. Often times, Ernesto’s spirit had lifted our hearts. This man seemed, without hesitancy or doubt, unrelenting in his ultimate goal; our ultimate goal. I found myself envying him.

Suddenly I felt his eyes meet mine. I sensed his overwhelming certainty, his power, and his experience. I was afraid, he was not. I averted my eyes.

I stared at the mud for a moment, watching the rain hit the earth. I saw myself in the rain. Not just me, but all our comrades. We were insignificant little rain drops falling towards reality. I watched it intensely, finding myself wondering what exactly I was doing here, out in the mud; in the Cuban countryside. What was the point? I would just die.

There was a sigh.

Ernesto took out his .38 pistol, pointed the weapon directly at the side of the traitors head, and fired.

The traitor slumped to the ground soundlessly, face down in the mud. The rain now hit his body. I looked at Ernesto. His expression did not change. Not one bit.

He dropped down towards the dead man’s body. There was a golden watch upon its wrist, which should rightfully belong to them now. He grasped hold of it and attempted to unfasten it, but the rain made his fingers slippery. He struggled with it for a moment and then allowed it to snap back into the corpse’s hand for a second. His expression had not changed, yet I sensed a hesitancy which I had never seen before. It was quickly suppressed. With a violent jerk, he ripped the watch from the corpse’s wrist.

I had to wonder, why could he kill this man when none of us could? It was odd, but I noticed how his face was so set on what he was doing. Once again, I found myself in admiration of that man.

As I watched the corpse now with a mixed feeling of sadness, shock, and perhaps grim resolve, Ernesto simply put his pistol away and slowly walked towards the hut in which our leader had taken cover in. I wondered, as I viewed him crossing the field underneath a breaking rain cloud, what he felt about his cause, now stained by blood, not just of the enemies, but of his own comrades. Would he falter now? I could not say, but from his actions I would think not. Instead, I began to believe.

I believed in Cuba, I believed in Communism, and, above all, I believed in Ernesto.

I believe in Che.