A Dear John Letter

Dear John,

You seem like a nice guy. You seem like an intelligent guy. I guess that's why it's so hard for me to understand your refusal to even consider any idea which doesn't fit the conclusion you've already drawn with respect to what happened on 9/11/01. I certainly understand (and even agree with) your objection that it's likely that someone would have talked about their involvement in such a hideous scheme. I don't know how to explain that this hasn't happened . . . except to point out that in a media-biased world, there is much that cannot be said loudly enough for anyone to hear it. At any rate, I don't understand why this point becomes a shield to deflect any other idea concerning what happened on that day.

I can't help but think of an analogy here. If the police were investigating a murder scene, would they begin by deciding that certain people could not have committed the crime? Obviously not. They would begin with the physical evidence and move from there, constructing hypothoses and drawing conclusions supported by the evidence they could discern. They would look for motive, opportunity, and advantage.

If we begin in like manner, perhaps you would at least see that there are anomalies in both the 9/11 event itself as well as in the subsequent investigation which would prompt, at the least, serious inquiry. To dismiss such evidence without consideration is simply not rational.

As a wise young friend pointed out to me, it's obvious that you don't want to risk appearing to be a "dupe" by lending easy credibility to an idea which is outside of the paradigm you've already constructed. Still, one who declares himself to be a skeptic certainly should not be so quick to dismiss, mock, and ignore.

Sincereley,

Brother K.

Poem of the Day

The Love Song of L. Harvey Oswald

or

Lee’s Bra

The bra lee was trapped in
fat fate, Wineverettgate
the American malaise, Ulysses’ gaze
as he pulled the snorting horses of the sea . . .
A maiden formed solely for fucking
a turkey to be plucked and stuffed
lifting and separating him from the world
and dropping him into the world inside the world
where everything is pushed and shaped
where nothing is what it seems to be
where appearances range from deceit to complete falsehood

nursed at marguerite’s sallow breast
in the shadow of an absent father
pummeled by northern boys, confirmed in a room inside the hole in the wall of raskolnikov’s room

or was he a three-room apartment?
lost, he’s found and made
prop for a movie which will end with a nice explosion
of obfuscation

or in the dead god land of dallas where high school students don’t know what happened yesterday, and could not care less about what will happen tomorrow--
l. Harvey was shat out on the hot summer pavement of america
beside two bubbling eggs
that looked like fried breasts
and when he turned to nurse
the ear muffs fell

but didn’t he buy the books
and speak the speech
and shape the pattern
and will the bullets through the air?

And how do you like your blue-eyed boy?