America’s myths are  being exposed and run  through the ringer of public discourse.

America’s myths are
being exposed and run
through the ringer
of public discourse.

Dear America,

Keep trying to explain
your way out of this.

The more you talk,
the more you expose
your weakness.

You know you lied. 
You snuck out of the house
got drunk and wrecked the car
date raped the country
and someone caught
you on video.

You know slavery was a

labor policy called human trafficking.

A slave is a slave is a slave.

Like the workers who made your shirt.
Like the wage slave at a for
profit, who trades labor for love,
because they are part of the team.
Like the military protecting “Our”

oil interests in the region.

So, keep talking.

Your children are
getting the picture.

You can’t blame this
on commies and reds.
You cant blame this
on the media.

The issue is –

you lied about
what you did.

And now the children
of the social revolution
want your heroes gone.
They are seeking truth
and getting results.

So, fess up.
America …
the more you try
to lie and make
excuses –
the more you
dig your own grave.

The founding fathers
were just men.

Like all other.

They were
just men, protecting
their own ass.

They wanted
power, land
and money.

They made selfies
called dollars.

They prayed
to God that trust
wouldn’t find them

Now, they
are being
by their own
Melted away
in a pot of
their own
John Paul

Doomed To Fall


I’ve had my Black Elk moment at age 47.

The tree of my people is on fire!

I am dressed in red,

all my prayers have been said

and it seems we are doomed to fall.


The masters of war

on the eve of destruction

playing with their battle toys!

The masters of war

on the eve of destruction

boys will be boys.


That’s a Bob Dylan and a PF Sloan tune.

Our lessons have not been learned.

My folk music ways, are dying today

and it seems they are going to brand us all.


With hell fire like we have never seen!

My, my generation knows not of Japan!

Who against who, in this media zoo?

This land was never our land.


New Song – I’m Gonna Die

They say that writers should be

isolated – by a certain degree.

They say a rhyme should be

tied – to some sort of scheme.

They say you can’t do that

and this is how it’s done.

They seem to hide when the

collection plate comes.




I’m gonna die!

I just might lose my voice.

I’m gonna die!

This life was not my choice.

I’m gonna die from a lack

of common decency.

I’m gonna die.


They said fill out these forms.

Ask, who do you know?

They wanna make sure

you won’t steal the show.

They wanna see ya suffer.

Ask for your membership dues.

They don’t care if your limping

all about in your walking shoes.




They seem to have deep pockets

so deep – they can’t reach the funds.

They want you a beggin’ for a life

of peace, solitude and fun.

They live in glass houses – have

all the answers for you.

They can’t understand how a good

man could ever get the blues!

A few days at the lake

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Reading Rails
Reading Rails
By John Paul Wright
Photo book


A few days at the lake

Breckinridge County, Kentucky

Rough River Lake


06-28-2017 A.M.

Wasted energy &

wasted time. This place

three miles back a county

road. Calamese Creek –

Breckinridge County.


Each lot for sale;

like this land is your land,

this land is my land –

to the dam line, to the gravel

road – to do whatever the hell

I please.


On the weekend – on holidays,

some come to escape the

humdrum of the city.

Some, to replicate the city.

The Amish and Mennonites farm the fields.

The “campers” from the towns come

burning fuels, stocked bass boats

and mobile homes, pouring

thousands into American Dreams –

and bored with their surroundings

coexist, with the Indian mom and pops.

Shop at the Dollar General.


A few “locals” sit at a hot spot

watching T.V broadcasting

from Jefferson’s County, Kentucky

and no wonder Meriwether Lewis

shot himself outside of Nashville,



Do you know that history?

When President Jefferson in

an Undaunted Courage sent

York, Rodgers and Sacagawea

across the unknown, soon to be

stolen land, only to have Leland

Stanford, finally finish the deed.

Gold, driven into a steel road –

connecting east to west. And

John Henry died for our sins!

Custer was not a friend.

The Ghost Dances around this

pen like a children’s round –

ring around the Rosie

we are all going to die!


I sit silent in this spot

listening to the locals’ moan of

how everything they love, is on loan

and how the Indian folks are not

welcome. So, the Americans seek jobs

and sink their money into the Dollar General.

Never asking the Indians where they



Never talking to the Indian’s kid

who goes to school at Breckinridge County

high, middle or low. And on the outskirts

a mom and pop has become a Motorcycle

Club. Charlie has made it

here and now they can sell beer and

whine about heroin, waving flags

while we are still at war in



The people at the spot

watch as a black kid was shot

far away in Louisville.

The news locality and reality

not known to the consumers

of this media they ask,

“what did he do?”

He should have not run when

the police said, “stop!”

or “I’ll shoot.” Like this is

the American West and we are

in a duel. High noon, and they

are the news sheriff in town.

Hopped up on a Facebook rant,

a public stance.


The nice lady takes my check –

I pay the bill and she looks at

me funny when I suggest that

they should burn the Dollar General

down! The Wal-Mart in Leitchfield,

20 miles away, knows that they are

“at risk” of losing control of

the market as outposts of another

bank, set up shop in neighboring

small towns. Their patrons trickle down

to a crawl. The mighty Dollar General,

has them surrounded!


And remember, this is the Fourth of

July weekend, we make it or break it –

if, Mother Nature, “cooperates!”

These few days the city folks,

like the church goers on Easter,

many will not return next week,

or the week after that.

The motorcycle club will remain –

the money syphoned off and

the children sent away to fight

for this way of life. A small tank

of gas for that bass boat.

The Corpse of Engineers told us

this place would redeem our souls and

fill our pocket books.


Outside a Mennonite sells his goods,

his children pulling the load

on a bike, his wife waving a basket

from wood reaped from a fallen barn.

Crosses on the roadside symbolize the

fallen savior. An American flag

waves – Chinese fireworks are sold for

pennies on the dollar.


A confederate flag on a truck,

menacing history of states’ rights –

plantation slaves, but, what about

those “foreigners?” The Indian

family venture that bought that

bankrupt gas station. Where do

they spend their money?


What about the Amish? Do they

pay their debts to a society that

they are escaping from?

May the farce be with you!

Happy Fourth of July.

Can we talk revolution?


06-28-2017 P.M.


My boy sits glued to an epic

journey. The little people, slay

a dragon. I am alone, down the

hill reciting poetry to

the woods. A deer quietly on

the path, like a child sneaking

something, slips into the forest.

Like this, this time, relative to

this moment. Stories of old

and words from a heart, old,

perspectives known and teachers

of conscience in kind.


I have gone into the soul

in search of big words to

describe methods – I have none!

My tongue and fingers only

mimicking what my ears and

eyes have found.


The forceful beatings of

my heart cannot be extracted!

Language is bound by time –

from where this body gets it’s

electricity, is not known to me and

faith is my favorite conversation!

My son’s movie ends with the words,

“what have we done?” As the mythical

dragon flies away into a darkness.


I ask of you dear reader …

What makes you tick?

Wakes you, sweating?

Causes you to love?

What is the matter that is

so far reaching, expanding –

our minds, can never



06-29-2017 A.M


Waiting, this next chapter starts

with you. Like union!

This boy will one day be gone.

We will be worried …

Like when before he was born,

and we did not seek to know who

was arriving. Naturally patient


When I whispered into your ear,

“Jonah is here,” and in the name of God

the most merciful and most compassionate.

We named our son after a Prophet,

who was used to teach judgement / anger.

Many times, we have been swallowed

by a whale! Judged and be judged –

spit out. Our family difficulties, trust –

I sharpen a new pencil,

the old one,

worn away.

This one, has a brand-new erasure!

Our old life can be edited, memories

drawn upon, we can move from there

to where we want to go!

Like birth includes death!

Like work includes thirst and rest.


Thinking in stories


A friend suggested that I am the

way that I am …

because I think in stories.

A narrative, who am I?

Once upon a time – whee go …

word association.

Family – Tree

Brother – Sister

Mother – Father

Beginning – End

I suggest, peeling an onion to

find layer after story, like water

ripples, the little waves

disperse in all directions.

The rock falls through

stratification. Light reflected

from the splash, a rainbow –

a miracle of light and sound.

One second, one instant –

gone – silence.


06-29-2017 P.M.


It is time –

I, has lost!

To be of service!

A Father – husband

partner – sometimes

like watching a child

fail, not knowing what

to say – offering a strong

hug – just a look –

glance – a heartfelt tear.

I feel it – with you!

These words, like a mirror.

I am just a man of few words –

a man burning away!

It is time

to stop –

support –



cry no more –

I love









06-30-2017 6:30 A.M


Jonah, M’boy – sleeping in

a tent, my 47-year-old bones

walk up the hill to coffee

and this pencil.


I am doing this to get back

years lost – no one seems to

understand me when I tell



I worked for the railroad.


I quit with Joe Watson on my

mind, he retired on Tuesday

and died in his sleep on Thursday.

Never saw a retirement check!


There were many like him.

So, for this week – I play catch up.

I missed a many family weekend,

many a precious moment.

You do the math –


70 hours a week, 12 hours down

and 12 hours back, 10 hours goes by,

and your back on the rail, again.


The Kentucky Derby Is … What It Is …

The Kentucky Derby is a corporation –

like the coal companies and Japanese

bourbon barrel barons & back in the

old days  – was only a week-long festival …

– And I am sure,

Y’all are squeamishly hoping this

rant will end on a good note, like the house

slave that wants to get a good night’s rest –

comfortably in the quarters – “Y’all darkies

are supposed to be gay.” “Y’all know,

Papa gots his friends over an’ we

ain’t supposed to be talking about his

whips and all his tax breaks!”

The Kentucky Derby is as stupid

as full grown adults, waiting around

the fireplace, cookies placed and waiting

for Santa to come and leave big box warehouses

and nice new auto plants under the tree. And when

one of his beasts of burden, breaks its leg –

you wake the kids to help Santa shoot it

in the head.

The Kentucky Derby is a golden

cash cow worshipped, like the military air show

that runs up and down the Ohio river – while

the Belle of Louisville and our streets are

prostituted out to Masters of War and commerce –

we are supposed to be nice, like the bourbon

commercial suggests:

“Bonded” like the small-neighborhood family parties.

“Branded” like the jockeys exploited for profit –

like how the “green” justifies the horse shit

and the mint sprig, the alcoholism of the aggressor,

the audacity of gambling and gaudy hats of

the privileged.

The Kentucky Derby is a waste

of time because when this is all over,

your gonna wake up with a bad taste in your mouth,

praying that when you blacked out, you were not date

raped by your boss or fondled by one of

his frat boys, while his friends – standing

over – laughing and drunk –

money falling out of

their pockets – paid your friends

to hush up

about it.

But, don’t worry – It is what it is

Y’all come out smelling like roses!

Happy May Day!

When Woody Guthrie wrote –

This Machine Kills Fascists

on his guitar,

he was a volunteer in the

Merchant Marines.

The tool I am using now –

to write these words –

was made in China.

A Communist country

that has embraced



When we had the

Good Neighbor Food CO-OP –

we had several 18 wheelers –

and a Federation of Ohio River Cooperatives –

we made our own distribution.

Kroger grocery is Union,

(so, was Woody’s boat)

and we were ordered

to compete and destroyed

because our services,

were a threat.

Now, look down at your

feet, past that pixilated tool

and those shoes made

by slave labor –

and tell me how many

lithium batteries you have

thrown away, into the Earth –

that we all are spinning on.

And like this we go

around and around …

– ring around the rosies

a pocketful of posies –


 – ashes to ashes

we all

fall down –