Mary Bell liked to kill

 

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In merry old England, in the spring of sixty-eight

There was a girl named Mary Bell that fed on hate

At the ripe old age of eleven

She sent two little boys to heaven

Plus five failed attempts left the little bitch irate

 

Mary even choked her accomplice Norma Bell: not related

A girl dumb enough to still hang with Mary in acts ill-fated

But she took her chance to squeal

After cutting herself a deal

So Mary was locked up with Norma free, but now hated

 

Despite signs of mutilation the court convicts of manslaughter

“Eye-for-an-eye” is out the window when it’s someone’s daughter

The last of her brief fame

A three day escape game

When she gave up her virginity, and spoke of blood flowing like water

Kate Bender and her felonious family: America’s first serial killers

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The “Bloody Benders” were a hell of a family

They spent part of their lives on a killing spree

Sister Kate the attraction

With victims a distraction

A cold-blooded flirting; but their death not a fantasy

 

Pa “Bill” was the head of this fiendish clan

By all accounts he was a mountain of a man

Fathered John, a dumb son

Yet both killed for fun

And a means to prosper in their adopted new land

 

Eleven travelers at their Kansas inn waylaid

Hammer to skulls and slit throats was how the corpses were made

Then stripped and robbed in the cellar

By accomplice kin of the killer

And buried in Ma’s garden where they finally stayed

 

A percentage who care for this sort of bloody history

Prefer to keep the Bender’s fates shrouded in mystery

Cuz’ justice wasn’t served by the courts

All we have are three reports

Of vigilante justice by the vengeful hands of a posse

 

Colonel York was the brother of the Bender’s last kill

He swore that he would see all Bender’s sent to hell

A much deserved fate

They even burned Kate

So say posse members who threw their bodies down a well

 

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Jack Helm: a lawless lawman

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Jack Helm was a racist S.O.B.

Who wore the grey and favored slavery.

He even did wrong

Over a Yankee song

That a black man whistled with bravery.

 

And when there was no Civil War,

You could find him with a star that he bore

In the great state of Texas

Where he hated the Mex’s,

And everyone else that’s for sure.

 

Helm got caught-up in the Sutton-Taylor feud;

The type of duty that befit his evil mood.

A prime instigator,

He was head regulator,

And the days he didn’t kill he’d sulk and brood.

 

His body count raised his reputation.

The Governor even gave him a new station.

But when deeds come to light

Causing citizen’s fright,

He’s sent back to DeWitt for the duration.

 

John Wesley Hardin was one of Helm’s foes:

A kin to the Taylor’s, or so the story goes.

Several times they met,

Their back-ups vented and wet,

Yet Hardin and Helm escaped the death throes.

 

But in eighteen-seventy-three, in the month of July,

The two evil rivals would have one more try.

Helm came from the rear,

Hardin turned with a sneer,

To blast Helm with buckshot: his day to die.

 

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Black Elk Speaks

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The biographical text indeed has a poetic flare (though not entirely) to it that comes across from the introduction onward, and can be seen in both Black Elk and John Neihardt’s speech and writing. For instance, Neihardt writes the following:

“Little else but weather ever happened in that country – other than the sun and moon and stars going over – and there was little for the old man to do but wait for yesterday (p.xxiii).”

 

And Black Elk’s normal manner of speech sings with the aged simplicity of wisdom and the colorful style of the long ago Indian, as seen in the following passages:

“What I know was given to me for men and it is true and it is beautiful. Soon I shall be under the grass and it will be lost (p.xxv).”

“I was born in the Moon of the Popping Trees on the Little Powder River in the Winter When the Four Crows Were Killed (p.7).” Continue reading

Henry David Thoreau: Walden

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During a writing course I attended the class was encouraged to give Henry David Thoreau a chance, and I set my mind to do so, but it did not take long to realize that may be a little more difficult than first imagined. Within the first several pages I got the impression that Thoreau was stuck on himself, captivated by his own voice, and yet, he seemingly contradicts himself more than the Emerson piece we dealt with earlier. For instance, he boasts about building his own cabin in the woods (a mere mile from his neighbors) and diligently surviving two years from the toil of his hands and the sweat of his brow, then he lambasts first the farmers for equal diligence in maintaining a plot of land for their homes, what he calls “a fool’s life” (7), then he targets the equally “foolish” strivings of most men, who, in his eyes, toil religiously with nothing to show for it. He says the “finer fruits cannot be plucked by them” (7).

Thoreau did make one statement early on that was rather profound. He said, “It is hard to have a southern overseer (referring to slave masters); worse to have a northern one; but worst of all when you are the slave-driver of yourself.” But then, just when I wanted to give him another chance to impress me, he waxes poetic, but without common sense. He begins with the following statement: “No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof” (9). And he follows that with the adage “what’s true today may prove false tomorrow” (9), which is acceptable, but the use of “no” in the former statement stipulates an all-inclusive reality that inevitably proves the contention false, since various truths, once discovered, have been and still are handed down from generation-to-generation.

Furthermore, in an attempt to confirm his view, Thoreau seemingly digs himself a deeper ideological grave. He contends “old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new” (9), and claims, “I have lived some thirty years on this planet, and I have yet to hear the first syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from any seniors” (9). And he further states that they can never tell him anything of purpose.

I say that he who has not, does not, and cannot learn anything from others, especially elders, is a fool by all relevant standards. But I will continue through the text with the hope of finding something redemptive along the way. However, I do find that I enjoy reading Thoreau more when I cease efforts to ascertain his personal beliefs and simply enjoy his writing style and how he represents his Walden experiences. For instance, after buying a shanty for boards he recalls passing the family as they were leaving and says, “One large bundle held their all, — bed, coffee-mill, looking-glass, hens, — all but the cat, she took to the woods and became a wild cat, and, as I learned afterward, trod in a trap set for woodchucks, and so became a dead cat at last” (33). And when speaking of a neighbor visiting, Thoreau writes, “He was there to represent spectatordom, and help make this seemingly insignificant event one with the removal of the gods of Troy” (33). And I found his admiration of the cellar, the longest lasting section of the home in his eyes, better than the house above it oddly interesting. He states, “The house is still but a sort of porch at the entrance of a burrow” (34); which equally embodies the nature aspect he is expounding on.

Inevitably, I found Walden fairly enjoyable to read only after I skimmed over any of his futile attempts to be philosophical.

Writers and the Mental Health Connection

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The average American cannot reach adulthood without hearing about the tragic lives of several writers. John Berryman, Emily Dickinson, Hart Crane, and Allan Ginsberg are favorites of the education system. Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, and Edgar Allan Poe have a large media influence. For every famous writer who appears to have a Utopian existence there seems to be an equally talented writer who struggles with mental illness, cannot cope with life’s challenges, and meets a tragic end: often self-inflicted. The field of psychology is singularly interested in the connection between writers and mental health. A quick check at PsycINFO for academic papers related to “creative writing” or “creative writers” registered over 1100 hits: nearly half of those since 2000. The nature of many of those research papers was rather surprising. Instead of delving into areas such as childhood, alcoholism, and drugs they attempted to find a connection between the act of writing or creativity and mental health. This paper deals with the three primary connections between writers and mental health as viewed through the psychological studies: creativity and madness, mental health evaluation through a writer’s words, and the “writing cure” controversy. Continue reading

Critique of Bear Island (Part 3)

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The third section, Hole in the Day: Grafters and Warrants, begins with turbulent natural images around Leech Lake, and transitions into the equally turbulent social conditions on the reservation as a result of demeaning “treaty ties,” “federal legacies,” and “shady agents.” Then Vizenor begins to elaborate on the main character of this section, Chief Bugonaygeshig, Hole in the Day, who, the reader found out earlier, was disrespectfully called “Old Bug” by the local long knives. Continue reading