we serve the god of death obomba, moloch, we feed him with our lives.

i imagine a world where death technology doesn't rule us all.
i guess that will always be an alternate world, world not of this world,
or an inscape isolated in separate beings.
could that connect like water under the thick ice of death.

as i watched an act of killing yesterday i thought how amazing the same thugs who were murdering in 1965 are still in power, extorting, terrorizing and murdering today. the difference today is they are celebrating by making a film. they have made a living hell, and it is not confined to indonesia. we are doing the same in the middle east, in africa, the same thugs terrorize the planet, the thugs in east asia are the compadres of the u.s. thugs, they are partners in terror. but what is most important, and amazing, about the film is that the most ruthless of the killers, in the process of making the film, goes through a horrific personal journey through the re-inactment of killing. he starts out in white, in sun, in joyous green tropical shirt, throttling a victim with wire. he says i would never wear white to kill. later he dies his hair, he's getting into character, he dons black. later he re-inacts the killing, playing the victim now. he is bloody, slumped in a chair, he has his grandchildren watch it on tv on his lap. in the end he returns to the first scene, at night. he says, it's like the end of the world, this darkness. his gorge rises, he wretches violently, over and over, into the basin where he dropped the gorge of his victims, so long ago  and now.
i would hope that obomba watches this, i would hope he has his own similar meeting with consciousness. but he is very far from the act of killing, so far they seem, maybe they are not his acts.
the protagonists, the killers keep repeating that they are hollywood gangsters, that gangster means free man, and that is exactly how we are raised in this slaughterhouse world. hollywood and real.