Sunday, July 01, 2012

...Spark Of Hope...

..
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Johnny Ford—still locked away? Still kept from freedom's dawn, you say! ...Still eating tasteless gruel he's served with hapless ladles crusted, lurid...
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Bullied by some cell block thug, he's driven down with slaps and slugs? Remember, he's a cop to them, a target for the fix they're in, and sleeping on his fetid mattress, he lays awake and smells the madness; bad enough if he deserved it—UNBEARABLE, he didn't earn it!
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...And he didn't, I'd suspect. For "law" and "order"? He'd had respect. ...And there was irony, sharp and quick, that Ford's accuser was the prick! See? Ford should not be doing time! It's one John Powell committed crime!
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...Crimped and weak Ford's fingers curl around the bars that cage a hero? Damn that sinful, unjust steel removes him from the free and real!
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What's he doing, how's he hangin', listening to a cup put bangin' from some distance he can't get to—he's restricted, tied—denied you! You won't hear what he might say. It questions ways you'd think, OK? See? You got tired, and with no emotion (basing such on foolish notions) condemned a *saint* to thick brick walls while mayhem, outside, howls and crawls!
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Still and all, and not a peep... of John Ford's status—such vast conceit! You think that he's forgotten, lost, that he has come to bear the cost of what it WAS that he got close to—let licking flames of shame engulf you!
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You think that it is unremembered, you called him *crazy*, then reconsidered? He's well enough for trial, you say? Well—when's he going to have his day? And there's the rub, you craven bastard! You won't hear his harmful answers! His trial might embarrass you, but worse than that—the death of you!
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It's gone on now for sixteen years!  That gadfly Ford you've tried to steer? Quiet now within his cell, but bet he has a tale to tell!  ...And he will be, at least, litigious, and, in that way be most prodigious!  That's what Joe Zuppardo claims while speaking out and naming names.
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You'd argue that I "feed his madness" when it's you produced his sadness—slandered him and took his name; I hope that, soon, YOU'RE made to blame.
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Everyone is most surprised that he'd contrive what you've described! All who know him, friend or foe, all know that he was framed as though... a mad man walked inside his clothesbecause he looked for UFO's!?!
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Your case is stupid, uninspired... a contrivance you have made—conspired! ...And getting older by the minute, hard to prove the way you spin it.
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...Maybe, hoping soon he'll die! ...Maybe, help him make his try!?!
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Yea, if he dies in jail friend, I'll know YOU did it—comprehend!?! That he's there is YOUR disgrace; I'll hope to see you take his place... among those inmates of contrition—those deserving their positions.
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Months, and we have had no news that's news about John Ford, in view. The reason for that silence glares, and challenges with steady stares reluctant to speak up one word... where freedom is, in fact, deterred!
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But is that freedom you can cherish? So quickly lost, so quick to perish—evaporating like a dew on desert flowers. Yes, it's true.
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When we are at, as much, a risk to not speak out, then, sharp and quick, to bellows of these arbitrarythese tyrannous or darkly scary! Let them bring just one down low, and they're emboldeneddon't you know? Then it's us they finally get to, our freedom a mere sucker's bet, too... at the whim of your convenience to make me live your inconvenience!
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You don't get it, that's your error! John is you; he lives YOUR terror. YOU'RE the one interred alive. YOU'RE the one in jail, Clyde!
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It's YOU who's eating awful food. It's YOU forsaken, betrayed—abused! It's you without a spark of hope! It's you who lives John's tragic joke!
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It's you who lives a life despised as harmful vermin—all contrived! It's you who shuffles for the man from cell to yard, to hall—all planned. It's you without a moment's peace, it's you who's driven to your knees! It's you who suffers needlessly. It's YOU in torment—YOU not free!
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Just lately there's a spark of hope... that hope is more than mere soft soap... some promise that the end is near for Suffolk County's reign of fear.  That justice might be done at last... at least as far as Ford is cast; and he's released to reinstate his RESTORATION, not too late!



Misery!






Yes, you.

No, no, not *you*, don't be foolish, how could it be *you*? ...

...But _you_... now _you're_ a whole other toxic bag of lurid excrescence... _altogether_!

You are as beyond guilt as you are shame! May I live to see your eventual comeuppance and anticipated demise!

Even now I suspect you're feeling a growing dread that you "backed the wrong dark horse" and you're not going to get away with it, after all. Blood runs colder than usual for Suffolk County psychopaths, I'd bet.

Sneer at _that_. You know who you are.

...Yo' John!  Be restored!


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