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	<title>THE TRUTH HURTS &#187; damn the torpedoes</title>
	<atom:link href="http://www.thetruthhurts.com/category/damn_torpedoes/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
	<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com</link>
	<description>subjectively objectively relatively absolutely</description>
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		<title></title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/07/15/187/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/07/15/187/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 16 Jul 2010 00:58:56 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>moriarty</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/07/15/187/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[we surrender unto the darkness in moments not unlike this allowing the absence of light to envelop us in a blanket of cold comfort as we attune ourselves to our surroundings. we shrink not from the emptiness but rather we fill it with the fires we carry within.]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>we surrender</p>
<p>unto the darkness</p>
<p>in moments not unlike this</p>
<p>allowing the absence of light</p>
<p>to envelop us</p>
<p>in a blanket of cold comfort</p>
<p>as we attune ourselves to our surroundings.</p>
<p>we shrink not from the emptiness</p>
<p>but rather we fill it</p>
<p>with the fires we carry</p>
<p>within.</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>Rye?</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/05/09/181/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/05/09/181/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 10 May 2010 03:39:05 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>romare</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/?p=181</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I only allow myself to truly mope On alternate days In months that rhyme with &#8220;estuary&#8221; While the moon is waning. All other days I awake Blissfully unaware Of the previous day&#8217;s problems, Full of false faith That the sun will keep rising, Secure in the notion Of righteous forward motion, Kissed by the breeze [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>I only allow myself to truly mope</p>
<p>On alternate days</p>
<p>In months that rhyme with &#8220;estuary&#8221;</p>
<p>While the moon is waning.</p>
<p>All other days I awake</p>
<p>Blissfully unaware</p>
<p>Of the previous day&#8217;s problems,</p>
<p>Full of false faith</p>
<p>That the sun will keep rising,</p>
<p>Secure in the notion</p>
<p>Of righteous forward motion,</p>
<p>Kissed by the breeze</p>
<p>While pissing on the ground.</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<slash:comments>3</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title></title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/23/178/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/23/178/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 24 Feb 2010 00:41:14 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>moriarty</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[nostalgia]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/23/178/</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[the snow still lingers in the shady spaces like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair while the poet tries to write the same poem in a new way doing his best to disguise his limited repertoire he wonders what is possible under the light of the moon? what is [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>the snow still lingers in the shady spaces<br />
like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair<br />
while the poet tries to write the same poem in a new way<br />
doing his best to disguise his limited repertoire<br />
he wonders what is possible under the light of the moon?<br />
what is possible if we are all gods of tomorrow<br />
and the veil of time falls at the feet of our magic?<br />
what are memories and dreams and precognitions<br />
if the mind knows more than we know?  what<br />
exactly is reality if it is filtered through this sieve?</p>
<p>the misunderstood musings of<br />
the once upon a time self<br />
are often enunciated as reasons for<br />
that particular season, that particular picture<br />
or all of these films about ghosts.</p>
<p>descending into paisley, purloining minutes or<br />
moments undercover, under inspection, under<br />
the absent watchful eye, here are the hidden<br />
heartbeats, the nostalgic glances at grace<br />
and beauty and bittersweet yesterdays.</p>
<p>here is the rippled reflection of a man<br />
leaning over the edge of the pond to<br />
look at himself in the cool water and,<br />
seeing his eyes,<br />
reaching down to touch them to see if they are<br />
real or just tricks of the light.</p>
<p>imagine the way he must feel on the other side,<br />
peering into the stars, and the moon, and the<br />
face of the old man that he recognizes but knows not.</p>
<p>mirrored murmurings whispered on the breath of the wind.</p>
<p>the snow still lingers in the shady spaces<br />
like a lover might tarry in the spot of a long ago affair.</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>looky here</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/11/looky-here/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/11/looky-here/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 12 Feb 2010 01:49:46 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>jack</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[you're alive you fucking idiot]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/?p=174</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[i couldn’t make this shit up, i’m telling you the truth, fiction, stranger, it’s all happening exactly like you see and hear it live and in living color, stereophonic sound complete with clicks and hisses because nothing can be too perfect even though we strive for it and wish it oh to be so, to [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>i couldn’t make this shit up, i’m telling you<br />
the truth, fiction, stranger, it’s all happening<br />
exactly like you see and hear it<br />
live and in living color, stereophonic sound<br />
complete with clicks and hisses<br />
because nothing can be too perfect<br />
even though we strive for it and wish it<br />
oh to be so, to be real.</p>
<p>granted the picture i’m painting<br />
is unclear at the moment but we will<br />
attempt to leave an impression<br />
that will last, so step back from the<br />
canvas and look at the whole-<br />
stop focusing on the minutiae<br />
don’t lose yourself in details<br />
don’t sweat the small stuff and suddenly<br />
i find myself wanting to quote<br />
diamond dave or squints palledorous<br />
you see we could drop names all day<br />
but the moral of the story is that we<br />
don’t always need transition words or phrases<br />
or clauses (Santa or otherwise), conjunctions<br />
will lead us to where we need to be but<br />
first you have to know the right path to<br />
take, the yellow brick road so to speak<br />
that will lead you to your own oz and<br />
the realization that what you thought<br />
you needed you already possess.</p>
<p>cause oz never did give nothing to the tin man<br />
that he didn’t, didn’t already have and<br />
cause never was the reason for the evening<br />
or the tropic of sir galahad<br />
or the tropic of cancer or capricorn<br />
or henry miller whoring it up under<br />
the roofs of paris, trying to make love<br />
trying to make art, trying to make a living,<br />
but living, living, living<br />
always endeavoring to persevere,<br />
and doing my, your, our best<br />
to see, no to worship beauty-<br />
to hunt it out, to seek it, to notice it<br />
in its sublime occurrences<br />
even when somedays it doesn’t<br />
appear to come at all.</p>
<p>but if you listen closely<br />
in quiet times<br />
you just may be able to detect it<br />
in the inhale and the exhale<br />
and the love for the moments between.</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<title>If Kerouac Had Lived *</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/02/if-kerouac-had-lived/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/02/02/if-kerouac-had-lived/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 03 Feb 2010 00:27:17 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Childers]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Kerouac]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/?p=170</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Thank God no rehabilitation saved him, ]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>If Kerouac had lived he would have<br />
bored and disappointed the fire<br />
eaters who expected him to burn<br />
and explode again and again to our wow.</p>
<p>To be the crazy poet angel means no thought<br />
beyond the moment and this age of healthy<br />
obsessivness, zero tolerance and glorified<br />
dullness cannot digest that kind of blood.</p>
<p>Thank God no rehabilitation saved him,<br />
no government imposed pennance on his time&#8217;<br />
nor could the hands of hipness unwrap<br />
the blue, white and red blazing flag from his heart.</p>
<p>- David Childers</p>
<p>* By kind permission of David Childers, whom I hope you all have had the good fortune of seeing live or at least hearing.     http://www.davidchilders.com/</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<slash:comments>5</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>a little silliness</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/01/23/a-little-silliness/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/01/23/a-little-silliness/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 23 Jan 2010 22:43:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>willy</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/?p=160</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[the smoke swirls around the corner as the rain drips from the trees and the somnambulist awakens from his dream every angle a mirror every reflection a distant view of some changing season a soft parade of hide and seek in real time we become the elfin race and watch the roots cling to sod [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>the smoke swirls around the corner<br />
as the rain drips from the trees<br />
and the somnambulist awakens from his dream</p>
<p>every angle a mirror<br />
every reflection a distant view of some changing season<br />
a soft parade of hide and seek</p>
<p>in real time we become the elfin race<br />
and watch the roots cling to sod as we scrape away the tears<br />
that fall as we walk into the shadows</p>
<p>dance on home you quickened faun<br />
creep unto the lazy dawn that lies beyond your sleepy eyes<br />
and beckons with a barking dog, a fading light, a breath inhaled within a moist night</p>
<p>stars paint the darkness with their silent screams<br />
we watch the one hold onto dreams<br />
slightly disremembered in the woodland promise made</p>
<p>he is us and we are he<br />
and such is how it’s meant to be<br />
as one and one and one make three</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>not about jack or diane</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/01/04/not-about-jack-or-diane/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2010/01/04/not-about-jack-or-diane/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 04 Jan 2010 22:28:56 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>moriarty</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/?p=158</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[the warmth, and the quiet, and the wine, the beautiful lady and the lights of the christmas tree all served to bring about the mood that hastened the words and the feelings that pushed one to think and then to read and then to write as such is the nature of the business. we learn [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>the warmth, and the quiet, and the wine,<br />
the beautiful lady and the lights<br />
of the christmas tree all served to<br />
bring about the mood that hastened<br />
the words and the feelings<br />
that pushed one to think and then<br />
to read and then to write as<br />
such is the nature of the business.</p>
<p>we learn more about ourselves<br />
(particularly our knees) when<br />
we run in the cold of this<br />
december afternoon chasing<br />
demons, singing songs, attempting<br />
to wage war against time<br />
and, of course, the bottle<br />
in that never ending dance<br />
where we are desirous of<br />
it all but too comfortable<br />
to really get out there<br />
and do something about it.</p>
<p>so we figure what the hell? and<br />
hope it doesn’t kill us, this pursuit<br />
of the things we feel inside, these<br />
delusions of grandeur, what hath<br />
God wraught when he made us?</p>
<p>and what have we done to ourselves<br />
in the meantime?</p>
]]></content:encoded>
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		<item>
		<title>back in 1881, not so long ago&#8230;</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2009/11/28/back-in-1881-not-so-long-ago/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2009/11/28/back-in-1881-not-so-long-ago/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 29 Nov 2009 02:45:47 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>romare</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.thetruthhurts.com/?p=155</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Such a crime as this has not been known in this county before and that such is the state of feeling about the - among the people that quick vengeance would be meted out to the murderer could he be found.

His own conscience must be his greatest burden just at this time.]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>MURDER MOST FOUL<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><strong> AND ROBBERY ADDED TO   IT</strong></span><strong><br />
<strong>Miss Caroline Thompson</strong> of Alexander County,   Brutally Murdered and All Her Father&#8217;s Money Stolen</strong></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Reported for The Landmark</span></strong><br />
Margaret Caroline Thompson a maiden lady of about 50   years of age daughter of Mr James Thompson, of Sharpe&#8217;s   township Alexander county was brutally murdered at the door of   her father&#8217;s house on Friday last by some person or persons   unknown. The fact of this terrible crime as gathered by the   coroner seem as follows:</p>
<p>Mr Thompson partook of quite a late   dinner in company with his daughter on Friday noon and then,   leaving his daughter in charge of the house went to his plowing   which was about three quarters of a mile away.  There he staid   hard at work until about sundown when he returned to his home.    Arriving at the gate he took the harness from his horse and   went through towards the kitchen a small out building near by,   intending to leave his harness there as was his usual custom   but as he neared the kitchen he saw his daughter Caroline lying   flat on the ground near the kitchen door. Thinking she was sick   and having no serious thought concerning her strange position,   he spoke to her asking what was the matter and receiving no   reply he bent over her and then realized that she was covered   with blood and was dead.</p>
<p>In his great agitation at this   terrible discovery he hurried to the house to see if robbery   had been committed as well as murder and found his worst fears   realized.  Everything of value had been stolen  and his   mortgages, notes, bonds, and money were gone and the floor   strewn with bed clothing and wearing apparel taken from the   chest where he had secreted his valuables.  Before leaving home   at noon Mr Thompson had taken the precaution as he had only   commenced to do lately to lock up his house and put the key on   top shelf of the cupboard in the kitchen.  He told his daughter   where the key was then went to the field as before related.  He   left her rendering quite a quantity of beeswax and alone   excepting the presence of a large and ferocious dog which he   kept to guard his home from danger.</p>
<p>When he realized the full   extent of his loss and the terrible fact of his daughter&#8217;s foul   murder he hurried to his nearest neighbor telling him as he met   him.  <em>&#8220;I&#8217;m ruined! and somebody has killed Caroline!  Oh help   me, come to the house quick!&#8221; </em> Mr Kennedy was the neighbor   called.  He hurried to the house and found it was only too   true.  He raised an alarm and roused the neighbors far and near   and soon they commenced to arrive from all quarters.</p>
<p>No sign   or trace could be found of the murderer except his terrible   work.  His victim lay cold and still as he had left her.  She   lay with her face  buried in a puddle of clotted blood, her   right arm under her and across her breast, her left arm was   drawn up in a position of as if she had tried to use after being   felled to the ground.  Beside of her, lying to her right, was   an axe covered with blood and hair showing plainly with what   terrible means her murderer had killed her.  The ground towards   the gate for more than ten feet from the body was &#8211; spattered   with blood showing the brutal force spent in making  &#8221; ?    work.&#8221;  A more horrible spectacle from correspondent has never   witnessed. Ver_  it was a murder in &#8220;coldblood&#8221;.  Her murderer   had dealt her ? terrible blows with the pole or blunt of the   axe, any one of which would have been mortal, they all   penetrated the brain to a considerable depth.  On her body no   wounds or bruises were found and Dr Little reports no evidence   of an attempt at outrage.</p>
<p>This much seems sure that the   murderer was not an accomplished villain but a burglar of the   worst type.  No experienced robber would have found it   necessary to commit &#8211;  &#8211;  in this rage, he would have gagged   and bound this woman after having obtained from her all the   information he could.</p>
<p>Another factor looms up though.  It   looks as if the victim might have recognized her murderer and   he had thought it best to make way with her for &#8220;dead men  (and   women) tell no tales.&#8221;</p>
<p>The deed probably done at abut 3pm    and the murderer had ample time to get far away from his crime   and with his booty before the murder and robbery were   discovered. Of some importance and pointing to the murderer as   not being a stranger is the fact that not a thing in the house   or kitchen was disturbed besides the chest containing the   valuables with the single exception that the gun was lifted   down from it&#8217;s rack over the door and was found on the night of   the murder near the door in a standing position, evidently so   as to be handy to the murderer in case anyone should molest him   in his terrible work.</p>
<p>The dog spoken of for some   unaccountable reason came to Mr Thompson in the field about one   hour after he left his house at noon and stayed with him until   about 5 o&#8217;clock pm.  When Mr Thompson returned home at sundown   he found the dog lying down close to his daughter&#8217;s body.</p>
<p>Mr   James Thompson is a highly respected citizen of this township,   is 81 years old and yet as hale and hearty as a man of 59.  We   have considered him our wealthiest land owner and it was not   known that he had an enemy in the world; certain it is that he   owed no man anything.  He says that he had often thought that   he would be robbed but never that murder would be done in   connection with it.  He is almost broken down with grief over   his daughter&#8217;s fate, especially too as it comes so soon, only   about two months after the death of his wife.</p>
<p>Of the   money stolen about $200 of it was in bills of small   denominations and the balance about $300 was in silver and   gold, only a few pieces of the latter though; the bulk was   small silver change.</p>
<p>Such a crime as this has not been known   in this county before and that such is the state of feeling   about the  &#8211;  among the people that quick vengeance would be meted out to the murderer could he be found.</p>
<p>His   own conscience must be his greatest burden just at this   time.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Sep 16 1881</strong><br />
<strong> Church and Dockery<br />
The   Alexander Crime</strong><br />
An intelligent correspondent at   Taylorsville gives us an account of the incarceration of Lige   Church, in Alexander jail and of the attempts which was   afterwards made to lynch him.  It is the common belief that   Church was a contracting party to his own arrest.  He is known   to be a very bold, desperate man; yet his brother-in-law, one   Minton, brought him easily enough to Taylorsville and into the   presence of the sheriff, and was prompt to demand the reward of   $300 which the Governor has offered for the apprehension of the   culprit  It is supposed and with  good reason, that there was a deliberate plan between Church   and Minton, whereby Church was to give himself into the hands   of Minton (who by the by has been feeding him in the woods ever   since he became a fugitive from justice) and that after the   prisoner had been delivered to the sheriff and the reward   obtained, his friends were to release him from jail and the   reward be divided among them.</p>
<p>If the crowd which surrounded   Taylorsville jail a few nights ago had been a little more   determined, this nice little scheme would have been entirely   thwarted. But there seems to have been a miscarriage somewhere   in the lynching arrangements, and a demonstration of the people   of Taylorsville and a speech from Mr R Z Linney served to   dissuade the attacking party from it&#8217;s purpose and Church was   carried across the river to Catawba jail, from which he will   certainly escape unless extraordinary precautions were adopted   to insure his security.  If he can be held and hung according   to law, it will be much better than if the plans of the   lynching party had succeeded.  If the negligence of jail   officers shall permit him to escape, a new and powerful   argument in favor of lynch law will have been advanced to the   people of this section.  It is said that in the presence of the   crowd which surrounded the jail he weakened and cried like a   child; a deadly fear took hold of him and he could not have   walked a step.  &#8220;Thus, conscience doth make cowards of us   all.&#8221;</p>
<p>Dockery according to his confession which was recited   last week, was not one of the original parties to the crime   which resulted in the death of Miss Thompson and the robbery of   her father&#8217;s premises of all the money he had.  He was a mere   hireling.  He was to have been given $55 for his  share in the   nefarious transaction. He was not a partner but an employee.    Dockery has confessed, too that it was he and  Church who   robbed the house of Mr Erastus Redman of Iredell, a few days   after the Alexander murder and robbery.</p>
<p>Gradually the meshes   of the law are being woven around the villains who planned and   executed  this atrocious crime, and it appears reasonably   certain that the principals in guilt will be brought to the   scaffold, except as remarked above, the negligence of  jail   officers allows them to escape. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Oct 7 1881<br />
CHURCH LYNCHED<br />
Taken from Newton Jail Last Night and Swung to a Limb</strong><br />
Last night about 10:00 o&#8217;clock a party of about 100 mounted men appeared at the door of Newton jail and demanded the keys of Mr Andrew Helton, the jailer. He protested but finally yielded to the demand, and the party unlocked the doors and proceeded to the cell of Elijah F Church, took him out, carried him a mile and a half from the town and hung him to the limb of a tree, then quietly deposed. The proceeding occurred under the bright light of the moon and there was no interference with the lynching party.<br />
Shortly after the party left town with the prisoner, two surgeons followed in the direction which they had taken. They found the body still hanging on the tree, with life extinct.<br />
Church was one of the murderers of Miss Caroline Thompson, of Alexander county, in June inst. Our readers are perfectly familiar with all of the particulars of this crime. Of his guilt there is no question. He had for many years been a pest to society and public opinion will sanction the summary proceeding which has put him out of the way.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><strong>Dockery Carried to Charlotte</strong><br />
Sheriff Mays, of Alexander, arrived here Wednesday evening, having to charge Harrison Dockery, the accomplice of Church in the robbery of the home of James Thompson and the murder of his daughter. Dockery was locked up in jail here until train time yesterday morning, when Sheriff Mays carried him off to Charlotte to be confined in jail there for safe keeping. This precautionary measure was the result of intelligence that Church&#8217;s friends and the friends of others who are suspected of complicity in the Thompson crime had determined to lynch Dockery, he being the person who had given evidence against Church and who may testify against others. It was reported that the Taylorsville jail would be attacked Tuesday night and the authorities accordingly took Dockery out and guarded him in the woods all night.</p>
<p><strong>The Lynching of Church<br />
Further Particulars to the Case</strong><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">This article was almost impossible to transcribe.  Errros are probable.</span><br />
We mentioned in our last the bare fact of the lynching of Elijah Church, by a party who took him out of Newton jail Thursday night of last week. Such details were reported by the Newton Enterprise and the Piedmont Press. It is stated that the lynchers rode quietly but briskly up to the jail and then all but one dismounted and went up. When Church heard the noise he remarked to his fellow prisoner &#8211; who had heard Abernethy at ?Ball&#8217;s Creek jump up exclaim? &#8221; My time has come&#8221;. When the crowd knocked at the door the jailer opened it and the visitors passed into the passage and demanded Church! The jailer refused to bring him out, and was told they positively would not leave until they had him even if they had be beat the jailer up; that there were 115 men in the party and that they were able to enforce their demand. Seeing the circumstance was useless, the jailer delivered the key to Church&#8217;s cell to the leader of the party and they went upstairs and brought him down, having meantime left one man below to keep the jailer covered with his pistol. The shackles were taken from the criminal, his hands tied behind him and a rope tied around his neck. The lynchers delivered the keys to the jailer, told him to see to his remaining prisoners, and setting Church behind one of the crowd on a horse they all rode off together.</p>
<p>Of the further proceedings the Piedmont Press says:<br />
Several of the young men of Newton happened to be out drinking at the time, and followed the party and saw them hang him. They were close enough to hear all that was said by them? what was gathered the lynchers endeavored to get a confession from the prisoner but he denied being guilty of the charge to the very last. Just as he was about to swing from the horse he asked the party to wait &#8211; stating he had something else to say but they told him that they had given ample time and could wait no longer, so in a few seconds the party scattered leaving the victim swinging in the air. The moon was shining very bright but not a single man of the party was recognized by any one . They were respectable and fine looking gentlemen, none masked or disguised and performed their mission and remained very quietly without any effort to disturb the citizens. </span></p>
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		<title>lucky (worth the effort)</title>
		<link>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2009/11/18/lucky-worth-the-effort/</link>
		<comments>http://www.thetruthhurts.com/2009/11/18/lucky-worth-the-effort/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 19 Nov 2009 01:13:23 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>jack</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[damn the torpedoes]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[lucky poetry jack]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[i wrestle the gods for sleep and don’t give a damn about this world for now, your news is not news its shit on a stick and i have no time for such silliness, such diversions. sipping water from a plastic cup head rested in hand, i wonder where this storm came from and ponder [...]]]></description>
			<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>i wrestle the gods for sleep<br />
and don’t give a damn about this world<br />
for now, your news is not news<br />
its shit on a stick<br />
and i have no time for such<br />
silliness, such diversions.</p>
<p>sipping water from a plastic cup<br />
head rested in hand, i wonder<br />
where this storm came from<br />
and ponder the meaning of<br />
november and my daughter’s<br />
fifth birthday, how the<br />
hell did this all happen<br />
so quickly?  where have<br />
the days gone to?<br />
how many more do we have?</p>
<p>in fits of sleepless soliloquy<br />
the poet has conversations with<br />
himself and thinks that this is<br />
a fine time to suddenly feel the pulse<br />
of the words.</p>
<p>and i don’t know where my head is,<br />
yes you do, it’s in your poem<br />
and in your past, and you can<br />
look there and to the future<br />
but neither are as important<br />
as being here, right now, and<br />
loving and giving and breathing<br />
this air, this life affirming air,<br />
sucking it into the lungs and<br />
feeling the heart beating and<br />
the mind whirling and churning<br />
because this is where life exists-<br />
in the right fucking now of it all.</p>
<p>both of us grin at the affirmation<br />
of our mortality and begin to<br />
think about dancing in the rain.</p>
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