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Operation Disclosure GCR/RV Intel Alert for March 24, 2018

Operation Disclosure https://operationdisclosure.blogspot.com/ RV/INTELLIGENCE ALERT - March 24, 2018 Signs of the major correction ...

Sunday, March 19, 2017

"Tonight's Word: You're A Poet And Didn't Even Know It" - Heisenberg - 3.19.17

Entry Submitted by Heisenberg at 9:23 PM EDT on March 19, 2017


And that brings us to tonight's word: YOU'RE A POET AND DIDN'T EVEN KNOW IT


They tell us that all the intel is over. They tell us there's a predetermined time set to roll out agreed upon by royals and elders. They tell us rates are great and gold backed. And will be safe in the new skeleton trust accounts. To quote Roosevelt: Bully for you. Jolly good. Carry on.

So now whats there to do for zim holder on the edge of their seat? Like a monster truck announcer says: Monday Monday Monday! The truck says go but the mud says no! You'll pay for the whole seat but you'll only need the edge!


Well, it seems all the poets are coming out filling up the pages of the Daily DC. Kinda refreshing direction from all the rate date Iraq stuff (no offense). There's some that only want Intel at DC. Why? Do your own homework. No more Intel, member? You member (George Lopez, boom).

I'm also picking up that a line has been drawn in the sand. I know choosing a side makes some of you nervous. It makes me bummed too. I wanted us all hold hands, walk into that sunset like that coke commercial. I really wanted to buy the world a coke (not really, that's crap is toxic. Black goo. I keed I keed. X files, yo). I wanted us all to go as one. But that's become apparent we aren't all going together. Some just aren't ready. And some can't let go of that luggage they've been schlepping around hell and half of China for 20 years.

The good news is we're not being asked to choose Trump or no Trump (thank God..that was hairy. Ciao, Cindy). Not asked to believe in a lop (thank God...went round and round on that one). Not asked to get in a group (haven't heard form spaceman Schmidt or over and out lately. Maybe they got a special phone call just for them). So really, alot of the little min-ute silly lines in the sand have been blown away. All but a big one.

One last big choice to make. And it's a whopper. God or no god? To do no harm or continue to hurt? Leave all that baggage you've accumulated over a lifetime or refuse to part with it? I really like that one. Like holding onto that jacket from high school that you never wear but it's sooo sentimental. I lettered in high school how can I throw it out? Baggage. My coworker hurt my feelings 10 years ago so now I ignore them every chance I get. Vocational baggage. That girl broke my heart and now I can never trust anyone ever again. Relationship baggage. Ever feel weighed down?

Maybe that turned into more than one choice. Digressing is a habit. And what does God have to do with that cheating tart sleeping with my best friend? I'm not really sure. But I think it has to do with forgiveness … Surrender… and letting go of my old pain in this 3D existence.

I just heard Kent Dunn (you know I'm really starting to like that guy) bring up another choice he's made already. He's already voted. And this sounds like a choice that all of us are gonna have to make. Those of us listening to KPDC ZOO ZIM radio 108.8 have gotten a little heads up about this line in the sand because were tuning in 40 times a day on average. Kent sounded like he could't make his choice quick enough to go to 5D. I think I heard him say he's done with this 3D hell. Ok....That's about as clear as you can get. No grey area there. Then again, Kent has seen things we don't see. Let's take a second and thank God for that.

I respect that he knows what he wants and is ready to go to that divine existence. I'm pretty sure Fisher is ready for the next train to 5D (+?) Land as well. And I'm sure many of you can't wait for that train either. This 3D world has been tough on very many. It's been dark, lonely, it's been full of want and deceit and heartbreak. Chingao, ese.

As for me? I'm still undecided. I rather enjoyed this 3D existence. I have good friends, good family here. Tried to look for the brighter things in life always. Tried to walk on the sunny side of the street when I could. But I think what's holding me back are some of my friends and family who are holding onto baggage and going to stay in 3D. One of my friends is a strict Republican who fills his head full of Rush Limbaugh (cabal crap). Nuff said. I just don't see him getting 5D anytime soon. I just don't. And he called my Bruuuuce a bleeding liberal. We used to love U2 together but he's turned off by feeding the hungry. So Bono bugs him. Go figure. I would guess 1 of those 3 is a satan worshiper. Boom. But I kinda like this guy, he makes me laugh. And there's more of these kind misguided programmed folk out there that are not gonna get 5D without a massive struggle/breakdown. Is anyone gonna stick around and try to help them? I might try. As awesome as 5D sounds, I just might try.

Well time to sign off. To all poets on land, air and sea, if you're listening...

"Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief"

"Hey vibes man, hey jazz man, oh play me your serenade
Any deeper blue and you're playin' in your grave
Save your notes, don't spend 'em on the blues boy"

"Outside the street's on fire in a real death waltz
Between what's flesh and what's fantasy
And the poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
And in the quick of a knife, they reach for their moment
And try to make an honest stand
But they wind up wounded, not even dead..
Tonight in Jungleland"

Let's not use our precious words on crafting grief. Let's not waste our notes on the blues. Inspiration is out there waiting for us to find it. Maybe at a dead show? Can't, man. Jer bear is dead. Bueller?.....Bueller?.....Bueller...........?? Anyone?

And that's the word


Best poet in the biz


"Last thoughts on Woodie Guthrie"

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you want to be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache´
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain't in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who'd turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can't find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain't in the ones that ain't got any talent but think they do
And think they're foolin' you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while 'cause they know it's in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin', "Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain't there no one here that knows where I'm at
Ain't there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty

No but that ain't yer game, it ain't even yer race
You can't hear yer name, you can't see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin'
Where do you look for this lamp that's a-burnin'
Where do you look for this oil well gushin'
Where do you look for this candle that's glowin'
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You'll find God in the church of your choice
You'll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it's only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You'll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown



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