Dear Subscriber,
History can be such sweet sorrow! For example, I wrote Sins of Darkness near the time of the assassination of Robert F. Kennedy on June 6, 1968 at the Ambassador Hotel in Pasadena. I did a lot of research on the theory that the shooter, Sirhan Bishara Sirhan was hypnoprogrammed to kill by extremists. I even interviewd Sirhan’s brother, Adel, as well as the Forensics Psychologist in San Diego, Dr. Martin Schorr.
Sadly, when Sirhan was finally paroled, the Governor of California refused his parole, which pissed me off quite a bit. Sirhan’s attorneys consulted me about the case. We thought it was a done deal, but nope. He’s in for life.
It’s ironic to me, as over half of all murders in the United States today go unsolved, so that means there are killers walking the streets and working among us every day. And this may be the fact that prisons want to keep as many convicted murderers they can inside their prison confines (which are today the most in the world).
Poem about Guns
FIRST TO DIE FROM A FIREARM
1132 during the Jin-Song War.
I stepped in front of a shooting star.
I died from six feet, from a fire lance:
Half flame thrower and half shotgun dance.
Don’t worry, I’ve perfected this.
2023 will have the most humans missed.
In the short history of U.S.A. shooting deaths,
I take their souls with my inward breaths.
Much more deliberate than a virus ruse,
My collections are killed with Amendment 2.
Your freedom to kill guarantees my tears,
Like a paid funeral crier, I have your ears.
Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.
Killers don’t think. Killers are sheeple.
Garbage (like bodies) doesn’t stink unless it sits awhile,
And dead love is as tragic as a gun projectile.
I hold each victim in my arms as they bleed out.
You don’t have to see them, so please don’t pout.
Unless you get shot, why should you care?
Somebody else’s soul, so don’t you despair.
I’m that first guy from 1132. It’s my job to cry.
I kind of squat, hold their heads, as they die.
You don’t see me. It’s my spiritual job.
My language even changes, and I don’t ever sob.
More of you are armed. I’ve heard those bangs.
More kids die from crossfire in the inner-city gangs.
I’m a ghost from the past, I carry collective misery.
I’m ordered to hold them until they become history.
I was the first to die from a firearm.
A shooting star, a fire lance burn,
Into my brain, and my soul shot out.
You don’t have to mourn them, so please don’t pout.
Copyright 2023 by James Musgrave
Thanks for your continuing support. I’ll keep giving you information in coming newsletters.
Kind Regards,
James Musgrave
