Open Letter to Jon Klein of CNN/US re: Lou Dobbs and the alleged Obama "Birth Controversy"

"CNN/US President Jon Klein e-mailed 'Lou Dobbs Tonight' staffers that the legitimacy of the president's birth certificate is a 'dead' story but didn't order them to drop the issue. On his show Thursday, Dobbs did note the explanation from Hawaiian officials [that Hawaii did away with paper documents in 2001 and the only document available is the short form which has been presented], as Klein suggested in his e-mail. But he went on to devote another full segment to the topic. In it, Dobbs stressed that he has said repeatedly that he believes Obama is a citizen, something that he said his critics in the 'left-wing media' ignore. But he continued to press the question of why Obama has not shown a long-form birth certificate. 'When this could be dispelled so quickly, and simply by producing it, why not do it?' he asked [thus inferring that the controversy rages on and that the president has failed to prove himself a citizen, even though the response from the State of Hawaii settled the question]." Excerpts from an LA Times news story titled "CNN chief addresses Obama birth controversy" written by Matea Gold and published on July 25, 2009.

Now, back on Sept. 8, 2004, Dan Rather reported on 60 Minutes Wednesday that a series of memos critical of President George W. Bush's Texas Air National Guard service record had been discovered in the personal files of Lt. Bush's former commanding officer, Lt. Col. Jerry B. Killian. The authenticity of these documents was quickly called into question by a small group of bloggers, initially based on their being proportionally printed and displaying other modern typographic conventions with limited availability on military typewriters of the time. This led to claims that the memos were forgeries.

Rather and CBS initially defended the story, insisting that the documents had been authenticated by experts. CBS was contradicted by some of the experts it originally cited. CBS later reported that their source for the documents, former Texas Army National Guard officer Lt. Col. Bill Burkett, had misled the network about how he had obtained them. However, by September 20, CBS retracted the story. Rather stated, "If I knew then what I know now, I would not have gone ahead with the story as it was aired, and I certainly would not have used the documents in question."

The two incidents have certain similarities. In both cases a network anchor went on the air with a story he presumed to be true (giving Dobbs the benefit of the doubt since he never possessed any evidence that suggests Obama is not a US citizen, whereas Rather did have purported evidence, the alleged copies of Bush's Air National Guard records). However, the situations diverge from there. Once Rather discovered his error, he issued an immediate retraction and full apology. Dobbs, on the other hand used the forum for admitting he was in error to continue to hammer at the "non-issue" for another full broadcast of misinformation, never apologized and never admitted his error. Furthermore, Dobbs used the occasion to lash out at the "left-wing media" who he said were attacking him and his credibility. Lou, when you stick to a story that is a lie and it's been proven by the appropriate agency it is a lie you lose your credibility!

Now, here's the kicker. That so-called left-wing media bias we hear so much about, and who most right-wing nuts claim Rather to have been part of, didn't save Rather's job. He lost his credibility and ultimately was forced out of his position as CBS anchor as numerous producers on the story were fired and Rather took an "early retirement." Meanwhile, that same "left-wing" media bias can't touch Dobbs! He is allowed to continue spewing hate for any and every group which disagrees with his opinions and his desire to see US corporations dominate the global economy. Dobbs continues to have his bully pulpit to express xenophobic class-ism with regard to his never-ending vehemence against so-called illegal immigrants, false protectionism designed to promote the interests of US multinational corporations at the expense of our environment, employment opportunities for workers at home, and the welfare of indigent workers throughout the world (who, I might add, he wouldn't let into the US if he had a choice and whose living conditions and workers' rights he wouldn't want to see improved with more level trade treaties). Dobbs also is enabled to maintain issuing misinformation about the President to a degree that if he were in certain other countries he'd be labeled a traitor and his head would be served up on a platter.

This gives great credence to the claim that not only is there no "left-wing media bias" but that it is a myth created and perpetuated by right-wing hate-mongers and global economy supporters. Furthermore, in reality, what does exist is a "right-wing media bias" which knows no boundaries - not civil, not moral, not ethical and not even patriotic!

If Rather deserved to be pushed into early retirement, so does Lou Dobbs!

Globalization's Demented Domination

lead me to a world without all this... killing

Secret agent cabals fester with dispassionate malice,

devising sinister plots to behead elected officials

and advance conquest's master plan: globalization's

demented domination. Freaking button-down, Johnny

Appleseed wannabes strew iMacs across every rain forest,

converting indigenous farmers into multinational

corporate serfs, while concrete pours and asphalt

paves over forests, forever staining green with gray.

Beady-eyed Clinton clowns left over from coups

of Latin America past gleam with eyes sparkling

and hands rubbing together like the forearms of flies

pondering their pounce on the next pile of shit

that smells like money. Meanwhile, the land of once

golden streets, merely a glittery mirage, dilapidates

into ghetto streets where drive-by shooters fail

to grasp that the gang from the turf next door

ain't their enemy, it's the circus freaks running

things in State Capitols and Washington, D.C.

who pit brother against brother, dividing

to make conquest all the easier: the same old

Conquistador strategy, selling notions of fountains

of youth to the masses while the wealthy stake

claims to the imagined El Dorado under the next

oil well or in the patent office mines once proud

people slave in and still can't make ends meet.

The virulent strains of contagious opulence

already swim in the veins of elitist pigs who snort

in filthy sties spreading a corpulent pestilence

of narcissism and desire. Who among you will pick

and share flowers from a new garden, fertilized

by the rotting remains of withered capitalism?

Unfettered by Attachments

In a dream, a room

gaped open, drawing people

inside by whispering

in a strange, mysterious

voice as a clammy,

foreboding and forbidden

coldness surrounded,

knocking upon the door:

everyone tried to answer.

I stood silently, witnessing

as a glow in the darkness

issued judgmental daggers

from cross-eyed stares

manipulating inhuman

fascination with irascible,

irrational phobias.

The inhabitants spoke

of battling with gray

dread, and an ache grew

from their core, welling

up in their icy fingertips,

which were commanded

by the stalking eyes

to point by proxy.

A cantankerous cancer

spread instant infection

in worldly, combat-oriented

minds, acquiescing

to illogical and unscientific

platitudes which demanded

adherence to empty,

elitist notions.

In the pit of insecurity,

someone tried to prove

objective reality while

interjecting subjective

points of view as mere

interpretations of facts;

but the act of observing

or codifying anything

as fact, interjected

subjectivity, in the process

destroying objectivity's

momentary presence.

The layering of suburban

sheets, inscribed with physical,

moral, religious and governmental

laws, across a planetary landscape

populated by individuals,

who by implementation

of those laws faced conformation

to cultural norms and lost

all sense

of themselves

and wonder, devalued

nature until every

perceivable conception

discovered itself infected

by the same spreading

cancer which ate away

at individuality:

uniqueness died

a quiet, stillborn

death undanced.

In the dream, I cast

off my stubborn

clothing, discarding fate

and caution

to the cancer's grasp

as I swam beyond

the last harbor buoy,

until the room opened

as the doors exploded,

allowing everyone to flee;

but only I chose freedom.

Inside the dilapidated

room, quicksand sucked

at the Earth, drowning

the planet in the white

cancerous sand

of ignorance

and vision narrowed

into a pin hole's width,

while I soared

in the vast, uncharted

universe of impossibility

unfettered by attachments

to cancerous dreams.

In the Still, Night Sky

A glassy lake stretches as far as the eye can see:

calm, blue water, warmed by summer's breath.

High rise firs line the surrounding hills, dotting

right up to grassy beaches strewn with fallen

pine cones, and cuddling close to rocky points.

Wading barefoot into the temperate mountain

pool, the lapping waves' soothe my feet with

restorative caresses. The wind does not rush

since there is no hurry in the air. Small mouth

bass leap above the water line, attacking gnats

hovering and buzzing near the surface, and flip

backwards into the lake, disturbing the surface

with tiny, circular ripples which pass impressions

across the vast, liquid expanse. Black Saw-wings

swallow the sky as they jet near the surface,

cooperating with the back-flipping lake bass

to herd insects into one awaiting mouth or another.

The evening song of three, majestic, bald eagles -

soft, short, high pitched whistles - echoes across

the broadly expanding sunset which burns clouds

into molten, orange embers. They soar high above

my head, cutting a direct path to their nested fir tree

aerie not far from my silent beach shore. The long

finger shaped feathers at the ends of their wings

point a warning against even the most unobtrusive

intrusion. Slowly, stars emerge from the blackening

dusk. In the distance, a campfire warms a small

group by reflecting the last cloud embers in the still,

night sky. My palpitations cease as my lungs inhale

larger gulps of precious, fresh air; I'd forgotten

how delicious was their flavor. Children's

laughter drifts on the barely stirring breeze,

echoing into deserted, naked coves of serenity.

As a smile curves my lips and a full moon

lifts itself over its glimmering, watery reflection,

I am overcome by an ancient appreciation for awe

inspired accumulation of serene acceptance to Gaia,

knowing the moment serves greater sustenance

than humanity's amassed wealth and possessions.

From simplicity and attuned harmony grows

connection and passionate, purposeful redemption.

Joy

At a lakeside cabin built by the bare

hands of her one true love, to whom

she gave herself at eighteen, on a wooded

mountain, an old, smiling woman

beholds fond memories flash

in sun glints on the crystal, blue water

of the placid lake in the distance

below, as Joy caresses savory moments

before letting each slip by. She still sees

herself with her husband as they toiled,

hand-in-hand, through the opportunities

of sunrises and each new midday

challenge. Her eyes sparkle

as she describes a lingering moment

of chance when a mountain lion crept

across the cabin's deck railing,

and how the big cat paused, majestically,

serenely enjoying the lake view stretch

out in the distance. The warmth

in the old woman's voice glows as she

speaks of deer in the snow, flying

squirrels swooping out from trees,

raiding nut caches strewn about

on the deck, and hummingbirds

darting and flitting here and there

as they feed. The lines of time carved

upon the old lady's face inscribe her

story, the creases etched into her hands

reveal the loving struggle she shared

with her husband. The stoop in her walk

from carrying the burden of sacrifice

for her family slows the old woman's

gait as the shuffling strides hint

at autumn's fanciful passing

into the slowly approaching, brilliant

radiance of Joy's winter sunset.

Hunger Prowls in the Night

Hunger prowls in the night -

shadows veil morbid intentions!

Eyes covet with lust unseen,
hurling angry accusations:
threatening in menacing tones
the old bones of human frailty.

A pack of four, emboldened
by superior force, a convention
of bullies, surrounds their lonesome
prey, like coyotes howling venom.

The scent of blood wafts still
upon a hot breeze, pilfering
the resonating, calm innocense
with a rattlesnake's mordancy.

The cooing , common ground dove
who nightly led a tranquil pathway
fails to appear, and in her place
a rattler lays upon the escaping asphalt
heat, slyly omitting to shake its tail.

The pack of coyote thieves circle
an unsuspecting victim, nipping
at his well worn, aching heels.

The diffused, smoke screen of confusion,
blustered from the daunting prey,
opens like window blinds revealing
the corpse of momentary reason
and the threat of danger recedes
when greed's seductive lure
infiltrates the stalking ranks.

In the fresh, soft light of morning
strange thoughts dance through
the mind of the spared prey:
wild and unbridled images of revenge
paint images on the mind's eye,
but they stir only briefly.

A notion takes form -

anger and revenge poison
from the inside out, eating away
with a foul, poisonous bile.

An uncommonly serene dove
leads the prey through a new door.

lingering spirit darkness

"Compose on the tongue, not on the page." Lawrence Ferlinghetti

a great circular cloud in the shape of a donut ringed
above me with a calm eye staring from the center -
an electrically-charged halo with brilliant-white
fingerszapping from the cloudy, circular, misty mass
to the dry, desert earth - broad, massive bolts burned
afterimages onto my retinas as a snarling wind rippped
in circles around and through me, the surging current
jailed me with the sweltering, suburban, summer
night sweating salt out from the porous sand, a musty scent
of pre-rain coagulated with damp sage and juniper leaves
in the silent arc, the booming sounds of thunderclaps
radiated out from the center, deafly hushing my ears
and my blood sizzled as high-voltage juice flowed
into my crown, exciting synaptic delight with mirthful
wonder and awe, and my flesh tingled as freight trains sped,
sped down the tracks behind me with the ghost of Woody
Guthrie grinning and waving from each boxcar skidding
across the rails, screeching and careening, as a cloud
billowed directly overhead into the bust of Thor - arms
outstretched into the night, hands open, palms up - and bolt
after lightning bolt jaggedly illuminated an Andy Warhol
caricature of a Norman Rockwell portrait - Timothy Leary's
wildly grinning countenance - and I sand painted an ancient,
native night with tomorrow's lingering spirit darkness