Chris Robinson

Conservative, pretty conservative TOP 10

I'm a conservative, --What?

...Forget the economy-stupid..it’s the damnable corruption!

While we're yelling about the c-words and f-words and hate-words and every other untenable 1st Amendment-unprotected words issuing from the mouths of over-matured babies, let us not forget we have one thing--and one thing only to vote against in one month from now--and that is the corrupt entrenched swamp creators that make Washington DC their home town, coming from whatever slimy gross and disgusting rock they crawled out from under.

Los perdidos: PC vs. liberty

What is PC? PC is the mother of all falsehood and language of the lost.

GOD IS LOVE by Alexander, the great poet!

It is, to any sentient being, versed at all in What it is, a self-evident fact my poems are vastly superior to any random sample selection that may be culled from the innards of some of these federally approved, so-called literature textbooks..surveying bunches of thin, rubber-stamped, multi-culturalistic explorations, by, and for the divers; and geared for use in public education..explaining why mediocrity is great! This is a factual fact. I know it because, of necessity, we home-school and I have the books. But let us not dwell there, but rather, move to investigate the clues as to why I am a poet and not,NOT! a news-journalist..at least not per se. Whereas, in journalism, this thing called news (sigh), one must stick fast to the readily verifiable, the absolute, and the salient dysinformations one is passing along to the ravenous readership's, without swerving! to the left, nor to the right; in poetry, though, object and subject being indivisible, that is, they are one..one in concept one in truth - poetic truth - and one poet under God (as the case might be).

James Traficant, convicted ex-congressman, dies

This great American hero in the mold of a Davy Crockett, willing to take the most severe consequences in defense of principled patriotism

Cowboys and --Saturdays?

COWBOYS & SATURDAYS..Yeah, I was eating my Sugar-Frosted Flakes with the shades drawn, staring straight up the barrels of Roy Rogers' twin six-shooters aiming at me out of the TV tube in our living room in black-and-white..preparing to die. When suddenly it occurred to me, Hey it's Saturday! and what am I doing sitting looking at TV when I can go strolling in the sunshine instead? So I pulled on my red cowboy-boots and said "Mom I'm going to the park," and she said,"which one?" and I said, "Hart's Park", --she said, "Okay, here's a sandwich to take with you. And be back in time for lunch. And no funny business." I said Okay. So I walked down the hill not taking the usual short-cuts to the main street past the Rexall Drugstore and all the other businesses, and businessmen, and passed the Sheriff's office; and said 'Hi' to the post-man in his official U.S. Post Office uniform shorts and pith-helmet, walking his cart carrying its leather mail-pouch along his route to William S. Hart Park, where the famous cowboy star once lived and breathed. And where soldiers from the Newhall area who died fighting in the World Wars are buried, beneath bright white crosses spread evenly over hills covered by a blanket of thick, fresh-cut grass; and where, also, the Easter sunrise services are held under the big cross, reflecting...