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THE AMERICAN GIRL
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An American Girl
by Drake Raft
How beautiful these fields, how high the night,
And how she could be I would never know,
How gentle the wind, how wild the moonlight,
And how I wished that she would never go.
But I knew I would be the one leaving,
For I had a poet's voyage ahead,
You know there's a price we pay for Believing,
But without Belief, we're better off dead.
I promised her softly, I would return,
And I shall, for I'd given her my word,
But first there's a beast someone's got to burn,
Postmodern liberalism shall know my sword.
        And so I set out to save poetry
        for her, because on that night she saved me.
Maybe her eyes were brown, maybe blue-green,
Sunglasses on a coal miner's daughter,
A poem written for her she'd never seen,
A sonnet no one had ever bought her.
And maybe she was a little confused,
About a girl's role in the world today,
And maybe some things we should have refused,
Somewhere back there we might have lost the way.
She found herself thinking back to Sunday school,
Goodness, kindness, virtue, and modesty,
Where they once spoke about God's subtle rule,
And peace that comes with wholesome honesty.
        She stood on Kill Devil Hill, saw it there,
        While secular gods taught us not to care.
She told me how she had been Miss Charleston,
While holding a Mint Julep, drinking rum,
Away from the crowd I wanted to run,
To where she didn't have to get so numb.
Somewhere where we could forget and remember,
Beside the surf where we'd lose the details,
Or hiking the mountains in September,
Remembering God's meaning along the trails.
'Cause I know she'd talk of philosophy,
I'd heard hints of Augustine in her voice,
When she reconciled science, Christianity,
She said that one is; the other's our choice.
        Found myself writing, living poetry:
        marrying beauty to eternity.
But then they said it'd all be over now,
That our generation just wouldn't be,
Her soul's beauty their fog wouldn't allow,
They were afraid the Truth would set us free.
These fading sophists and postmodernists,
Weak-willed vipers coveting cultural helms,
Rock'n'roll MBA's, silver screen nihilists,
Unable to lead us to God's greater realms.
And just when their blowing fog filled the night,
And all seemed lost in the tempestuous whirl,
Knocked down, couldn't get up with all my might,
When I caught sight of an American girl.
        A bolt split the sky, gray gave way to blue,
        She saved me with a reason to be True.
In her eyes I saw the way back on home,
As I realized all that home meant to me,
It's where true infinity one can roam,
Where a belief in the Lord keeps one free.
Amidst the pagans, I'd been led astray,
Tempted and tortured by the smaller mind,
But then with her, back home I saw the way,
Even if they were cruel, I would be kind.
I'd be kind and speak the Word with a smile,
I'd believe, standing at the Gates of Hell,
If He could carry the cross one more mile,
I'd be brave, the wicked's Truth I would tell.
        So take me home, girl, the battle's been won,
        With God in one's soul, all fighting is done.
So when they're off seeking culture in France,
Under the hood of a Wrangler I'll be,
With a 69 Jeep's radio's romance,
Come sundown, I'll read a KJVB.
And Lincoln and Thoreau and Hamilton,
I've been getting closer to what they meant,
The bold Spirit which possessed Washington,
To leave us our very own government.
So she reminded me of destiny,
The top down, 'neath a Southern summer sky,
There's nowhere closer to astronomy,
And no place closer to the reason why.
        Those stars would fall, the universe unfurl,
        Were it not for an American girl.

Thirteen Great Literary Voyages of The Jolly Roger

1. Macarthur Study Bible
2. Shakespeare
3. Moby Dick
4. Catcher in The Rye
5. American Founding Documents
6. Thoreau
7. Emmerson
8. Plato
9. Aristotle
10. The Great Gatsby
11. Norton Anthology of Poetry
12. C.S. Lewis
13. Drake Raft Field Trip
The Jolly Roger's
Top Rock
1. Gun's & Roses
2. Tom Petty
3. Van Halen
4. Aerosmith
5. Smashing Pumpkins
6. Nirvanna Live
7. Ozzy/ Black Sabbath 8. Pink Floyd
9. Bob Dylan
10. The Beatles
11. Led Zepplin
12. Eric Clapton
13. Van Halen
14. Beethoven's Complete Symphonies
15. James Taylor

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American Girls & Summer Reading
by Becket Knottingham

With most everyone cleared out of Chapel Hill for the summer, I yet linger, as I have found that the best way to travel these days is to stay in one place. I have always sought to navigate the greater distances, to get to know my neighbors, to walk the expanse between the Physics and English departments, and then take to the streets to write the poetry that can transport my heart to the far reaches of your soul. Pick up a copy of The Odyssey, and soon you'll find yourself transported five-thousand years back in time, and then five-thousand years into the future, as the keel of every bold dream is fashioned from the same material that the classics were made of. You shall find no humble statesman, nor subtle visionary, nor devoted scientist, nor gentle poet who did not set out navigating by the fixed stars of the Greats. So if ye yearn for first class travel and adventure, open a Great Book. Wherever you go, a copy of Shakespeare or the Bible is almost always within reach, so walk the few extra feet, read the words, and sail yer souls God's infinite distance. My generation has crossed the country and traveled the world a million times, yet so few have ever journeyed through Thoreau's Walden, or The Declaration of Independence, or The Constitution, or Whitman's Leaves of Grass, and thus so few have ever even seen America. We've been four-wheelin' and free-fallin', kayaking, camping, and canoeing; we've scaled the loftiest mountains and dived the deep, but we have not yet ascended a contemporary literature of our own equal in magnitude to our eternal souls. Take it from the captain here-- if ye refrain from reading the Greats, ye may see the entire world and yet never come to know it. It would be like falling in love with a picture, and never glimpsing the deeper nature of her spirit.

There was only ever but one reason that Odysseus endured to return from his perilous voyages, and that was to be with Penelope. Holden Caufield journeyed back home one Christmas to find infinite solace within his kid sister Phoebe's pristine spirit. Jay Gatsby tried to buy his way home to his first love, but money wasn't enough to purchase a passage back to the pristine dream of Daisy that yearning had embroidered within his memory. Tom Petty described the sentiment, For one desperate moment there, he crept back in her memory, God it's so painful, when something that's so close is still so far out of reach. . . she's an American girl. Without the green light at the end of her dock, all that is noble and good within the romantic's heart would forever remain at sea.

Shakespeare compared her to a summer's day, and Axl Rose described her with she's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories, whenever they were as fresh as the bright blue skies. I thought it was pretty cool when Axl punched David Bowie when Bowie made the mistake of hitting on the girl the song had been written for-- it was something you could see Alexander Hamilton doing. But then Axl kind of ruined it all by punching the girl, and dressing like one too. Hamilton once wrote to his future wife Elizabeth Schuyler,

I had a charming dream two or three nights ago. I thought I had just arrived at Albany and found you asleep on a green near the house, and beside you in an inclined posture stood a Gentleman whom I did not know. He had one of your hands in his, and seemed fixed in silent admiration. As you may imagine, I reproached him with his presumption and asserted my claim. He insisted on a prior right; and the dispute grew (heated). This I fancied awoke you, when yielding to a sudden impulse of joy, you flew into my arms and decided the contention with a kiss.
Axl's beautiful ballad, Sweet Child O' Mine, ends with the question "Where do we go now? Where do we go?" It's a question which oft plagues this Godless generation, a generation which is left with naught after the fleeting sentiment of secular love is consummated. Axl asked the question, and Kurt Cobain answered it by shooting heroin and then shooting himself. What had happened was that by the time grunge had rolled around in 1991, the American girl had been pretty much deconstructed, and Cobain had been left with nothing left to live for. You've gotta admit that Courtney Love isn't exactly an "American girl," and neither's Marilyn Manson, nor Hillary Clinton, nor Joyce Carol Oates, nor the rest of the Geffen/liberal-industrial-cultural-complex employees. They're all feminists and then some, riding the cresting wave of cultural decline, inheriting and exalting in all the petty vices of mankind, satiating superficial, temporal lusts for prestige and power, while casting aside all the vital virtues of womenhood. It's the oldest trick in the liberal's handbook-- any time a member of one of their chosen groups engages in vice or treachery, they sanctify it, and thus feminists are allowed to get away with murder-- the murder of the Great Books and the American Girl. They've been highly successful in displacing the classic American girl in the popular culture, but not within my heart nor within my dreams. About the closest the liberal-industrial-cultural-complex has come to rendering her is with Dawson from Dawson's creek.

But when I hear "American girl," what comes to mind is something far more pristine and permanent than the feminist's fleeting reign. In my mind's eye, I picture somebody who would be proud to be their kid's mom. Somebody along the lines of what Tom Petty described as, "She's a good girl, loves her mama, loves Jesus, and America to." That would be the same Jesus who said, "Have ye not read, that he which made them at the beginning made them male and female, For this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh? Wherefore they are no more twain, but one flesh. What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder."

And when you find yourself falling into her eyes this summer, you'll feel the need to apprehend your immortal soul, to present love's airy nothingness with a local habitation and a name, and to anchor the ungraspable phantom of life in phrases. You'll feel yourself drawn back on home, to God's fundamental morality. The pristine feminine is the anchor of the noble masculine, and should the chain of God's binding love and attraction be cut, should faith in her virtue and chastity be broken, the noble masculine shall be set adrift, while the pristine feminine will be consigned to the bottom of the sea. And without these two fundamental societal entities, each equally wondrous in its unique aspects, no family, nor community, nor nation, nor civilization can last.

When you find forever in her eyes and see her in that immortal sense, you'll find yourself at a loss of words. Do not be afraid of drowning, mate, should you lose your breath, for I'll tell you how to get back to shore to wed her beauty's fleeting truth to some eternal law. Open your notebook to set the silence down, and map the sentiment out so you might find your way back, and so that other adventurers might know where to look. Long ago, Proverb 31, the last word in the Book of Proverbs, was written in this spirit:

10 Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.
11 The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.
12 She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.
25 Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.
26 She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.
27 She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.
28 Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.
29 Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.
30 Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.
31 Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.

When with her, you'll start thinking upon character, and conviction, and honor, and duty, and fidelity. Thus you'll find yourself stalwartly opposed to the fundamental precepts of postmodern liberalism, which is a sad satire of classical liberalism, a scientific farce, a travesty of reason, and a vicious missive directed against the American girl. But she is immortal, and that is why liberalism is destined to join the grave with liberals, along with all the rhymeless, meterless, meaningless poetry that they've penned.

Anyone with an adventurous heart might yet find her if they only get a hold of the right maps, which will help in navigating through the contemporary culture's fog. So it is that we've compiled a list of The Thirteen Great Literary Voyages of The Jolly Roger, which ye'll find gracing the margins. Some of the Literary Voyages refer to authors, like Shakespeare, whereas some refer to books, like the Bible, whereas others refer to a general movement, such the American Founding, and one of them is an essential anthology for all seafarers, The Norton Anthology of Poetry. Like the fixed stars in the celestial globe used by seafarers throughout the ages to find their way home, the Great Books shall help you find the American Girl. The best map to begin with would of course be the Bible, and we highly recommend The McArthur New King James Version Study Bible. Virtually every verse is accompanied by insightful commentary expounding upon the historical context and deeper meanings of the Word. The Bible shall serve ye well in life and aboard The Jolly Roger, and so shall the two volume Riverside Shakespeare. Any edition of Shakespeare should do, but the Riverside Edition, complete with commentary and footnotes to help you navigate throughout the plays, is ideal for those just setting sail as well as experienced seafarers. Start with Hamlet, and perhaps the prince's predicament shall remind you of your own, with the Great Books murdered, the heritage of your kingdom endangered, Ophelia in a state of insanity and depression, and corrupt kings inhabiting the contemporary literary thrones.

And I say there's a literary revolution and renaissance underway out here, even though the only time CNBC mentions The Jolly Roger is in the context of high school shootings. But television, based upon sound and picture, offers little insight into exalted literary matters and the profundity of the soul. The New York Times deemed jollyroger.com as "simply unprecedented," adding that the site "teems with discussion, the kind that goes well beyond freshman lit 101," and The Los Angeles Times referred to the classical portal as "a lavish virtual community known as The Jolly Roger," but so far CNBC and the majority of the mass media has fallen short of reporting the real story. Instead of trumpeting the triumph of thousands of youngsters finding faith aboard The Jolly Roger, the media concentrates on their area of expertise-- darkness and decline. CNBC & friends always wait until one or two psycho kids with BMW's and negligent postmodern parents pull some psycho stunt, and that's when they mention The Jolly Roger Cookbook, which is some sort of a bomb-building manual I've never read, and a dervish entity which we have absolutely no affiliation with. I'm getting a little tired of the way the media lets all the wackos define my generation, while virtually ignoring a Great Books renaissance. As Drake Raft said long ago, "Only if I wallowed in grunge, if I resigned myself to being a slacker, and if I accepted the generation-x label and said I had no identity, would the pernicious liberal-editorial-cultural tyrants acknowledge me. And thus to be was not to be. So it was until the WWW set me soul free."

The real story, if anyone wants to report it, is that the three sonneteers are capataining the world's largest literary journal, and it's publishing rhyming, metered poetry. The real story out here is that despite all the thousands of daily deconstructions, affronts, and assaults directed against Truth, Honor, Decency, Courage, Higher Art, Literary Beauty, and Traditional Ideals by the "experts" of the day, the Great Books and The Jolly Roger are dominating the higher culture in this brave new medium. When the postmodern fog clears, as the liberal industrial cultural complex succumbs to the rust and rot that all material Godlessness is subject to, there shall be three tall masts, and he who signs aboard shall be he who lasts.

And should ye come across a wayward American girl during yer voyages, be patient. Should ye walk through the valley of the shadow of death, fear no evil: for God shall be with ye; and his rod and staff shall comfort ye. So be gentle now, mate, for wanton displays of flesh and imprudent behavior are demanded of young ladies during the liberal's temporary reign, where thousands upon thousands of temptations are encouraged from adolescent women, as the fading boomers drag us down to liberalism within the schools, the colleges, and the popular culture. By encouraging teens to become adulterers and fornicators and denying them the Bible, the liberal imperialists sign young souls aboard, just as soon as they are able to write. By deconstructing virtue's reference marker of female chastity, the righteous context in which liars, tempters, perverts, and thieves are reviled is dissipated, and the postmodern lawyer and government official prevail. And as we are ruled more by emotion, more by pleasure and pain, and less by eternity's wisdom, our vital freedoms diminish. George Washington, in his infinite wisdom, would be of great use to young girls these days, if only the feminists would let his words be read in the place of their lesbian-lover literature:

It would be no great departure from truth to say, that it rarely happens otherwise than that a thorough-placed coquette dies in celibacy, as a punishment for her attempts to mislead others, by encouraging looks, words, or actions, given for no other purpose than to draw men on to make overtures that they may be rejected.
Instead of Washington's words, in this callous culture the American girl is bombarded with condoms and the pill in school, and with relentless pornagraphic sex tips in checkout aisles in the supermarkets. She is schooled in seduction and conditioned to become a pawn in the liberals' government-funded free love programs. And the American boy is afforded thousands of opportunities to satiate his baser nature, as he is encouraged to walk through the wider gate by the mass marketers of Godless temperament, and their cohorts and accomplices in academia who've deconstructed the Classical beacons which once helped the loftier spirit navigate. So it is that he'll often find the American girl in bars these days, dancing to Snoop as if she were beast straight out of the jungle-- even pristine girls try it on for size-- and you can be sure she'll find some lost soul that's happy to treat her that way throughout the night, where they can try everything they learned in sex ed, at the movies, and on TV, where a pill solves most every problematic byproduct and abortions solve the rest.

Once upon a time, devoted parents were able to protect girls from the gutter, but today, even the most dutiful parents who survive the brutalities of secularism find this a difficult task, as they're under constant assault from the schools, the sitcoms, the publishers, and the government alike. While the liberals are popularizing adultery and abortion and single motherhood on the television, in the schools, and in the universities, their tag-team cultural cohorts are assaulting the sacred institution of the family by taxing parents to death. The children are sent off to be cared for by the state, while women are forced out of the homes to serve the bureaucracy so that the bureaucracy might institutionalize their children. Once upon a time, women were allowed to remain home while men voyaged forth. You'll recall that there were no women aboard the Pequod, and at the end of The Heart of Darkness, some of ye might remember that Marlow described Kurtz's Intended with,

Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl's portrait. She struck me as beautiful -- I mean she had a beautiful expression. I know that the sunlight can be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. . .
Kurtz had perished within the depths of the jungle, consumed by a gaping, Godless hole within his soul, after having spent his last few months as a barbarous, murderous tyrant. His last words had been, "The horror, The horror." When Marlow returned to civilization to tell Kurtz's fiance of the dark death he'd died, she asked Marlow what Kurtz's final worlds had been.
" 'To the very end,' I said, shakily. 'I heard his very last words....' I stopped in a fright.

" 'Repeat them,' she murmured in a heart-broken tone. 'I want -- I want -- something -- something -- to -- to live with.'

"I was on the point of crying at her, 'Don't you hear them?' The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. 'The horror! The horror!'

" 'His last word -- to live with,' she insisted. 'Don't you understand I loved him -- I loved him -- I loved him!'

"I pulled myself together and spoke slowly.

" 'The last word he pronounced was -- your name.'

"I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. 'I knew it -- I was sure!' . . . She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn't he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn't. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark -- too dark altogether...."

But today the American girl knows the secular darkness. They shout and scream it at her. They get her drunk, drug her up, dumb her down, give her an abortion, starve her, send her out into the Jungle, into the military, into the 9-9 workforce, and away from her children. She's a bit confused, matey, and a bit cynical, as no longer are her spiritual virtues valued in the liberal's dominant context, nor her infinite soul, but only her present potential to contribute to the economy and serve the Dow. And as she is encouraged to ignore her very own subtle spirit, by and by she begins to lose sight of the fathers, the boyfriends, and the husbands who would have loved and honored and cherished her eternal soul. So it withers further, and she turns towards her body, towards bulimia and anorexia, towards vanity and vice. As her souls wanes, her fathers, boyfriends, and husbands are left with less and less honor to defend, and they begin to lose their reasons to return on home. But we must let our faith guide us here, mate, for beyond the postmodern fog, I promise ye her chaste treasures yet exist. Do not be afraid to gently navigate by faith through the fog, to shine the bright beacon of God's reason so that she might see the form of her exiled spirit.

For deep within her there lies her true soul, created in God's image, and as our context advances, we shall get to know it. Have faith in her, though she succumbs to alcohol's temptation and uses it as an excuse to tempt others, for she is but acting the liberals' script, where women are encouraged to bring out the worst in men, so that men might bring out the worst in women, and causes for government agencies might be fabricated. Remember this mate-- each assault on common sense and common decency is a victory for the secular social scientist, administrator, and lawyer, as they can only promote the need for their controlling purpose and their power in God's absence. When Jefferson pondered the wall of separation between church and state, never did he dream that postmodern nihilists would triumph in deconstructing the Judeo-Christian God and transforming the state into the church, yet retaining the name of government. In the context in which Jefferson wrote, words yet meant things. Upon his wife's tomb stone, Jefferson had the following poem engraved, which was taken from Homer's Iliad

If in the melancholy shades below,
The flames of friends and lovers cease to glow,
Yet mine shall sacred last; mine undecayed,
Burn on through death and animate my shade.

Tie yourself to the mast of your core beliefs as you sail on by the secular sirens. Stand by quietly and be firm in your own actions, so that they might match your convictions of temperance, abstinence, and fidelity, and this cultural renaissance shall be ours. And I say the tides are turning, mates, buoying a brave new ship upon the WWW. We write for all generations aboard the Good Ship, and although the rising generation shall lead the renaissance, all generations shall share, as all are united in the eternal community of souls. Today's children shall live the Judeo Christian heritage that time hath embroidered within their souls, and woe to those wayward teachers, state officials, and administrators who stand in the way of God. Woe to those who have been engaging in this barbarous campaign against the American Girl.

Now I love rock'n'roll, but I also think that with the thousands upon thousands of bands, and the hundreds of aspiring movie mavens with vulgar scripts in their hands, there's yet room for a couple of traditional books penned in the context of the classics and devoted to God. I really think my generation would go for something like The Drake Raft Field Trip. With all the liberal tax and tuition subsidized literary journals, I say there's yet room for a literary frigate transporting poetry which rhymes and mean things through this culture. I think a renaissance would rock, and I'm pretty sure Noah Webster would agree, as concerning the American girl, he once wrote:

To young men I would recommend that their treatment of females should always be characterized by kindness, delicacy and respect. The tender sex look to men for protection and support. Females when properly educated and devoted to their appropriate duties, are qualified to add greatly to the happiness of society, and of domestic life. Endowed with finer sensibilities than men, they are quick to learn and practice the civilities and courtesies of life; their reputation requires the nice observance of the rules of decorum; and their presence and example impose most salutary restraints on the ruder passions and less polished manners of the other sex. In the circle of domestic duties, they are cheerful companions of their husbands; they give race and joy to prosperity; consolation and support to adversity. When we see an affectionate wife devoted to her domestic duties, cheering her husband with smiles, and as a mother, carefully tending and anxiously guarding her children and forming their minds to virtue and to piety; or watching with conjugal or maternal tenderness over the bed of sickness; we cannot fail to number among the chief temporal advantages of Christianity; the elevation of the female character. Let justice then be done to their merits; guard their purity; defend their honor; treat them with tenderness and respect.

-- From Noah Webster, Value of the Bible and Excellence of the Christian Religion


From: CAPTAIN R
To: becket@jollyroger.com
Subject: Misty

Dear Becket,

I just read The starbuckclassicalpoetry.com Classical Poetry Port page, and the photo of "Misty" brought tears and a pain to my heart.

It's not sexism that makes me say that the world of the Pequod is not for women, at least not for women like Misty. God does not think it wrong for men to leave women in the port with hearthfires burning and a light in the window. Don't expect nor ask them to ship aboard the whaler. He created them different, no matter what the feminists say.

(1 Pet 3:7) Husbands, likewise, dwell with them with understanding, giving honor to the wife, as to the weaker vessel, and as being heirs together of the grace of life, that your prayers may not be hindered.

CAPTAIN R

P.S. Where do I find a copy of "Wrath of the Jolly Roger"?


From: CAPTAIN R
To: Becket
Subject: Re: An American Girl

Dear Becket,

The women who take offense when you open a door for them will be incensed by your poem. The other 90% will sense the romance (perhaps very latent) with which God designed them.

Just a few comments from me elicited by a couple lines in your poem:

Without faith, we ARE dead -- spiritually dead. But, until we are redeemed, we are never better off physically dead. There are only two places for us after we leave this realm according to Jesus: Heaven and hell. The billboard which says, "You think it's hot here?" could have said, "You think you've got it bad here and now?" Jesus said that hell is so bad that you DO NOT WANT TO GO THERE! It would be better to enter Heaven mutilated than to enter hell whole. If plucking out your eye, or cutting off your foot or hand, would keep you from the sin which leads to death (spiritual death, the second death, the lake of fire), then that would be better than keeping all your parts and going to hell. (Matt 5:29-30; 18:8-9; Mark 9:43-48)

Jesus tried many times in many different ways to tell His listeners about the terrible consequence of unredeemed sin. Which is why, when one of my aunts defended Dr. Jack Kevorkian as being a humanitarian who relieved human suffering in a way that we offer unquestioningly to our pets, I pointed out to my aunt that she was assuming that the people so killed were being sent to a condition better than the one in which they find themselves. If you believe Jesus at John 3:3 and 3:5 (and I do), then Kevorkian only would be doing a favor to born-again people.

Many people sometimes WISH that they were (physically) dead. For Christians who know where they are going, one might ask, "Who wouldn't rather be in Heaven than suffering here?" But, for unsaved people to wish themselves dead is the epitome of ignorance, foolishness, and deception. The guy who blows his brains out is saying, "Jesus, I don't believe You." Eternity is a very long time to regret that remark.

My other comment has to do with postmodern liberalism knowing your sword. In the full armor of God (Ephesians 6:11-17), the only offensive weapon is the sword. The sword is the Word of God. Jesus is the Word (beginning of the Book of John). And in the Book of Revelation, the Son of Man has a two-edged sword coming out of his mouth (Rev. 1:16), and He tells the church at Pergamos to repent or He will come fight them with the sword of His mouth (Rev. 2:16); and, when the armies of saints finally ride forth from Heaven (Rev. 19:13-21), the rider on the white horse is called the "Word of God", and He strikes the nations of the earth "with the sword that proceeds from His mouth."

(Heb 4:12): "For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart."

Don't doubt for an instant the power of that sword.

CAPTAIN R


Date: Thu, 20 May 1999 20:08:45 -0500
From: carolyn stout
To: becket@jollyroger.com
Subject: The Jolly Roger

What a surprise to find rebellious literary folk! I am delighted to know there are people your age who beligerently love the classics. That they can teach us morals I couldn't agree with more. Heaven knows the campuses could use some!


From: Gregory Pischea
To: captain@jollyroger.com
Subject: Oh Captain my Captain.....

I just signed on board and wish I had more time to read and hear everything on "OUR" web site. I will return from shore leave soon and will catch up on my required reading.

Short bio... Im a retired United States Marine Corps flight officer who also spent time in a upper class classroom teaching high school American History. Currently, I'm working on two book, with the first almost ready for my publisher. The second is in outline form and involves a prison ship bound for Australia in the early 1800's. I'm a big fan of Lord Nelson, Hornblower and anything about the day long gone at sea. I have over 2 thousand books in my library...

Thanks for having me on board...


From: christina kearneky
To: becket@jollyroger.com
Subject: FRISCO CALLS

Hello Becket,

I haven't received any mail from you lately so I figured you have been busy creating new stuff for your site or I have been removed from the mailing list. Of course I hope this is not the case.

By the way, I wanted to brag about my successful semester; so nice that one of my papers for composition is being submitted to a journal (wish me luck)! You and your friends left a mighty impression on me and all the others who frequent your site--keep impressing us and stay in touch.

Love and God Bless

Christina


From: Glenn Wilson < >
To: drake@jollyroger.com
Subject: Forget Rolling Stone,send your Comments to Chis Matthews CNBC's Hardball

You guys should have sent you byline to Chris Matthews of CNBC's Hardball instead of Rolling Stone. Chris, in his most animated self is bewildered by the new trench coat mafia syndrome, stating "when I went to school I listened to music and read stuff and the jocks were the alpha wolves but I didn't go out and kill anyone." One look at Grungservatives and their discordant philosophy would drive him mad. It's the image-young fogies, where he's attempting to be a hip old dude. Let me sing the song a little longer...Take an American Indian in full battle regalia-US jungle camoflauge pants, ammo clips for his mac-10 on his belt loops, a full breast plate made of dear bones, and full war paint while he's helping a little old white lady cross the road. Terrorist or the original Boy Scout? Grung and Golf clubs, Grung and philosophy, Grung and brains...you've got the establishment bewildered?

I love you stuff, and so for the all the bilge swine at the Jolly Roger a poem with an agenda.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
and is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.

by Ezra Pound

your swab,

Black Jack Shallac


From: Chris Clemence
To: becket@jollyroger.com
Subject: POETRY FOR A PRISTINE GIRL

Becket,

With your permission, I'd like to post your poem, entitled POETRY FOR A PRISTINE GIRL, on my web site. I found it to be thoroughly enjoyable. You did a masterful job at expressing many of the thoughts and feelings I've had on the subject. Thank you for your consideration, and keep up the good work.

Chris Clemence

Please feel free to inspect my site. The URL is:

http://www.geocities.com/CollegePark/Dorm/2388