We are slaves.

We must pay taxes to the faceless machine that owns us or be locked away in federal prison.

However, this true and undeniable state of servitude is masked in many ways:

Even as our political masters rape children and our war machines murder emergency medical personnel, funeral goers and wedding parties in distant lands, we yet believe—for we are slaves and listen with the self-erasing bias of the slave mind—that these actions are fictions on one defiling hand or done for our own safety on another reaping hand.

Deeper yet, when we see the evil of our political masters for what it is, even when we sense that these banal ciphers serve yet greater and more dimly cloaked masters, we find refuge in the sacred songs and signatories of our sacred ancestors—or are they OUR ancestors, really?

When the descendent of African American slaves sees in our holy screeds which sanctify our deified greed that this nation was founded by and for “free white men,” he focuses on “free” and “men,” seeking to erase “white” from the equation in his quest for master-approved freedom.

When the descendent of European American slaves reads that this nation was founded by and for “free white men” he ignores the “free” designation, imagining in his pimple of a child’s mind that all white men were free in this land and that he is an heir to one of the 1% elite who signed this document, not one of the 66% of whites held in bondage at this time. Indeed, this ignorant creature, who fancies himself the scion of near 6,000 years of literate philosophers of the races so recently named white [indeed, within a life time of this document there was no such thing as a “white” man] has no clue that one of the key architects of this document was sold by a white man, to another white man, not once, but twice.

Virtually all of the members of the two abjectly coward slave races above can be forgiven for sneering one at the other across their battle lines of the clouded mind, incubated in the Holy American lie as they have been.

But these two creatures are not the force that perpetuates this self-negating idiocy.

Indeed, most of the dying paleface race believe the entirety of “free white men” believe that they are the beneficiaries of ivory evil aimed exclusively for ages unending at ebony martyr-slaves. Raised to worship slavery as the seedbed of our higher, money-grubbing, human-worshipping morality, these guiltful, wan ghosts dream in the cool bath of meta-racial guilt drawn from the Fountain of Lies that is Modernity, dream of becoming sacral slaves themselves as their masters set the sacred ebon race justly at their soft throats.

Most Americans are this very guilt-marinated animate corpse—the higher their educational achievement the nearer the horizon of their self-absorbed mind’s eye do they become blind.

None of these three pools of dying, truth-effacing subhumans can accept that there was once a place, called not America, not The Colonies, but The Plantations, a vast and dreaded land, a primal forest of giants ruined one ringed tree at a time at the hands of an ever-dying slave race, to whom age 25 was a wrecked old age. This horde of abductees, sold children of drunkards and whores and orphans, who spent 200 years dying in the dirt and departing like ghosts into unmarked graves to build the fantasy of America, born before curtains behind which we are told hides nothing but an urge for freedom, literally set the stage that is America, and then, like all good stage hands, vanished unseen into an understructure which only the oddest of the willfully deceived audience would like to peek, let alone understand, for the fantasy on the stage is so much more interesting to the slave mind than the toil behind the curtain and beneath the stage.

That urge for freedom there was, but only and exclusively in their hearts of the slave, not in the sterile mind of the master.

As I complete Volumes 8 and 9 [of 12] of The Secret History of Plantation America, a place where armies of European slaves toiled while their white masters were served luxury goods by their most luxuriant good—their African man-servant or maid—it has become clear to me, in the crawlspace beneath this deluded political space called America, that no true understanding of this greatest of evil nations can be had without understanding its true origins rather than believing blindly in it’s clearly falsified virgin birth.

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