Escalation or surge, look those words up in the dictionary and apply them to the situation in Iraq, to the re-deployment of National Guard troops, compare that fact to the complete avoidance of regular troops stationed around the world and you begin to get a picture of the terminology, you get an idea of the american economy becoming more and more local as skilled technicans are re-located to repeat tours in what could be certian death.
Edmund Burke wrote, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." But what is the opposite of that quote? For bad men to do their worst? For good men to encourage or to only do what is required by law? When is force required to stop the abhorrence of evil? In Iraq it is whenever you are fired upon if it is humanly possible. If you can run, you run. Held to a higher standard is one way we describe our fighting men and women. That is one way we describe our means of waging war. All of that ended more or less with the waging of the current war in Iraq and the Bush administration. Still we hold our troops to a higher standard but who will hold their superiors to that same level of achievement?
Quoting from The Nation magazine, Senator Edward Kennedy said, "It seems to me that we are at a time of a major escalation into a civil war, that's what the proposal of a surge is really about. This president is going to escalate the American presence and escalate the whole Iraqi war. This is a major mistake and a major blunder. If there's one thing that the election was about last fall was sending a very clear message to Congress and to the president that the American people want accountability. They want a change in direction on Iraq, they want accountability, and they want people to stand up and be counted."
I think all Americans no matter what their party or belief want accountability, they want finally to be told the truth. Countless times history has proven that if the man in office would have just told the truth, if he would have just leveled with the nation things would have been better. This is one of those times. This Gulf of Tonkin was not an attack on the Twin Towers in New York City on Sept. 11, 2001. This Gulf of Tonkin was created out of thin air not long after taking office in the year 2000 or before, we may never know.
Several U.S. Presidents have stood by and watched as genocides have occured, atrocities, and wholesale slaughters. An escalation of 20,000 troops into a nation as unstable as Iraq will undoubtly be a wholesale slaughter and it will not occur fifty years down the road Mr. President when we're all dead, but soon.
- Chris Mansel
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
[Note: See Jack Random's "Bush to America: War!" on Dissident Voice 1.11.07: www.dissidentvoice.org.]
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Mind of Mansel: JR & I in Iraq, Part 9
(Note: Parts 1-8 below.)
If you took the weight of the ocean that erupts in pain at the slightest breeze from across the world and threw it at a child and then took notes on the impact you'd see before your very eyes what war can do. Those notes would be the propaganda you could use to turn the tide on the floor of the U.S. congress and that propaganda could sustain any rationale of turmoil or loss or life. Sound irrational? In the young year of 2007 the political landscape of the world has become the wall that mankind has been backing up towards since the beginning of time. The spear flies through the eye of the storm, through its splendour and blue skies, through the calm and bereft moment of wreckage only to land as the clouds begin to darken and the rains re-approach from the east.
There is no soundtrack on the ground, "boots on the ground" as they say. No combat photographer in khaki has a camera crew following him or her around making sure they are captured in the right light as they help the wounded child to safety or as they seduce the Catholic missionary in the dimming light of the battlefield. War is ugly, it is obscene and the sounds you hear are the screams and the sounds of gunfire, the recoil. If you listen close enough you can hear the gunman next to you change his field of vision, not because you have spent so much time together in a war zone or in that distinct battle but for the fact that your senses are so heightened that your fears are leaping so far from your skin they erupt like the ocean with the slightest breeze from the gunman's movement from across the room.
Jack and I had been in many situations before where our lives were in danger and we had been in situations where we were so compelled into an idea that as we moved along with the story we ached for adventure or excitement.
On the campaign trail, following presidential candidates we would often sneak away from the subject and do what the industry calls a "human interest" story. You've read that line before and wondered what that means. It's not slice of life or inspirational as you might think. A hardened newspaper or wire service editor will call it a story about a nobody, a worthless sidebar or whatever he can come up with at the moment until it gets picked up or noticed. Then you are gold.
For instance we did a story once on a midnight shooting about a woman who was shot two blocks away from a hotel where a candidate was staying. It was a parallel piece. We mirrored their movements. As the candidate was taking the stage and fluffing out his speech she was being struck by the first shot. As the candidate told the first of many jokes in his speech the cartilage in her leg exploded and severed the nerve in her leg and she began to bleed uncontrollably.
When the story was presented the next day we were attacked from one end of the country to the next for sensationilizing the candidates visit to that dear city. We were told directly not to come back. This was the way we felt as we raced ahead of a grenade in Iraq in the back of a car with a family who's only thought earlier that day was survival.
As we each grabbed a leg and the man cradled her head we hurried as best we could out the back of the house. The noise was unbelievable. We could hear the private security forces shouting in english behind us. I was bleeding and all I could think about was their safety and Jack's and going back out the front of the house and somehow returning fire with whatever I could find. I had been shot at before by americans in my own country but not in Iraq. These were criminals, government sponsored thugs who were sure to get away with murder if we didn't do our job.
As we got outside the man's family was cowering in the front of the car mindful that we had to get the now deceased matron of the family into the backseat. I've never helped to put a dead body into a small car, especially one that I had to ride in also. I looked up and Jack's expression was of hurt and anger. He was quiet which was unlike him in a situation of stress but I was aware that he was focused.
As we got her into the car the man noticed that my hand was bleeding. In poor english he took me by the bicep and said, "Wait, here."
He reached into the backseat and tore a piece from the old woman's dress and wrapped it around my hand and tied it there. I couldn't move I was so struck by what he had done. Tears sudenly and immediately streamed down my face. The man padded me on the arm and shook Jack's hand and motioned us into the backseat of the car.
I looked at Jack and he looked at me. I couldn't do it and neither could he. There was no way we could crawl inside on top of the woman even if it meant that we would be shot at any minute. That was the difference between people like this man and his family, people like Jack and myself and the people who were terrorizing this country from both sides. We were good at heart and could not and would not break the simple and fundamental means of life that make us who we are.
We motioned for him to get in the car and go. He tried and tried to get us to get in but we said no.
Jack stammered, "No, take your family and go! Go! Go!"
As we watched the man drive away his son turned around in the front seat and watched us with no expression. I don't think he had any idea what was taking place but it saddened me to know that this boy would remember it all some day. War is no place for a child.
- Chris Mansel
Contact: christophermansel@hotmail.com.
If you took the weight of the ocean that erupts in pain at the slightest breeze from across the world and threw it at a child and then took notes on the impact you'd see before your very eyes what war can do. Those notes would be the propaganda you could use to turn the tide on the floor of the U.S. congress and that propaganda could sustain any rationale of turmoil or loss or life. Sound irrational? In the young year of 2007 the political landscape of the world has become the wall that mankind has been backing up towards since the beginning of time. The spear flies through the eye of the storm, through its splendour and blue skies, through the calm and bereft moment of wreckage only to land as the clouds begin to darken and the rains re-approach from the east.
There is no soundtrack on the ground, "boots on the ground" as they say. No combat photographer in khaki has a camera crew following him or her around making sure they are captured in the right light as they help the wounded child to safety or as they seduce the Catholic missionary in the dimming light of the battlefield. War is ugly, it is obscene and the sounds you hear are the screams and the sounds of gunfire, the recoil. If you listen close enough you can hear the gunman next to you change his field of vision, not because you have spent so much time together in a war zone or in that distinct battle but for the fact that your senses are so heightened that your fears are leaping so far from your skin they erupt like the ocean with the slightest breeze from the gunman's movement from across the room.
Jack and I had been in many situations before where our lives were in danger and we had been in situations where we were so compelled into an idea that as we moved along with the story we ached for adventure or excitement.
On the campaign trail, following presidential candidates we would often sneak away from the subject and do what the industry calls a "human interest" story. You've read that line before and wondered what that means. It's not slice of life or inspirational as you might think. A hardened newspaper or wire service editor will call it a story about a nobody, a worthless sidebar or whatever he can come up with at the moment until it gets picked up or noticed. Then you are gold.
For instance we did a story once on a midnight shooting about a woman who was shot two blocks away from a hotel where a candidate was staying. It was a parallel piece. We mirrored their movements. As the candidate was taking the stage and fluffing out his speech she was being struck by the first shot. As the candidate told the first of many jokes in his speech the cartilage in her leg exploded and severed the nerve in her leg and she began to bleed uncontrollably.
When the story was presented the next day we were attacked from one end of the country to the next for sensationilizing the candidates visit to that dear city. We were told directly not to come back. This was the way we felt as we raced ahead of a grenade in Iraq in the back of a car with a family who's only thought earlier that day was survival.
As we each grabbed a leg and the man cradled her head we hurried as best we could out the back of the house. The noise was unbelievable. We could hear the private security forces shouting in english behind us. I was bleeding and all I could think about was their safety and Jack's and going back out the front of the house and somehow returning fire with whatever I could find. I had been shot at before by americans in my own country but not in Iraq. These were criminals, government sponsored thugs who were sure to get away with murder if we didn't do our job.
As we got outside the man's family was cowering in the front of the car mindful that we had to get the now deceased matron of the family into the backseat. I've never helped to put a dead body into a small car, especially one that I had to ride in also. I looked up and Jack's expression was of hurt and anger. He was quiet which was unlike him in a situation of stress but I was aware that he was focused.
As we got her into the car the man noticed that my hand was bleeding. In poor english he took me by the bicep and said, "Wait, here."
He reached into the backseat and tore a piece from the old woman's dress and wrapped it around my hand and tied it there. I couldn't move I was so struck by what he had done. Tears sudenly and immediately streamed down my face. The man padded me on the arm and shook Jack's hand and motioned us into the backseat of the car.
I looked at Jack and he looked at me. I couldn't do it and neither could he. There was no way we could crawl inside on top of the woman even if it meant that we would be shot at any minute. That was the difference between people like this man and his family, people like Jack and myself and the people who were terrorizing this country from both sides. We were good at heart and could not and would not break the simple and fundamental means of life that make us who we are.
We motioned for him to get in the car and go. He tried and tried to get us to get in but we said no.
Jack stammered, "No, take your family and go! Go! Go!"
As we watched the man drive away his son turned around in the front seat and watched us with no expression. I don't think he had any idea what was taking place but it saddened me to know that this boy would remember it all some day. War is no place for a child.
- Chris Mansel
Contact: christophermansel@hotmail.com.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Mind of Mansel: JR & I in Iraq, Part 8
(Parts 1-7 below)
The only human right you have in Iraq these days outside the idling engine of a military transport plane is just that, you are a human at that moment. But step out of the plane into the dusty air and you are the margin for victory, a landslide on the abacus. Translate that into political capitol and you are the means to an end, the straw on the camel's back that like a dowser's wand leads the way to the oil, damn the body count, this is war. Damn men, stiff upper lip and all, this is economics.
It's hard to keep a global ledger in mind when you are bleeding on an Iraqi street. It's even more difficult when you are in the grass which is much cooler but is covered not only in your blood but the blood of children and the twisted metal of automobiles and weapons. Any weapons in a firefight can be a weapon of mass destruction when paint is tearing and flicking away into your eyes, remember that if you ever find yourself hunted by the military of your own country in a foreign land.
The car bomb exploded again as best we could figure as there was another explosion almost right away. One thing you will never understand if you are ever in Iraq is the term, Improvised Explosive Device. That description alone brings to mind Timothy McVeigh going into a Wal-Mart and buying a few items and coming out with two shopping bags and some d cell batteries. There is nothing improvised about any of these devices, nothing thrown together on a whim. It's not like the Vietcong rushed down from the jungles of North Vietnam with just some nails and fertilizer and had to first find a rental truck or take flying lessons. Read back through the reports from Iraq when Saddam was in power and there weren't any I.E.D.'s being exploded. Create the demand and journalists will recoil only slightly before rushing in and that was where we were, rushing in on our bellies.
I looked up and noticed the Iraqi man with the black handkerchief had taken off his disguise and had exposed his american features. I grabbed my camera and shot a few stills of him reloading. Using the second explosion as cover the famalies who had been caught out in the open ran to cover as shots sprayed the streets like vipers snipping at their heels. I grabbed Jack and pulled his face over to mine, his look of confusion moved to anger as he noticed the american.
Jack whispered to me, "Dirty son of a bitch!"
Looking around us we noticed the famalies had made it to cover and one man was waving us over to the door of a storefront.
I grabbed Jack by the shoulder and notioned to him, "We got to make it, the bastard knows we're here."
As soon as I seriously allowed myself to consider running across a street being riddled with gunfire I instantly thought to myself, "You're a journalist and this asshole is trying to make you a soldier!"
I choked back fear and crippling anxiety and slinging blood from my hand onto the street I darted across the street with Jack alongside me. We made it just as the entire front of the building erupted in flames and smoke as a grenade was shot into the street in front of the wall. Once inside the man and his family motioned for us to follow them. As we made our way through the store the man stooped for a moment and stopped to pick up the body of a woman who had been shot. The bullet had gone clear through her skull and glass had sprayed her face, scarring it horribly. Jack and I each grabbed a leg and with the man we made our way to a vehicle outside.
We searched the roofs for private security forces but saw none, evidently they hadn't planned ahead and this gave us pause. We were at least 45 minutes late to the scene and this was as far as they had gotten. What had stopped them? What had we missed? Somehow we had to find out if they had suffered any casualities and we had to ask our saviors here what had happened but first we had to reach a safe distance.
- Chris Mansel
The only human right you have in Iraq these days outside the idling engine of a military transport plane is just that, you are a human at that moment. But step out of the plane into the dusty air and you are the margin for victory, a landslide on the abacus. Translate that into political capitol and you are the means to an end, the straw on the camel's back that like a dowser's wand leads the way to the oil, damn the body count, this is war. Damn men, stiff upper lip and all, this is economics.
It's hard to keep a global ledger in mind when you are bleeding on an Iraqi street. It's even more difficult when you are in the grass which is much cooler but is covered not only in your blood but the blood of children and the twisted metal of automobiles and weapons. Any weapons in a firefight can be a weapon of mass destruction when paint is tearing and flicking away into your eyes, remember that if you ever find yourself hunted by the military of your own country in a foreign land.
The car bomb exploded again as best we could figure as there was another explosion almost right away. One thing you will never understand if you are ever in Iraq is the term, Improvised Explosive Device. That description alone brings to mind Timothy McVeigh going into a Wal-Mart and buying a few items and coming out with two shopping bags and some d cell batteries. There is nothing improvised about any of these devices, nothing thrown together on a whim. It's not like the Vietcong rushed down from the jungles of North Vietnam with just some nails and fertilizer and had to first find a rental truck or take flying lessons. Read back through the reports from Iraq when Saddam was in power and there weren't any I.E.D.'s being exploded. Create the demand and journalists will recoil only slightly before rushing in and that was where we were, rushing in on our bellies.
I looked up and noticed the Iraqi man with the black handkerchief had taken off his disguise and had exposed his american features. I grabbed my camera and shot a few stills of him reloading. Using the second explosion as cover the famalies who had been caught out in the open ran to cover as shots sprayed the streets like vipers snipping at their heels. I grabbed Jack and pulled his face over to mine, his look of confusion moved to anger as he noticed the american.
Jack whispered to me, "Dirty son of a bitch!"
Looking around us we noticed the famalies had made it to cover and one man was waving us over to the door of a storefront.
I grabbed Jack by the shoulder and notioned to him, "We got to make it, the bastard knows we're here."
As soon as I seriously allowed myself to consider running across a street being riddled with gunfire I instantly thought to myself, "You're a journalist and this asshole is trying to make you a soldier!"
I choked back fear and crippling anxiety and slinging blood from my hand onto the street I darted across the street with Jack alongside me. We made it just as the entire front of the building erupted in flames and smoke as a grenade was shot into the street in front of the wall. Once inside the man and his family motioned for us to follow them. As we made our way through the store the man stooped for a moment and stopped to pick up the body of a woman who had been shot. The bullet had gone clear through her skull and glass had sprayed her face, scarring it horribly. Jack and I each grabbed a leg and with the man we made our way to a vehicle outside.
We searched the roofs for private security forces but saw none, evidently they hadn't planned ahead and this gave us pause. We were at least 45 minutes late to the scene and this was as far as they had gotten. What had stopped them? What had we missed? Somehow we had to find out if they had suffered any casualities and we had to ask our saviors here what had happened but first we had to reach a safe distance.
- Chris Mansel
Friday, December 22, 2006
Mind of Mansel: J.R. and I in Iraq - part 7
(Note: Parts 1-6 below.)
As we approached the scene of the ambush the humvee took fire. Families were gathered over the wreckage of what were once bodies. If you have ever seen footage on television of men and women in some third world backwater holding one another and crying uncontrollably and waving their arms at the cameras and pointing at the bodies then you didn't smell the bodies burning. You didn't see the casual way the network cameraman replaced the film in his camera and began taking photos again like the carnage was just another stop on the way to the Pulitzer. He knows that he will be back in another watering hole soon enough.
In Iraq it's not like in Vietnam. You didn't just hop aboard a C-140 and then grab a Huey out to a shithole to scrap about to the shit. In Iraq the shit was the day of Tet, every single day. Thanks to a foreign policy of "Bring 'em on." One thing Jack and I could never figure out was why they called the area where the american troops where located the Green Zone. The only thing we came up with was when we interviewed the civilians in Iraq and they all responded with the same word, "Halliburton."
Halliburton had funded this attack. Private security forces had opened fire on innocent men, women, and children.
We turned around and around, Jack turning the humvee against the shooting and slammed the front across the curb of the highway. Both sliding out of the driver's side, we were still taking fire.
Jack screamed out, "You see where it's coming from?"
I was caught, frozen in the moment. I was watching a woman as she caressed the head of a boy. As she lifted his head up to her lips I could see that half of his head had been shot away. Blood had caked around his nostrils and from there, there was nothing. Somewhere on the bloody street his bloody mouth had been torn violently from him. As rounds exploded all around her she wept uncontrollably. While others ran for cover and Jack and I tried to save our lives she was shot through the heart while mourning the loss of this child.
Jack gripped my shoulder, "You see where it's coming from?"
I was shocked back into consciousness when a shot knicked my wrist and sent blood shooting across my hand. Before I had a chance to cuss or holler I looked up and noticed an Iraqi man wearing a black handkerchief aiming at my head from across the street. I jumped up instantly and grabbed Jack and jumped into the pool of blood in the grass by the front wheel.
The Iraqi man fired just as I jumped and just missed me. Jack cussed as I crushed all of my body weight on top of him, sending him face first into the bloody grass. We rolled and came up for air just as a car bomb exploded up the street.
The news cameraman crawled over to us, "Either one of you journalists?"
Jack and I looked at each other, I responded, "Now just what in the hell does that matter now?"
The cameraman didn't bat an eye, "I thought you might get my film to the network office, my cell is fubar."
I stared at the cameraman a moment and said, "Oh sure, yeah, we'll get it there, no problem."
He answered, "Great, tell'em about ten or twelve dead maybe more, I'm going after the car bomb."
The cameraman made his way crawling on his belly through the bloody grass in the direction of the explosion.
Jack smiled as he watched me open the film canister and expose the yellow film to the flames not three feet away from us. I handed the film to Jack and he tossed it in. We weren't going after the car bomb, we were going after the truth and fame and glory didn't have any role in this tragedy.
- Chris Mansel
As we approached the scene of the ambush the humvee took fire. Families were gathered over the wreckage of what were once bodies. If you have ever seen footage on television of men and women in some third world backwater holding one another and crying uncontrollably and waving their arms at the cameras and pointing at the bodies then you didn't smell the bodies burning. You didn't see the casual way the network cameraman replaced the film in his camera and began taking photos again like the carnage was just another stop on the way to the Pulitzer. He knows that he will be back in another watering hole soon enough.
In Iraq it's not like in Vietnam. You didn't just hop aboard a C-140 and then grab a Huey out to a shithole to scrap about to the shit. In Iraq the shit was the day of Tet, every single day. Thanks to a foreign policy of "Bring 'em on." One thing Jack and I could never figure out was why they called the area where the american troops where located the Green Zone. The only thing we came up with was when we interviewed the civilians in Iraq and they all responded with the same word, "Halliburton."
Halliburton had funded this attack. Private security forces had opened fire on innocent men, women, and children.
We turned around and around, Jack turning the humvee against the shooting and slammed the front across the curb of the highway. Both sliding out of the driver's side, we were still taking fire.
Jack screamed out, "You see where it's coming from?"
I was caught, frozen in the moment. I was watching a woman as she caressed the head of a boy. As she lifted his head up to her lips I could see that half of his head had been shot away. Blood had caked around his nostrils and from there, there was nothing. Somewhere on the bloody street his bloody mouth had been torn violently from him. As rounds exploded all around her she wept uncontrollably. While others ran for cover and Jack and I tried to save our lives she was shot through the heart while mourning the loss of this child.
Jack gripped my shoulder, "You see where it's coming from?"
I was shocked back into consciousness when a shot knicked my wrist and sent blood shooting across my hand. Before I had a chance to cuss or holler I looked up and noticed an Iraqi man wearing a black handkerchief aiming at my head from across the street. I jumped up instantly and grabbed Jack and jumped into the pool of blood in the grass by the front wheel.
The Iraqi man fired just as I jumped and just missed me. Jack cussed as I crushed all of my body weight on top of him, sending him face first into the bloody grass. We rolled and came up for air just as a car bomb exploded up the street.
The news cameraman crawled over to us, "Either one of you journalists?"
Jack and I looked at each other, I responded, "Now just what in the hell does that matter now?"
The cameraman didn't bat an eye, "I thought you might get my film to the network office, my cell is fubar."
I stared at the cameraman a moment and said, "Oh sure, yeah, we'll get it there, no problem."
He answered, "Great, tell'em about ten or twelve dead maybe more, I'm going after the car bomb."
The cameraman made his way crawling on his belly through the bloody grass in the direction of the explosion.
Jack smiled as he watched me open the film canister and expose the yellow film to the flames not three feet away from us. I handed the film to Jack and he tossed it in. We weren't going after the car bomb, we were going after the truth and fame and glory didn't have any role in this tragedy.
- Chris Mansel
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Mind of Mansel: JR & I in Iraq, Part 6
(Note: Parts 1-5 below)
Moving around in Iraq you can be reminded of the image of James Cagney's famous line, "Top of the world ma!" But only if you look at it from the ant's point of view. Imagine the ant as an insurgent. Yeah, top of the world but the top has a hole in it and it goes all the way to the bottom. The bottom branches out and comes up to a point and resembles a volcano. But rather than resemble the fiery furnance of the first Gulf War, (the image of the Iraqi oil fields graced all manner of media around the world) but now the volcano is purging blood, oozing limbs and the mangled childhoods of burnt and homeless Iraqi children.
How do you approach a crime scene in a war zone? How do you make your way through a maze of distraught family members who are rushing around helpless to the carnage of their family members having been shot by officially licensed gunmen by the government who has invaded their country. If you are a reporter you make it clear to all those who are around that you are a reporter, a correspondent, and are not armed. If the privately armed security force is still present you make it damn clear that you are american, but you also make it clear that you are someone more important than you are. You impress upon them that it wouldn't be so good to open up on you and you pray like a virgin on her wedding night that their cell phone batteries have gone dead and haven't gotten a call from a particular Marine major.
As we sped away we could see in the distance black smoke billowing out of a building in the distance. Ahead of us in a pickup two Iraqis were shifting around nervously in the seat and as we came alongside them they shot a nervous glance at us until they realized we were not U.S. soldiers but they could not know if we were not private sercurity forces, who in some circles have been called cowboys. There was even a rumor in command circles of a Taliban website that referred to the "cowboys" being displaced in Iran, not unlike the way american forces were moving across the Cambodian border in Vietnam. As we rode alongside the truck for what seemed like two minutes the Iraqi in the passenger seat raised a pistol up to eye level and aimed at my head. I yelled for Jack to speed up and Jack hit the gas and we sped along as four shots bounced off of our Humvee.
I yelled over to Jack, "I hate to ask a stupid question but how much gas do we have?"
Jack answered, "As far as I know we've got enough to get to the site of the ambush but what do you think about ditching this Humvee?"
I thought for a minute and asked, "I don't know, something bothers me about that shit back at the camp. How the hell do you lob mortars at a camp and miss by a hundred yards and manage to hit with a fragmentation grenade? How the fuck do you explain the physics of that one?"
Now Jack looked worried, "You think the frag was a cover to get at me?"
"Well Jack, you did hear the phone call..."
- Chris Mansel
Moving around in Iraq you can be reminded of the image of James Cagney's famous line, "Top of the world ma!" But only if you look at it from the ant's point of view. Imagine the ant as an insurgent. Yeah, top of the world but the top has a hole in it and it goes all the way to the bottom. The bottom branches out and comes up to a point and resembles a volcano. But rather than resemble the fiery furnance of the first Gulf War, (the image of the Iraqi oil fields graced all manner of media around the world) but now the volcano is purging blood, oozing limbs and the mangled childhoods of burnt and homeless Iraqi children.
How do you approach a crime scene in a war zone? How do you make your way through a maze of distraught family members who are rushing around helpless to the carnage of their family members having been shot by officially licensed gunmen by the government who has invaded their country. If you are a reporter you make it clear to all those who are around that you are a reporter, a correspondent, and are not armed. If the privately armed security force is still present you make it damn clear that you are american, but you also make it clear that you are someone more important than you are. You impress upon them that it wouldn't be so good to open up on you and you pray like a virgin on her wedding night that their cell phone batteries have gone dead and haven't gotten a call from a particular Marine major.
As we sped away we could see in the distance black smoke billowing out of a building in the distance. Ahead of us in a pickup two Iraqis were shifting around nervously in the seat and as we came alongside them they shot a nervous glance at us until they realized we were not U.S. soldiers but they could not know if we were not private sercurity forces, who in some circles have been called cowboys. There was even a rumor in command circles of a Taliban website that referred to the "cowboys" being displaced in Iran, not unlike the way american forces were moving across the Cambodian border in Vietnam. As we rode alongside the truck for what seemed like two minutes the Iraqi in the passenger seat raised a pistol up to eye level and aimed at my head. I yelled for Jack to speed up and Jack hit the gas and we sped along as four shots bounced off of our Humvee.
I yelled over to Jack, "I hate to ask a stupid question but how much gas do we have?"
Jack answered, "As far as I know we've got enough to get to the site of the ambush but what do you think about ditching this Humvee?"
I thought for a minute and asked, "I don't know, something bothers me about that shit back at the camp. How the hell do you lob mortars at a camp and miss by a hundred yards and manage to hit with a fragmentation grenade? How the fuck do you explain the physics of that one?"
Now Jack looked worried, "You think the frag was a cover to get at me?"
"Well Jack, you did hear the phone call..."
- Chris Mansel
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Mind of Mansel: JR & I in Iraq, Part 5
(Parts 1-4 below)
Driving through the wasteland that has become Iraq you pray you'll run into an arms dealer and you'll also pray he'll have some legs and a few hands, some teeth and eyes. You hope he'll start the bidding with a request for just a drop of water to pour atop the loaves and fishes he has brought to feed the warring tribes as they sit down and start to calmly discuss the atrocity that is unfolding on american television that has been unbelieved so far on Al Jezerra. Maybe you'll cringe when he says offhandly that he was kept out of Rwanda because the prosthetics he had brought along couldn't make it through customs years before the tightened security of 9/11. But then again in Iraq as in many other war zones in modern times the dust will get in your eyes and you'll be able to blame the blurred lines of aggression, of morality, on the weather and the politics of plurality, the obscenity of greater good, on something in your eye. but to the racist marine Jack was dealing with it was something eaten away at his soul a long time ago. Not a speck of dust introduced at the factory but a giant ball of hatred either beaten or lovingly enthralled upon a young boy who before he knew hot to hate was taught that one man was better simply by the color of his skin and it was unfortunate for his fellow Marines and the citizens of Iraq that this individual was not weeded out and was armed and set loose in a war zone. A casualty is a number in any year whether it contains an election or not, and in Iraq as well in America the news was not good.
Then almost as if on cue came the Marine from Tennessee behind the wheel of a Humvee. In the distance came a mortar attack, it's the sound you'll never forget if you ever hear it once. The entire camp reacted at once. The Major that Jack had interviewed came out of his command post and was scanning the desert for the action. Marines were running for their companies and there was hollering all around us. The Marine from Tennessee seemed unfazed. In Jack he saw a direct line to the killing and he was not about to be tied down to waiting for orders and seeing whether or not he would see action that day.
The Humvee came to a sudden stop in front of Jack as he tried not to jump out of his skin. The Marine jumped out and started counting the clips for his M16. "Gotta go get some, just a mortar, maybe just a few of'em!"
Jack was still keeping an eye out for the Major who hadn't discovered us just yet. But we had a problem. Jack was on one side of the camp and I was on the other and in the middle was the Major and a camp in a frenzy stocked full of Marines with posters of Osama Bin Laden with supermodels taking a dump on his face and handdrawn pictures of Bin Laden on diaylsis being tied down to an electric chair repeatedly.
Just as Jack and I were about to lock eyes across the camp and exchange a voiceless means of communication we had managed to develop in some of the world's worst hot spots, an incendiary device went off inside of the camp and the mess tent went up in flames. The explosion was minimal but sent a surge further into the camp as another mortar landed about a hundred yards away from the camp.
Jack grabbed the Marine from Tennessee and screamed, "What are you boy a Dixie Chick or Daniel Boone? Get in there and get some!" Pointing at the spot whers the mortars landed he got the Marine's attention and he raced off to where Jack had pointed. Jack seized the moment and jumped behind the wheel of the Humvee. Dodging troops who were running for the mess hall more from curiousity than anything, Jack skirted the perimeter and made his way to me and I jumped in the open driver's side and we were off. Speeding down the only road out of the camp that wasn't being hit by mortars we were on our way to the site of an ambush knowing all along that a marine Colonel knew who we were and that we knew that he was related in more than one way to the incident.
The words of the racist marine rung in my ears, "You think no one has fragged anybody since Vietnam?"
- Chris Mansel
Driving through the wasteland that has become Iraq you pray you'll run into an arms dealer and you'll also pray he'll have some legs and a few hands, some teeth and eyes. You hope he'll start the bidding with a request for just a drop of water to pour atop the loaves and fishes he has brought to feed the warring tribes as they sit down and start to calmly discuss the atrocity that is unfolding on american television that has been unbelieved so far on Al Jezerra. Maybe you'll cringe when he says offhandly that he was kept out of Rwanda because the prosthetics he had brought along couldn't make it through customs years before the tightened security of 9/11. But then again in Iraq as in many other war zones in modern times the dust will get in your eyes and you'll be able to blame the blurred lines of aggression, of morality, on the weather and the politics of plurality, the obscenity of greater good, on something in your eye. but to the racist marine Jack was dealing with it was something eaten away at his soul a long time ago. Not a speck of dust introduced at the factory but a giant ball of hatred either beaten or lovingly enthralled upon a young boy who before he knew hot to hate was taught that one man was better simply by the color of his skin and it was unfortunate for his fellow Marines and the citizens of Iraq that this individual was not weeded out and was armed and set loose in a war zone. A casualty is a number in any year whether it contains an election or not, and in Iraq as well in America the news was not good.
Then almost as if on cue came the Marine from Tennessee behind the wheel of a Humvee. In the distance came a mortar attack, it's the sound you'll never forget if you ever hear it once. The entire camp reacted at once. The Major that Jack had interviewed came out of his command post and was scanning the desert for the action. Marines were running for their companies and there was hollering all around us. The Marine from Tennessee seemed unfazed. In Jack he saw a direct line to the killing and he was not about to be tied down to waiting for orders and seeing whether or not he would see action that day.
The Humvee came to a sudden stop in front of Jack as he tried not to jump out of his skin. The Marine jumped out and started counting the clips for his M16. "Gotta go get some, just a mortar, maybe just a few of'em!"
Jack was still keeping an eye out for the Major who hadn't discovered us just yet. But we had a problem. Jack was on one side of the camp and I was on the other and in the middle was the Major and a camp in a frenzy stocked full of Marines with posters of Osama Bin Laden with supermodels taking a dump on his face and handdrawn pictures of Bin Laden on diaylsis being tied down to an electric chair repeatedly.
Just as Jack and I were about to lock eyes across the camp and exchange a voiceless means of communication we had managed to develop in some of the world's worst hot spots, an incendiary device went off inside of the camp and the mess tent went up in flames. The explosion was minimal but sent a surge further into the camp as another mortar landed about a hundred yards away from the camp.
Jack grabbed the Marine from Tennessee and screamed, "What are you boy a Dixie Chick or Daniel Boone? Get in there and get some!" Pointing at the spot whers the mortars landed he got the Marine's attention and he raced off to where Jack had pointed. Jack seized the moment and jumped behind the wheel of the Humvee. Dodging troops who were running for the mess hall more from curiousity than anything, Jack skirted the perimeter and made his way to me and I jumped in the open driver's side and we were off. Speeding down the only road out of the camp that wasn't being hit by mortars we were on our way to the site of an ambush knowing all along that a marine Colonel knew who we were and that we knew that he was related in more than one way to the incident.
The words of the racist marine rung in my ears, "You think no one has fragged anybody since Vietnam?"
- Chris Mansel
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Mind of Mansel: JR & I in Iraq, Parts 3 & 4
JR and I in Iraq - part 3
Dodge city, that's what the Marine's called the area we were in. One marine, so young he shaved once or at least twice a week whether he needed it or not had already killed three people. When I asked whether or not they were insurgents or civilians he just answered, "Well, one was shooting back and the others weren't, but screw'em man. I say arm yourself, shit we're MWA bitch, Marines with attitude!" Raised on MTV this white marine was born in Tennessee and had served a tour in the KKK while still in high school he told me before I even asked where he was from. When I asked him how he liked serving alongside other Marines he laughed and spit at the burning sand.
"You want to know what I think about all these highly esteemed people of color? They're all marines ain't they?" Then he laughed and patted his weapon and slapped it down to his side and saluted me and added, "You think nobody fragged anybody since Vietnam?"
How bad an epidemic racial strife between soldiers serving in Iraq was we might never know. Jack had secured an interview with a Major and was coming back across the camp and looked worried. As he walked he looked around, his head looking this way and that the way someone does before they tell you a secret or avoid someone they do not want to see. In the soundtrack in my head I instantly heard "Peace Frog" by the Doors. I don't know why these things always occur to me but they do. I remember a time in Chicago when I was covering a story on the heated talks betwen labor and management and War's "Spill That Wine" hit me all of a sudden and within minutes violence broke out and I spent the night in a jail cell fighting for my life.
Jack got over to me and his voice was quiet which was unlike him in so many ways. "This Major I went to talk to just got a call about an ambush of civilians. They were targeted by security forces." I looked around now because I wanted to be the first to get there and because the security forces always have friends serving in just about every platoon in Iraq and many after their tour is up will join private security to cash in.
I asked Jack, "How do we get there?"
Jack replied, "That's just it, the guy that called him while I was sitting there is his brother, and his nephew was in charge of the group that opened fire. I just got out of the office before the crazy bastard could call a corporal to detain me."
I looked around and as far as I could see were Marines with weapons at the ready, well trained and loyal to their commanding officer, the chain of command. I stood to scout a method of transportation, a friendly ride to anywhere other than where we were and saw the Marine from Tennessee. I turned to Jack and looked back at the racist marine and I thought I might have a plan. Shit it worked in Hollywood.
-----------------
Author's Note: (Before beginning to write this next installment I see this excerpt from the New York Times, and I am constantly reminded that the ugliest of man often occurs to me and as I see through their eyes it makes me want to close mine. I had no idea of this report before I wrote about the racist Marine but I am not surprised as human nature often tends to lean toward that line from Apocalypse Now that quotes Abraham Lincoln, you know the one, "Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature and good does not always triumph." I don't see any good in this, after all where can there be good in starting out to shoot someone because of thier skin color?)
"Lance Corporal Woods is black. He smoked in the darkness and said it has been a topic of conversation in his unit, Mobile Assault Platoon Five. "Valdez and me talked about that," he said. "He's Hispanic. He said, 'Man, I'm going to paint my skin darker, man.' That's what he said. And the next day he got shot."
"I hate this place," he said..."Out here, it really makes you love your country. I love my country, man. I love my country. I didn't hate my country before, man. But I had some problems with it."
"The United States of America," he said. "That sounds like heaven right now."
C.J. Chivers, "Marine Unit and Iraqis Fend Off Attacks and Boredom," NY Times, 7 December 2006.
JR and I in Iraq - part 4
Jack and I came up with a plan. Racists are notoriously patriotic, reference most of America's history, governmental and citizenry for evidence of this, and certianly ignorant, so Jack approached the marine from Tennessee playing the role of a C.I.A. agent.
Jack approached the racist marine who was kicking at the sand and aiming his weapon at the horizon.
"Hey, you hear about that American got shot in Fallujah yesterday?"
The marine looked around and then looked Jack up and down. He didn't take but a second or two to size up Jack. "Yeah, terrible shot that guy, took'em two."
Jack laughed, "Yeah well, what are you gonna do, poor training."
They both laughed and Jack shot me a worried and disgusted look.
Jack went on, "Say, John Russell, C.I.A., in country to take care of some loose ends. Not saying we need some help but always looking for some willing participants, those who can be covert and keep their goddamn mouth shut. It's below the radar of course." Then Jack snatched the weapon from the racist marine's hands so fast he told me later it scared even him, "So, you got the balls to pull the trigger without caring where the rounds land or are you just another weekend faggot here till your wife fucks the whole town back home?"
The racist Marine stood up and drew a knife and said, "I'm an American, ever since 9/11 I wanted to do what was necessary for my country to fight terrorism!"
Jack didn't break a sweat and went back after him, throwing the weapon to the ground, "Since 9/11? What were you doing before that? Working in a conveinence store and cheating on your mother? Real American? Shit!"
The racist Marine was livid now and was ready to open fire on anyone. Jack knew he was ready and in less than five minutes.
Jack said, "Ok,you're what we need. What we need right now is a humvee. Think you can get one here and I mean now Marine?"
The Marine flashed a shit-eating grin, "Before you know it!."
- Chris Mansel
Dodge city, that's what the Marine's called the area we were in. One marine, so young he shaved once or at least twice a week whether he needed it or not had already killed three people. When I asked whether or not they were insurgents or civilians he just answered, "Well, one was shooting back and the others weren't, but screw'em man. I say arm yourself, shit we're MWA bitch, Marines with attitude!" Raised on MTV this white marine was born in Tennessee and had served a tour in the KKK while still in high school he told me before I even asked where he was from. When I asked him how he liked serving alongside other Marines he laughed and spit at the burning sand.
"You want to know what I think about all these highly esteemed people of color? They're all marines ain't they?" Then he laughed and patted his weapon and slapped it down to his side and saluted me and added, "You think nobody fragged anybody since Vietnam?"
How bad an epidemic racial strife between soldiers serving in Iraq was we might never know. Jack had secured an interview with a Major and was coming back across the camp and looked worried. As he walked he looked around, his head looking this way and that the way someone does before they tell you a secret or avoid someone they do not want to see. In the soundtrack in my head I instantly heard "Peace Frog" by the Doors. I don't know why these things always occur to me but they do. I remember a time in Chicago when I was covering a story on the heated talks betwen labor and management and War's "Spill That Wine" hit me all of a sudden and within minutes violence broke out and I spent the night in a jail cell fighting for my life.
Jack got over to me and his voice was quiet which was unlike him in so many ways. "This Major I went to talk to just got a call about an ambush of civilians. They were targeted by security forces." I looked around now because I wanted to be the first to get there and because the security forces always have friends serving in just about every platoon in Iraq and many after their tour is up will join private security to cash in.
I asked Jack, "How do we get there?"
Jack replied, "That's just it, the guy that called him while I was sitting there is his brother, and his nephew was in charge of the group that opened fire. I just got out of the office before the crazy bastard could call a corporal to detain me."
I looked around and as far as I could see were Marines with weapons at the ready, well trained and loyal to their commanding officer, the chain of command. I stood to scout a method of transportation, a friendly ride to anywhere other than where we were and saw the Marine from Tennessee. I turned to Jack and looked back at the racist marine and I thought I might have a plan. Shit it worked in Hollywood.
-----------------
Author's Note: (Before beginning to write this next installment I see this excerpt from the New York Times, and I am constantly reminded that the ugliest of man often occurs to me and as I see through their eyes it makes me want to close mine. I had no idea of this report before I wrote about the racist Marine but I am not surprised as human nature often tends to lean toward that line from Apocalypse Now that quotes Abraham Lincoln, you know the one, "Sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature and good does not always triumph." I don't see any good in this, after all where can there be good in starting out to shoot someone because of thier skin color?)
"Lance Corporal Woods is black. He smoked in the darkness and said it has been a topic of conversation in his unit, Mobile Assault Platoon Five. "Valdez and me talked about that," he said. "He's Hispanic. He said, 'Man, I'm going to paint my skin darker, man.' That's what he said. And the next day he got shot."
"I hate this place," he said..."Out here, it really makes you love your country. I love my country, man. I love my country. I didn't hate my country before, man. But I had some problems with it."
"The United States of America," he said. "That sounds like heaven right now."
C.J. Chivers, "Marine Unit and Iraqis Fend Off Attacks and Boredom," NY Times, 7 December 2006.
JR and I in Iraq - part 4
Jack and I came up with a plan. Racists are notoriously patriotic, reference most of America's history, governmental and citizenry for evidence of this, and certianly ignorant, so Jack approached the marine from Tennessee playing the role of a C.I.A. agent.
Jack approached the racist marine who was kicking at the sand and aiming his weapon at the horizon.
"Hey, you hear about that American got shot in Fallujah yesterday?"
The marine looked around and then looked Jack up and down. He didn't take but a second or two to size up Jack. "Yeah, terrible shot that guy, took'em two."
Jack laughed, "Yeah well, what are you gonna do, poor training."
They both laughed and Jack shot me a worried and disgusted look.
Jack went on, "Say, John Russell, C.I.A., in country to take care of some loose ends. Not saying we need some help but always looking for some willing participants, those who can be covert and keep their goddamn mouth shut. It's below the radar of course." Then Jack snatched the weapon from the racist marine's hands so fast he told me later it scared even him, "So, you got the balls to pull the trigger without caring where the rounds land or are you just another weekend faggot here till your wife fucks the whole town back home?"
The racist Marine stood up and drew a knife and said, "I'm an American, ever since 9/11 I wanted to do what was necessary for my country to fight terrorism!"
Jack didn't break a sweat and went back after him, throwing the weapon to the ground, "Since 9/11? What were you doing before that? Working in a conveinence store and cheating on your mother? Real American? Shit!"
The racist Marine was livid now and was ready to open fire on anyone. Jack knew he was ready and in less than five minutes.
Jack said, "Ok,you're what we need. What we need right now is a humvee. Think you can get one here and I mean now Marine?"
The Marine flashed a shit-eating grin, "Before you know it!."
- Chris Mansel
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Mind of Mansel: JR & I in Iraq
Jack Random and I in Iraq - part 1
Jack Random and I burst into Iraq like a widow at a train station all out of quarters for the condom machine for that last ride to New Jersey for the High school reunion. The White House press office kept offering us our own poppy fields in the hills of Afghanistan if we just wouldn't go to Iraq. After breaking the story of Karl Rove and the Washington sex trade they would do anything to keep us away from the story. We were determined and even thought to go thru the wilds of Pakistan but why muddle in with the retreat of the Taliban, we end up in their clutches soon enough we were wagering.
Anyway, we hit the Iraq oil fields to the sight of an american truck broke down. Roadside bombs it was said weren't going off near the oil fields anymore since it was common knowledge the americans would be out of the country in force by the end of 2007. The George Baker plan had just hit amazon.com and all of Beirut we had read over the wires had ordered a copy and soon all of Iraq would be reading it through the black market. Once again Ed Meese would be popular among those who killed for pleasure.
The drivers of the two trucks both U.S. military soldiers were cursing at the four Iraqi members of the police who had driven by earlier and had took off quickly and laughed at the two of them stranded. One of the soldiers wanted to go off and shoot the Iraqi police and the other had for weeks left on the most recent one year tour in country. When we asked them about the term "boots on the ground" they responded with as much hate and vigor as they had when we asked about the Iraqi police.
"Boots on the ground, goddamn! I tell you what the boots on the ground think about this f-cking war, there's too much blood, too much Iraqi blood and too much american blood, and not enough old blue blood from any red states!" The soldier kicked the front of the truck violently and looked back at us quickly, "Just why are you here anyway? I don't see no boots on the ground here between you two."
We reassued the two soldiers that we wanted to report an honest portrayal of what was going on in Iraq. The other soldier who had remained quiet for most of the time spoke up, "Let me tell you something. We were on a patrol about a month ago maybe two. A roadside bomb goes off and these Iraqi troops start firing at one another, ripping each other apart and we have to mop it up. How long have we been here and we are getting killed every day. Sometimes I just want to start shooting and I don't honestly give a shit what I hit."
Jack Random and I In Iraq - part 2
How many screams did you hear until you knew they were coming from someone you could identify as someone other than yourself? That's a question you need to ask yourself when you have spent any time in a war zone.
Here we were in a war zone and as soon as we arrived we noticed that the poppy had followed here from the shores of america, from the rocky cliffs of Afghanistan. We investigated the cities amidts the sound of automatic gunfire and saw parents in the desert grip of drug addiction dealing with the unthinkable loss of three children in one day. We saw one child get his legs torn apart as visiting dignitaries bid farewell to the high security fences of Halliburton's white table cloths on CNN and its high rise bleachers. The grimace of Donald Rumsfeld quoting the words real or imagined from a wounded soldier at Walter Reed hospital.
In the days of slavery the crowd were treated to question and answer sessions between the seller and the slave. The slave was usually being judged by the crowd as to their build or visual strength so the Q&A were usually for the delight of the crowd and so in Iraq are the questions to Iraqi civilians as weapons are put in their faces by privately hired security, militia anywhere else in the world, or if you like insurgents in Iraq if it were not for the tax form they can produce given six months notice. We ran into these thugs several times and had our lives threatened until we lied and said we were with some government agency we made up on the spot. This never ceased to amazed us as it always pumped them up more in their blood lust and obscene patriotism for the red in the flag.
On american television the obsession is with crime scene investigation and forensics. There are no investigations to speak of in a war zone, especially not in Iraq. For instance, if you wanted to dig a mass grave and hide it with any education it wouldn't be too difficult, after all it is a desert region. This can work to the benefit of both sides in any war. Body counts make for headlines a soldier said once, just draw a line straight to the head, and you'll usually find more than one.
- Chris Mansel
Jack Random and I burst into Iraq like a widow at a train station all out of quarters for the condom machine for that last ride to New Jersey for the High school reunion. The White House press office kept offering us our own poppy fields in the hills of Afghanistan if we just wouldn't go to Iraq. After breaking the story of Karl Rove and the Washington sex trade they would do anything to keep us away from the story. We were determined and even thought to go thru the wilds of Pakistan but why muddle in with the retreat of the Taliban, we end up in their clutches soon enough we were wagering.
Anyway, we hit the Iraq oil fields to the sight of an american truck broke down. Roadside bombs it was said weren't going off near the oil fields anymore since it was common knowledge the americans would be out of the country in force by the end of 2007. The George Baker plan had just hit amazon.com and all of Beirut we had read over the wires had ordered a copy and soon all of Iraq would be reading it through the black market. Once again Ed Meese would be popular among those who killed for pleasure.
The drivers of the two trucks both U.S. military soldiers were cursing at the four Iraqi members of the police who had driven by earlier and had took off quickly and laughed at the two of them stranded. One of the soldiers wanted to go off and shoot the Iraqi police and the other had for weeks left on the most recent one year tour in country. When we asked them about the term "boots on the ground" they responded with as much hate and vigor as they had when we asked about the Iraqi police.
"Boots on the ground, goddamn! I tell you what the boots on the ground think about this f-cking war, there's too much blood, too much Iraqi blood and too much american blood, and not enough old blue blood from any red states!" The soldier kicked the front of the truck violently and looked back at us quickly, "Just why are you here anyway? I don't see no boots on the ground here between you two."
We reassued the two soldiers that we wanted to report an honest portrayal of what was going on in Iraq. The other soldier who had remained quiet for most of the time spoke up, "Let me tell you something. We were on a patrol about a month ago maybe two. A roadside bomb goes off and these Iraqi troops start firing at one another, ripping each other apart and we have to mop it up. How long have we been here and we are getting killed every day. Sometimes I just want to start shooting and I don't honestly give a shit what I hit."
Jack Random and I In Iraq - part 2
How many screams did you hear until you knew they were coming from someone you could identify as someone other than yourself? That's a question you need to ask yourself when you have spent any time in a war zone.
Here we were in a war zone and as soon as we arrived we noticed that the poppy had followed here from the shores of america, from the rocky cliffs of Afghanistan. We investigated the cities amidts the sound of automatic gunfire and saw parents in the desert grip of drug addiction dealing with the unthinkable loss of three children in one day. We saw one child get his legs torn apart as visiting dignitaries bid farewell to the high security fences of Halliburton's white table cloths on CNN and its high rise bleachers. The grimace of Donald Rumsfeld quoting the words real or imagined from a wounded soldier at Walter Reed hospital.
In the days of slavery the crowd were treated to question and answer sessions between the seller and the slave. The slave was usually being judged by the crowd as to their build or visual strength so the Q&A were usually for the delight of the crowd and so in Iraq are the questions to Iraqi civilians as weapons are put in their faces by privately hired security, militia anywhere else in the world, or if you like insurgents in Iraq if it were not for the tax form they can produce given six months notice. We ran into these thugs several times and had our lives threatened until we lied and said we were with some government agency we made up on the spot. This never ceased to amazed us as it always pumped them up more in their blood lust and obscene patriotism for the red in the flag.
On american television the obsession is with crime scene investigation and forensics. There are no investigations to speak of in a war zone, especially not in Iraq. For instance, if you wanted to dig a mass grave and hide it with any education it wouldn't be too difficult, after all it is a desert region. This can work to the benefit of both sides in any war. Body counts make for headlines a soldier said once, just draw a line straight to the head, and you'll usually find more than one.
- Chris Mansel
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Ribbon That Hung The Hanging Tree
(the mind of mansel)
its a crisis of burden to spread
quasi-political hellhounds of the dead
pentagon militias hired away privately
these dead look nothing like you and me
neighborhoods of america waiting they say
waiting for the next colored ribbon to display
its an administrative change just one more
lets clean up some of that blood from the floor
this humvee don't make left turns
this civil war won't be televised by ken burns
neighborhoods of america they say
waiting for the next colored ribbon to display
bin laden could be in london sending back food
for all we know he could be under the unabomber's hood
maybe he's not really hooked to a machine
what is real and what's really obscene
neighborhoods of america they say
waiting for the next colored ribbon to display
Chris Mansel
Contact: christophermansel@hotmail.com.
its a crisis of burden to spread
quasi-political hellhounds of the dead
pentagon militias hired away privately
these dead look nothing like you and me
neighborhoods of america waiting they say
waiting for the next colored ribbon to display
its an administrative change just one more
lets clean up some of that blood from the floor
this humvee don't make left turns
this civil war won't be televised by ken burns
neighborhoods of america they say
waiting for the next colored ribbon to display
bin laden could be in london sending back food
for all we know he could be under the unabomber's hood
maybe he's not really hooked to a machine
what is real and what's really obscene
neighborhoods of america they say
waiting for the next colored ribbon to display
Chris Mansel
Contact: christophermansel@hotmail.com.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Parts of Africa
It was in a country as small
as a country road stretches across an american county
that lives were taken for no other
reason than they could be taken
like wolves process for fur and meat
and the chickens allowed to run free
the shadows must be pulled from the limbs
the leaves of warfare pulled from the fruit
the bark of the machete, the stems of the aroma
wafting back upon the earth
- Chris Mansel
as a country road stretches across an american county
that lives were taken for no other
reason than they could be taken
like wolves process for fur and meat
and the chickens allowed to run free
the shadows must be pulled from the limbs
the leaves of warfare pulled from the fruit
the bark of the machete, the stems of the aroma
wafting back upon the earth
- Chris Mansel
Thursday, November 30, 2006
And Here's to Bolivia...
for Jack Random
and here's to Boliva
I've held your export in my hand
my government uses it to fund the Taliban
but it doesn't matter anyway
the U.N. changed the charter
and the weapons were never seized
that killed the Doctors Without Borders
- Chris Mansel
and here's to Boliva
I've held your export in my hand
my government uses it to fund the Taliban
but it doesn't matter anyway
the U.N. changed the charter
and the weapons were never seized
that killed the Doctors Without Borders
- Chris Mansel
Friday, November 24, 2006
Jake's Word: Hamilton Rising
x
Claustrophobia sets in.
She muscles out of the dirt.
Can she really summon the determination
to shed the wasted dollars?
smells more of bread than meat.
Too clever to read the odor’s intent,
but followed, begging
ruined sap
low and hot
growling – The wolves came
nuzzled your crotch
talking backward
until the old stairs fell
around the red maple
grown through the floor.
Take your passage then,
wallow all day in bed and
speak when summoned,
feet on cold wet floor
remembered, clutched the post
and spoke remembering –
The moths in the old stone church
glad to be done
with the Paraclete’s bickering.
Silent, finished,
roaming her legs again for grace.
Still, the mourners in a line proceed,
scarfheaded and faking it
in digital clicks
like teeth broken in
bread not meat.
Welcome to quicklime and virus
and the coming green.
Jake Berry 11.6.06
Claustrophobia sets in.
She muscles out of the dirt.
Can she really summon the determination
to shed the wasted dollars?
smells more of bread than meat.
Too clever to read the odor’s intent,
but followed, begging
ruined sap
low and hot
growling – The wolves came
nuzzled your crotch
talking backward
until the old stairs fell
around the red maple
grown through the floor.
Take your passage then,
wallow all day in bed and
speak when summoned,
feet on cold wet floor
remembered, clutched the post
and spoke remembering –
The moths in the old stone church
glad to be done
with the Paraclete’s bickering.
Silent, finished,
roaming her legs again for grace.
Still, the mourners in a line proceed,
scarfheaded and faking it
in digital clicks
like teeth broken in
bread not meat.
Welcome to quicklime and virus
and the coming green.
Jake Berry 11.6.06
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
KING JOHN & GEORGE
According to historical lore, King John (circa 1215) was a little man, out of touch with the affairs of state and so recklessly ineffectual that nearly he lost hold of Britannia’s golden crown.
Humankind was the beneficiary of King John’s incompetence. Compelled to sign the Magna Carta or risk losing both his throne and his head, that document was the essential beginning of a new era in government: the age of human rights.
At its foundation was the principle of Habeas Corpus: The right to challenge one’s imprisonment by requiring that the government produce evidence before a court of law.
Nearly eight centuries later, a little man from Crawford, Texas, out of touch and recklessly ineffectual, has somehow parlayed a mandate of fear into a repeal of Habeas Corpus in the most powerful and influential democracy on earth.
History is filled with ironies but this is an irony of epic proportions.
Memo to Congress: Repeal the Patriot Act, the Military Commissions Act, and restore the judiciary to its rightful role as the ultimate check on executive power.
JRandom
Humankind was the beneficiary of King John’s incompetence. Compelled to sign the Magna Carta or risk losing both his throne and his head, that document was the essential beginning of a new era in government: the age of human rights.
At its foundation was the principle of Habeas Corpus: The right to challenge one’s imprisonment by requiring that the government produce evidence before a court of law.
Nearly eight centuries later, a little man from Crawford, Texas, out of touch and recklessly ineffectual, has somehow parlayed a mandate of fear into a repeal of Habeas Corpus in the most powerful and influential democracy on earth.
History is filled with ironies but this is an irony of epic proportions.
Memo to Congress: Repeal the Patriot Act, the Military Commissions Act, and restore the judiciary to its rightful role as the ultimate check on executive power.
JRandom
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Coronado
(With respect to Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer”)
Well they came across the ocean
With a dream of finding gold
And they marched across the mountains
To where the buffalo once roamed
And the Black Robes went before them
To turn heathens into stone
And they gave them poison blankets
And they promised to take them home
Where are all the warriors?
Where have they all gone?
And where are all the leaders
To right what we have wronged?
[Drumbeat of the warrior.]
Geronimo roamed the desert
Crazy Horse roamed the plains
And they vowed to fight forever
While the blood flowed through their veins
So they took them all to prisons
That the white man calls reserves
And they fed them moldy biscuits
While they laid waste to the earth
Where are all the warriors?
Where have they gone?
And where are all the leaders
To right what we’ve done wrong?
[Drumbeat of the warrior.]
Copyright 2006 Jack Random.
Well they came across the ocean
With a dream of finding gold
And they marched across the mountains
To where the buffalo once roamed
And the Black Robes went before them
To turn heathens into stone
And they gave them poison blankets
And they promised to take them home
Where are all the warriors?
Where have they all gone?
And where are all the leaders
To right what we have wronged?
[Drumbeat of the warrior.]
Geronimo roamed the desert
Crazy Horse roamed the plains
And they vowed to fight forever
While the blood flowed through their veins
So they took them all to prisons
That the white man calls reserves
And they fed them moldy biscuits
While they laid waste to the earth
Where are all the warriors?
Where have they gone?
And where are all the leaders
To right what we’ve done wrong?
[Drumbeat of the warrior.]
Copyright 2006 Jack Random.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Thomas Merton on Democracy
"It is no exaggeration to say that democratic society is founded on a kind of faith: on the conviction that each citizen is capable of, and assumes, complete political responsibility. Each one not only broadly understands the problems of government but is willing and ready to take part in their solution. In a word, democracy assumes that the citizen knows what is going on, understands the difficulties of the situation, and has worked out for himself an answer that will help him to contribute, intelligently and constructively, to the common work (or "liturgy") of running his society.
"For this to be true, there must be a considerable amount of solid educational preparation. A real training of the mind. A genuine formation in those intellectual and spiritual disciplines without which freedom is impossible.
"There must be a completely free exchange of ideas. Minority opinions, even opinions which may appear to be dangerous, must be given a hearing, clearly understood and seriously evaluated on their own merits, not merely suppressed. Religious beliefs and disciplines must be respected. The rights of the individual conscience must be protected against every kind of open or occult encroachment.
"Democracy cannot exist when men prefer ideas and opinions that are fabricated for them. The actions and statements of the citizen must not be mere automatic "reactions"-mere mechanical salutes, gesticulations signifying passive conformity with the dictates of those in power.
"To be truthful, we will have to admit that one cannot expect this to be realized in all the citizens of a democracy. But if it is not realized in a significant proportion of them, democracy ceases to be an objective fact and becomes nothing but an emotionally loaded word.
"What is the situation in the United States today?"
Conjectures of a Guilty Bystanderby Thomas Merton,
New York: Doubleday & Co, Inc., 1968 edition, p. 100-101
__________________________________
Submitted by: Jon Berry
Project Editor, The University of Alabama Press
"For this to be true, there must be a considerable amount of solid educational preparation. A real training of the mind. A genuine formation in those intellectual and spiritual disciplines without which freedom is impossible.
"There must be a completely free exchange of ideas. Minority opinions, even opinions which may appear to be dangerous, must be given a hearing, clearly understood and seriously evaluated on their own merits, not merely suppressed. Religious beliefs and disciplines must be respected. The rights of the individual conscience must be protected against every kind of open or occult encroachment.
"Democracy cannot exist when men prefer ideas and opinions that are fabricated for them. The actions and statements of the citizen must not be mere automatic "reactions"-mere mechanical salutes, gesticulations signifying passive conformity with the dictates of those in power.
"To be truthful, we will have to admit that one cannot expect this to be realized in all the citizens of a democracy. But if it is not realized in a significant proportion of them, democracy ceases to be an objective fact and becomes nothing but an emotionally loaded word.
"What is the situation in the United States today?"
Conjectures of a Guilty Bystanderby Thomas Merton,
New York: Doubleday & Co, Inc., 1968 edition, p. 100-101
__________________________________
Submitted by: Jon Berry
Project Editor, The University of Alabama Press
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Profiles in Cowardice: The Nominees
A recent Jazzman Chronicle described the state of American politics, on the eve of the midterm elections, under the heading: Profiles in Cowardice.
Here are the leading nominees of both parties, in alphabetical order, subject to modification:
1. George "Makaka" Allen (R VA). Here is a candidate who shamelessly played the race card and got caught on tape. Rather than coming clean, he claimed to have invented the derogatory term out of thin air.
2. Hillary Clinton (D NY). Mindful of her reputation as a liberal (whatever that means), the Senator has refashioned herself a moderate, teaming with John McCain to ban flag burning (a burning issue!). She voted for the war, for the Patriot Act, and watched the death of habeas corpus without a whimper.
3. Bob Corker (R TN). He exemplifies the awkward duplicity created by McCain-Feingold campaign finance reform. The RNC takes responsibility for a race-baiting character assault while Corker distances himself from the mud -- just as he distances himself from an unpopular president and an unpopular war.
4. Mike DeWine (R OH). Another Republican taking big money from the White House political machine while proclaiming his independence. What war? George who?
5. Mark Foley (R FL). Mendacity had a new champion until the Ted Haggard revelation came along.
6. Harold Ford (D TN). He hands out a calling card with the ten commandments on the back. Fine. Another lesson for Democrats: Republican light is a losing strategy.
7. Bill Frist (R TN). Remember Terri Schiavo?
8. Tom Kean Jr. (R NJ). Start up the sludge machine and run away from the White House.
9. John McCain (R AZ). He called himself a friend of John Kerry. He was a victim of the Bush sludge machine himself, yet when it came time to pounce on Kerry for a botched joke, he could not even wait for an explanation.
10. Arnold Schwarzenegger (R CA). There is a word for remaking yourself in the image of your opposition: It is not pragmatism, it is pandering.
11. Michael Steele (R MD). Let's blame it all on Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld.
12. Jim Talent (R MO). See Mike DeWine.
Nominees for Profiles in Courage (a short list):
1. Sherrod Brown (D OH). He came out against the war strong when it counted most: In the beginning. He remains one of the most principle antiwar voices.
2. Russ Feingold (D WI). He also came out against the war when it counted -- a lonely position in the US Senate. He has refused to take a stronger position on getting our troops out -- a position I disagree with but it takes courage to buck a growing tide that would have placed his name at the top of the presidential candidates list.
3. Bernie Sanders (VT). Bernie never pulls his punches. He has been right (left) on all the issues no matter how much derision he has had to suffer. A candidate to watch.
4. Jim Webb (D VA). A military man takes an antiwar stand and refuses to disavow his work as a novelist. Likewise, he takes responsibility for sexist statements he made decades ago. He does not look or act like a politician. Whatever our views on policy, the man possesses courage.
Jazz.
Here are the leading nominees of both parties, in alphabetical order, subject to modification:
1. George "Makaka" Allen (R VA). Here is a candidate who shamelessly played the race card and got caught on tape. Rather than coming clean, he claimed to have invented the derogatory term out of thin air.
2. Hillary Clinton (D NY). Mindful of her reputation as a liberal (whatever that means), the Senator has refashioned herself a moderate, teaming with John McCain to ban flag burning (a burning issue!). She voted for the war, for the Patriot Act, and watched the death of habeas corpus without a whimper.
3. Bob Corker (R TN). He exemplifies the awkward duplicity created by McCain-Feingold campaign finance reform. The RNC takes responsibility for a race-baiting character assault while Corker distances himself from the mud -- just as he distances himself from an unpopular president and an unpopular war.
4. Mike DeWine (R OH). Another Republican taking big money from the White House political machine while proclaiming his independence. What war? George who?
5. Mark Foley (R FL). Mendacity had a new champion until the Ted Haggard revelation came along.
6. Harold Ford (D TN). He hands out a calling card with the ten commandments on the back. Fine. Another lesson for Democrats: Republican light is a losing strategy.
7. Bill Frist (R TN). Remember Terri Schiavo?
8. Tom Kean Jr. (R NJ). Start up the sludge machine and run away from the White House.
9. John McCain (R AZ). He called himself a friend of John Kerry. He was a victim of the Bush sludge machine himself, yet when it came time to pounce on Kerry for a botched joke, he could not even wait for an explanation.
10. Arnold Schwarzenegger (R CA). There is a word for remaking yourself in the image of your opposition: It is not pragmatism, it is pandering.
11. Michael Steele (R MD). Let's blame it all on Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld.
12. Jim Talent (R MO). See Mike DeWine.
Nominees for Profiles in Courage (a short list):
1. Sherrod Brown (D OH). He came out against the war strong when it counted most: In the beginning. He remains one of the most principle antiwar voices.
2. Russ Feingold (D WI). He also came out against the war when it counted -- a lonely position in the US Senate. He has refused to take a stronger position on getting our troops out -- a position I disagree with but it takes courage to buck a growing tide that would have placed his name at the top of the presidential candidates list.
3. Bernie Sanders (VT). Bernie never pulls his punches. He has been right (left) on all the issues no matter how much derision he has had to suffer. A candidate to watch.
4. Jim Webb (D VA). A military man takes an antiwar stand and refuses to disavow his work as a novelist. Likewise, he takes responsibility for sexist statements he made decades ago. He does not look or act like a politician. Whatever our views on policy, the man possesses courage.
Jazz.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Iraq: Get Out Now
We have to get out.
We have to get out before the tide turns again, before Karl Rove gets his groove, before a Tonkin incident triggers a new invasion, before the tactical nuke is fully deployable, before the valley of the Tigris and Euphrates, the cradle of civilization, is filled with Iraqi and American blood.
We have to get out before another half million lives are lost and the ghost of Vietnam rises from the sands of ancient Mesopotamia.
We have to get out before the cry of mourning becomes a cry of vengeance that overwhelms and buries wisdom and reason.
We have to get out before a terrorist incident, real or invented, uncovers once again the dark side of the American character.
We have to get out before it is too late to negotiate a compromise, before the passions are so inflamed that no one talks and no one listens.
We have to get out before the next Iraqi strongman rises from the ranks to impose order with the iron hand of despotism and oppression.
We have to get out before nuclear technologies yield nuclear weapons that place the human species on the edge of extinction.
We have to get out before a new American president plays the patriot card and persuades the masses that “victory at any cost” is the national destiny.
We have to get out before Afghanistan implodes and a new Osama bin Laden is hailed as a liberator and a prophet.
We have to get out.
Now.
We have to get out before the tide turns again, before Karl Rove gets his groove, before a Tonkin incident triggers a new invasion, before the tactical nuke is fully deployable, before the valley of the Tigris and Euphrates, the cradle of civilization, is filled with Iraqi and American blood.
We have to get out before another half million lives are lost and the ghost of Vietnam rises from the sands of ancient Mesopotamia.
We have to get out before the cry of mourning becomes a cry of vengeance that overwhelms and buries wisdom and reason.
We have to get out before a terrorist incident, real or invented, uncovers once again the dark side of the American character.
We have to get out before it is too late to negotiate a compromise, before the passions are so inflamed that no one talks and no one listens.
We have to get out before the next Iraqi strongman rises from the ranks to impose order with the iron hand of despotism and oppression.
We have to get out before nuclear technologies yield nuclear weapons that place the human species on the edge of extinction.
We have to get out before a new American president plays the patriot card and persuades the masses that “victory at any cost” is the national destiny.
We have to get out before Afghanistan implodes and a new Osama bin Laden is hailed as a liberator and a prophet.
We have to get out.
Now.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Neocon Playbook
Up Against the Wall
The trouble with the neocons is: You never know when they’re playing.
They started by flashing their trump cards. They wanted all players at the table to know what was coming. The axis of evil jive was more than rhetoric, more than a self-fulfilling prophecy, it was a warning: Get out of the way or we’ll take you down with our designated enemies.
They put a down payment on Afghanistan, flipped it to NATO, and the put the real money on Iraq. When they were still flying high, cruising through elections with an unlimited gold card (make that platinum), they flashed a hold card, the big one, the tactical nuke.
Things look different today than they did two years ago when little George had some capital to play with. Deuces came up against threes, jacks against queens, and aces against straights. Little George is on a losing streak and he can’t stop playing. He never could.
Little George and the neocons are up against the wall and they’re likely to do what any compulsive gamblers would do: raise the stakes.
The only votes that count in the next election belong to Diebold, ES&S and Hart InterCivic voting machines. The only card the neocons have left is the nuke.
Hang on, folks, its going to be a rough ride.
Jazz.
The trouble with the neocons is: You never know when they’re playing.
They started by flashing their trump cards. They wanted all players at the table to know what was coming. The axis of evil jive was more than rhetoric, more than a self-fulfilling prophecy, it was a warning: Get out of the way or we’ll take you down with our designated enemies.
They put a down payment on Afghanistan, flipped it to NATO, and the put the real money on Iraq. When they were still flying high, cruising through elections with an unlimited gold card (make that platinum), they flashed a hold card, the big one, the tactical nuke.
Things look different today than they did two years ago when little George had some capital to play with. Deuces came up against threes, jacks against queens, and aces against straights. Little George is on a losing streak and he can’t stop playing. He never could.
Little George and the neocons are up against the wall and they’re likely to do what any compulsive gamblers would do: raise the stakes.
The only votes that count in the next election belong to Diebold, ES&S and Hart InterCivic voting machines. The only card the neocons have left is the nuke.
Hang on, folks, its going to be a rough ride.
Jazz.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Jefferson in Hell by Jake Berry
Cough.
Flagellation.
Requiem.
We have seen the process heaving.
He can’t suffer it again,
another cold alabaster mannequin
disrobed
& trailed in gray debris.
Trapped inside her petticoats
Venus sneezes, barks and wheezes.
Who’d believe if she confessed
a low rebellion in Storyville.
The fishmonger sold his grave
to Marie Laveau
who rolled the dice to thieve
him grace.
The feast of crescent
deadlight Ramadan –
16 chaingang
republicans bleached
in Plato’s toilet
if you can bear the newsprint stench.
Come down to mama
Come down to mama
Come on down to your bone sad mama
and drink the good Lord’s tit.
Jake Berry 10.5.06 7:40 am
Flagellation.
Requiem.
We have seen the process heaving.
He can’t suffer it again,
another cold alabaster mannequin
disrobed
& trailed in gray debris.
Trapped inside her petticoats
Venus sneezes, barks and wheezes.
Who’d believe if she confessed
a low rebellion in Storyville.
The fishmonger sold his grave
to Marie Laveau
who rolled the dice to thieve
him grace.
The feast of crescent
deadlight Ramadan –
16 chaingang
republicans bleached
in Plato’s toilet
if you can bear the newsprint stench.
Come down to mama
Come down to mama
Come on down to your bone sad mama
and drink the good Lord’s tit.
Jake Berry 10.5.06 7:40 am
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
A Poem by Ivan Arguelles
[jihad]
it was a inflammatory thing very
the pope read quoting a palaeologus
Michael II emperor of byzant about
the holy war proclaimed by the Prophet
in the year who knows when and
all around are fires burning are
moats being considered around Baghdad
are the very ramparts of are
nothing is pure the stratosphere
is a hell of pollution waste gas
noxious fumes of human thought
rising from the abscess in the tooth
being employed by presidents of
Moloch with his jaws churning in
dream the oval office rose tinted
and will appoint as generals
Gog and Magog on either side
money is the fuel for love are
ardent desire to overcome bad sleep
habits when passing through deserts
it says in the Bible what are
the envious doing here what are
the thing is about the eglantine branch
the dogwood in flower the white
intense upon white before bleeding
the insane who are kept inside
Jerusalem who cannot explain mother
who assume father is the target
raising the blazing scimitar high
to cut the dove neatly in half
wonder in what century it will end
can it end the hypothetical iron
now rusting inside Shulamit’s breast
it will end the nerve defiant
in the resembling Eye! motionless
the wave immobile the wind senseless
the north of sky toward which
crawls the Beast unerring in song
are then others so removed from
is such the capacity of man to
why is the garden thus laid bare
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
painted universe descried from afar
out of control in its infinite gyres
does then the sheep cote sink in dark
the hundred asbestos angels are quick
in their flashing quicker still Krishna
passing silently through 3000 brides
“be thou my Love, still the beating heart”
for each constructed city a paragraph
of ire and spite for each other side
the reckless banks of sand collapse
are fortune and its Hollywood a reality
as is no more the small drugstore
where for a magazine of powder one
could purchase the end result
fallen to the curbside and armless
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
which is the century of the Golden Horn
and which the minute past caesar’s death
why it matters on the flickering screen
who dances in red beside a dread japan
who eats china in a repeated trance
why are they at the door why are
for this brief instant the multiples
of history shine like malibu neon
but for the sluggish ethiop stream
psychiatry metempsychosis lethargy
why they are not with us this day
the fabulous planets of Poesy
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
plunge then the tinsel Primavera
into her dry well, suck out the soul
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
dynasties like argent cobras pass
through migrations of awful dust
one is there who but none instead
stand outside the cycle in review
watching unidentified armies clash
watching each still point dissolve
it is never resolved but brain dead
in palo alto trying to match Boolean
ciphers the world of intransigence
some small some lesser yet and some
for whom a lunar madness fits
for whom the
attach
slumbering Air
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
resist the Call
ivan arguelles
09-17-06
See 9th Street Lab: http://9thstlab.blogspot.com
it was a inflammatory thing very
the pope read quoting a palaeologus
Michael II emperor of byzant about
the holy war proclaimed by the Prophet
in the year who knows when and
all around are fires burning are
moats being considered around Baghdad
are the very ramparts of are
nothing is pure the stratosphere
is a hell of pollution waste gas
noxious fumes of human thought
rising from the abscess in the tooth
being employed by presidents of
Moloch with his jaws churning in
dream the oval office rose tinted
and will appoint as generals
Gog and Magog on either side
money is the fuel for love are
ardent desire to overcome bad sleep
habits when passing through deserts
it says in the Bible what are
the envious doing here what are
the thing is about the eglantine branch
the dogwood in flower the white
intense upon white before bleeding
the insane who are kept inside
Jerusalem who cannot explain mother
who assume father is the target
raising the blazing scimitar high
to cut the dove neatly in half
wonder in what century it will end
can it end the hypothetical iron
now rusting inside Shulamit’s breast
it will end the nerve defiant
in the resembling Eye! motionless
the wave immobile the wind senseless
the north of sky toward which
crawls the Beast unerring in song
are then others so removed from
is such the capacity of man to
why is the garden thus laid bare
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
painted universe descried from afar
out of control in its infinite gyres
does then the sheep cote sink in dark
the hundred asbestos angels are quick
in their flashing quicker still Krishna
passing silently through 3000 brides
“be thou my Love, still the beating heart”
for each constructed city a paragraph
of ire and spite for each other side
the reckless banks of sand collapse
are fortune and its Hollywood a reality
as is no more the small drugstore
where for a magazine of powder one
could purchase the end result
fallen to the curbside and armless
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
which is the century of the Golden Horn
and which the minute past caesar’s death
why it matters on the flickering screen
who dances in red beside a dread japan
who eats china in a repeated trance
why are they at the door why are
for this brief instant the multiples
of history shine like malibu neon
but for the sluggish ethiop stream
psychiatry metempsychosis lethargy
why they are not with us this day
the fabulous planets of Poesy
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
plunge then the tinsel Primavera
into her dry well, suck out the soul
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
dynasties like argent cobras pass
through migrations of awful dust
one is there who but none instead
stand outside the cycle in review
watching unidentified armies clash
watching each still point dissolve
it is never resolved but brain dead
in palo alto trying to match Boolean
ciphers the world of intransigence
some small some lesser yet and some
for whom a lunar madness fits
for whom the
attach
slumbering Air
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
resist the Call
ivan arguelles
09-17-06
See 9th Street Lab: http://9thstlab.blogspot.com
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