Friday, October 31, 2014

“The Men are coming, dear!”

“Aw, what is the sound I hear dear?”
“It’s the back wheel spinning and spinning
In the mud dear, we’re stuck!”

“Aw, what is the other sound I hear dear?”
“Only the men in the hunter’s cabin, up ahead,
Drinking, and laughing and singing dear!”

“By gosh, they’re coming towards us dear!”
“It is midnight hunting I suppose; or perhaps
 Midnight fishing on the lake, nearby dear!”

“Why then have they not left the road dear?
They look so resolute and callous, I fear?”
“I suppose it’s cold and damp, out there dear!”

“Then why are they shinning their flashlights
In our car window dear, it makes me nervous?”
“Surely, to see who is in here!”

“Aw, what do you think they want dear?
They’re not laughing or singing anymore…”
“I think they want you dear, I fear!”

“Oh, where are you going in such a hurry, you
Promised to love and protect me dear…”
“No, no, only to love you, and I do sincerely!”

They’re breaking the lock to the car with a crowbar
And their groans I can hear, are heavy! And their
Faces unrelenting, and their eyes are blazing…!

Written 10-31-2014/ No: 4585/ Note: this poem is fictional for the most part, although it originates from three sources 1) a dear friend of mine (in the early 90s), told me of such an experience she had with her boyfriend, and she asked me for my thoughts on the situation: he had left her stranded in a car, as he walked out of the woods to whom knows were, left her to defend herself. 2) In the 1980s, second case, was when this fellow was confronted by three young hooligans, his car stuck in mud, and his girlfriend with them, and he didn’t leave. I will not reveal the results of these two cases but, the poem has roots. Anyhow, 3) the third source, is in realizing W. H. Auden wrote a similar poem, perhaps more involved: “O what is the sound…” 1936, which is similar; henceforward, I took it upon myself to write “The Men are coming.” My advice to young woman, the older ones should know better, is: know who you’re dating: most men are cowards, and nowadays, there is little honor or chivalry in them. Not so unlike the world as a whole, where once your word was sacred with a handshake, it can be broken very easily, with no more thought than a drop of water. 
Gunter of Cologne
(…or, Count Volkmar of Gretz)

Volmar of Gretz, whose soul rest in peace Amen.
Followed his brother-in-law Gunter of Cologne,
With sixteen thousand Crusaders, to fight the infidel in Jerusalem!
In the spirit of doing God’s will, to stop the holy sites of
Jesus Christ from ruin.
He was influence by his priest, Wenzel, also—
And not by whom he called ‘The False Pope’ …
But on the way, through German: Worms, Speyer, and even at the
Gates of Gretz, Gunter had every Jew slain—
And throughout Hungry and Bulgaria, the same, 30,000 of them!
Before Volkmar could bring this genocide to its end!
A wild frenzy, ambition of Gunter to rid the world of the Jew
The one who incited the Romans to do their dirty work…
And now he crossed the Golden Horn, between Europe and Asia
Only to fight the pagan Turk, and lost all battles but one,
And that one battle, was against Christians, a mistaking identity,
He had killed his own kind.
Now he had made it back to Constantinople,
Where he met Volmar, who had been imprisoned by the Bulgarians
And held for ransom, now freed…
With only seven, including himself of the once 16,000-strong,
That had crossed the strait, to fight in Jerusalem!
Hence, where he never made it to.
And now all he could do when he spoke to Volmar,
Was ‘giggle nervously’ like a fool!
Somewhere along the line, he lost sight, his vision his goal, perhaps
His mind too: and gave to Germany an ever- fore- more, stained soul…

10-31-2014/No: 4584
Note:  The poem refers to the 1st Crusade, of 1099 A.D., although these events took place a few years earlier, and Volmar died in 1124 A.D. Gunter Cologne’s are of little interest to me.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

The Exhortation of Gallipoli

The Exhortation of Gallipoli
(April 25, 1915, to January 9, 1916)

For nine months composed, England, France, Australia
Fought the Germans and the Turks, had invaded the land of
Asia Minor.
From the Aegean Sea to the Straits of the Dardanelles, they had
To conquer all the land, to achieve the impossible
Nor was there any place to land, along the Gallipoli Peninsula,  
To make their stand.
There was not railway, roads, wheeled traffic, no town or city
No shelter, here there was no grace found.
But 100,000-soldiers to love their country,
Shunned the evil fortune—as the enemy looked down
(400,000-thousnad strong)
Upon them, from higher ground,
On this waterless peninsula, sun-smitten.

Here now come the English to our land to overthrow.
I have the mass for battle to meet them in their might,
And enough henchmen to beat them in their fight!
So the Germans imagined the scenes for the Turks—
As wise men gave counsel for the battles to be. 
“Save no man from death and shame,” was their motto.
No Turk spoke save, those silently alone. 
And the hills were entrenched, the landing mined,
The beaches bared wired, howitzers and machine guns,
Bayonet, clambered upon the invaders day and night,
Allowing only a brief sleep—; soon the wisest heathen
Was to beat the good vassal, and men of chivalry.
Cunning they were, and skillful were these overlords,
Like a swift current from the sea.

The German and the Turk, arrogant and strong,
Leal and long,   did not want the British, Australian,
To break the link by which Turkey kept hold as
A European Power—; should she allow them to
Force a passage through the defended channel of the
Hellespont, this would mean defeat.
On the 9th of January, the last man had conceded the
Burial place of those who had won the sands and shorelines,
And lost the war, in the Gallipoli Campaign!

And surely Lollingdon, or Sir Ian Hamilton, or some
Brigadier—having been hit such a staggering blow—after
A lapse of time, whispered to his second mind:
What though I might have won, at the court before our Queen!
For no man wilfully, for the last time, without feeling,
A grievance, or gloom, walks away from defeat gladly,
In a strange country, when there country, had them march
In haste, all much ill, who would have smitten the Turk and
The German, had they had the water, the men, and the food.
Ere, did they not watch the best of them be buried there?
On the hills and in the sea, and on the beaches of Gallipoli!
For they took great pains to let each soldier think this: that
As Shakespeare put it: “…a man can die but once;
We owe God a death …and let it go which way it will…”

And so the British Navy came, and lanterns blazed from
Starry heights of Gallipoli: the Turks and the Germans looking
Down, and frowned at what they saw, or didn’t see; looked down,
To judge the land and weigh it, and counted every flaw
And totaled up the debt, and vowed if they came back they’d pay…
(but they were not certain if they had really truly left…)
As the great beaches lay sprawl beneath them, per near empty
(a whole day and then some)—

Above the warning sky, as morning hit, an eerie silence fell,
A growing dread, feeble rays, no soldier, serf, or mighty lord  
Could be seen of the enemy, just hoary phantoms of the dead, 
Swept across the land, as winds came in from the Gulf of Saros,
Then docks gave way like matchsticks, between the straggling
Waves, and over the battlements and mud brick dugout walls;
The wind was clean and free: for not one invader nor one ship
From beyond those horizons, broaden their landscapes.

No: 4583/ October 28 & 29, 2014
Note: the author visited the battlefields of Gallipoli in 1996, and got down into one of the few trenches still maintaining its structure, walled with timber, 1996.

Note: Governments are harsh on men of war, they did at Gallipoli what was done I believe in Vietnam, they walked away, when they could have won the war;  they had already won the battles, it was just the war that needed winning in this area of the world, and that would have taken resupplying.  Yes, weather and all sorts of hardship prevailed, but the British Government pulled back, when they should have pushed forward, which is my personal opinion having been in the Vietnam War, a tragedy, and poor planning. But of course WWI, as we are talking about, in 1916, soldiers were needed elsewhere—so the excuse was—but  that goes to prove my point, then don’t start a battle, in this case battles, to win a war you know you’re not going to support.  Too many good and young soldiers died to secure the Strait of Gallipoli, to simply say: for another day! 

Mohammad’s ‘The Hole of a Lizard’

The old gods have all died off—
Now, there is only one God!
This God I speak of, was discovered by the Jews; whom,
He sent Jesus Christ, the second to last prophet to reveal his views;
And now he has sent the final prophet, Muhammad, to complete them.
This strange new doctrine, was only meant to fulfill what the Jews and Christians had started, long before.
‘For the Jew,’ says the Muslim: ‘their religion has grown old and useless!’
And for the Christian, says the Muslim ‘they have misheard their savior as to being the final prophet!’
And so it would seem, Islam, back in 635 A. D., felt sorry for the blindness of the Jew and the Christian.
And in doing so, wanted to help God out, by helping those two religious groups find God.
Hence, Muhammad pointed out: the Jews had the Old Testament delivered to them by Moses—
The Christians had the New Testament, brought forth by Jesus—
And now the Koran, which summarizes the better of the two, makes them no longer needed!
Even though much of the Koran had come to Muhammad through teachings of the Jewish sagas; and it was Jerusalem Muhammad ascended to heaven, like the Jew, was descended from Abraham through Ishmael, and accepted Moses, Joseph, Saul and David and Solomon.
But the Jew laughed at Islam’s argument, the Torah was all they needed.
Even though the Muhammad.
And the Jew voices, God speaks through the Torah, not the Koran. 
And for their stubbornness, the Muslim, decapitated eight-hundred Jews.
A sign of love and devotion to Allah.
And these eight-hundred were thrown into a trench, for their laughing at
Islam; and because they would not forswear their religion for Islam.
And they scored the Christian, although they accepted:  John the Baptist
And Mary, the Virgin Mother, and Jesus Christ as worthy adversaries.
And then Mohammed said: follow them even if you need to ‘…creep into the hole of a lizard.’
And then strife scattered Islam, thus came the great separation.

No: 4580/ 10-22-2014

On Christ and Islam

On Christ and Islam

Jesus Christ, Man or God?
(The double-bind)


Some have said: Jesus Christ was: Man and God!
Others have said: Jesus Christ was man, then God.
Are both right, or are both wrong?
I mean, did Christ own two complete natures?
One forever human!
Another forever divine?
In those far-off days of yesteryear (635 A.D.?)—
Sections of the Christian Church refused this doctrine!
Thus, the orthodox opinion: Christ had two natures
(human and divine—)
The unorthodox, felt he had one-nature.
A Church, and a Religion divided!
Solution, Christ had one will, and that of which
Represented the will of God…
This would have seemed to have settled the argument,
But things did not settle there:
It came to being, the new issue was:
Christ had one nature and two wills.
But Mary, the mother of God, remained the Mother of God?
So what the churches ended up with was:
Christ’s nature, substance and will, in question, on how
They were mixed within the body of Jesus of Nazareth:
In those far-off days, of Christendom, and so still remain!

No: 4579/ 10-22-2014/Note one: The Churches of Jesus Christ, may be divided on doctrine, but they are not divided on Jesus’ will in being centered on God the Father’s determination…  Note two: As far as how two natures can be within one: I call it a double-bind, that is, if you mix two substance together, you have two selves within one, two natures. Extraction would prove the two embodies. Second point, the sun has helium and hydrogen, without both of those substances, the sun would not be the sun. In a like manner, Christ cannot be called Christ the Messiah, without both natures within him.

The Gas Chamber

Men among Men (part one)
The Gas Chamber
(Tears of Agony) 1969

If you’ve ever been a soldier, you’ll never forget the gas chamber! That’s a fact and that’s realism. If you haven’t been a soldier, here is a somewhat of a clear reproduction of it!
       The year was 1969, Fort Bragg, North Caroline, I’m Private Evens, our company had 160-soldiers in it, our platoon 44-soldiers, and our squad 12-soldiers. We stood in line in a wooded area, where resided a wooden structure called: “The Gas Chamber,” which looked more like an old barn, than what might be referred to as a chamber. This was one of the last elements of our Basic Training program. As I stood behind Private Smiley (a nickname, he was really Judson Small), an Alabama boy, and dear friend, one that would be sent to Vietnam before me, and warn me in a last letter of his, “You really don’t want to come here,” I had told him I wanted to taste war, and he never returned home (but I would meet him in Vietnam anyhow for a few months); nevertheless, my first thoughts were, this stupid operation. To have to endure to experience the terrible effects of gas, by putting us into a gas chamber, and testing our responses, having to take off our gas masks in the process. Oh well, I had passed basic training like a wiz anyhow—up to this point, it was child’s play for me, but this, I was apprehensive of.
       It was 2:00 p.m., in the afternoon I was leaning on a rail that led into the front door of the gas chamber. I heard ahead of me, beyond the door, unusual coughing and choking, then I heard soldiers running and slamming a door that evidently was in the back of the barn, so I shall refer to the gas chamber, according to its structural looks. The Sergeant in front of my pal Smiley said, “You go quick when I open up the door here, have your gas mask on tight, and hold your breath once you have to take it off in front of the Staff Sergeant, with the gas mask off say loud and clear, ‘Staff Sergeant my Social Security number is…’ if it is not clear, he’ll ask you to repeat it, and you don’t want that to happen because you’ll be sucking in poisonous gas,” then abruptly he blunted out to Private Smiley, “you will not have time to put it back on, the gas mask, hightail it out of the chamber and clear your head.”
       A minute later I had joined Smiley, having caught a slight whiff of the air that came up from below, near the floor, as the door was opened and as I gulped in a gallon of oxygen for safe keeping, unneeded to be quite honest. The chamber was foggy, filled with gas, made me catch my breath some, and having done that, I sucked in a whiff of that gas trying to make sure my gas mask was on secure, held my lips tight thereafter, just breathing through my nose. I had inhaled just a whiff, just enough gas, on the instant, to forget my Social Security Number, everything save one thing, this was the whole test, not to get fragmented in combat, the next I knew I was a tinge dizzy, the fumes bit my eyes, throat, strangled them. The Staff Sergeant had a gas mask on, as I expected, and as I approached him he waved his finger for me to take mine off: this of course was the whole purpose of the course, that being the soldiers behind me and in front of me, in line, needed to be tested for their personal reaction and then we ourselves needed to acknowledge to ourselves, if we made any mistakes, if so to correct them if indeed we ever got into such a predicament. Everything was dim, foggily lit in the chamber, I saw Smiley hand’s tremble, and knees bend—he must have had a bigger whiff than I, I was right behind him clearing my mind to be tested next; the fumes had gotten into his lungs, he had to repeat his numbers all over, and forgot to say Staff Sergeant the second time, and started all over for the third time, and he was coughing and gasping, then he dashed to the doors that led to the outside, when the sergeant said, “Just get on out of here!”  And as he did, he had a few collisions on the way, bumping into this and that woodwork.
       My mouth had remained closed as not to inhale the slightest of anymore fumes, I could not withdraw the gas’ thickness being soaked into my eyes, and lips the pain of the fumes was bad, should I inhale them, God forbid, my lungs would be in pure agony—I was holding my breath as he said “Go ahead private…”, I told myself, ‘Shoot it out right, the first time!’ I burped out my Social Security number, not missing one digit, addressing the Staff Sergeant as Staff Sergeant, stumbled my way to the door, a short distance, seemingly a forever distance, I had to bend down some also, holding onto my knees trying to get my bearings, bumping my way around a desk, or chair, some woodworks,  and as I opened the door,  I made it to a tree, allowing the breeze to cool my eyes, lips, a tinge more in my lungs, until I felt halfway balanced; I dared not rub them, nor run, as I had already seen others do, worsening their situation, having it become more serious than had to be; careless collisions into trees, jeeps parked, knee caps bleeding from falling, rubbing those eyes appeared to incur more blindness, one fellow soldier was bleeding from a wound in his forehead, he had run right square into a tree—head first! What most of those soldiers who got hurt that day suffered, was not the gas in particular, but the effects of not allowing one’s self to endure the pain of the gas, trying everything that seemed sensible to ease the pain, when only time would do that, not allowing nature to take its course, and telling one’s self to be tranquil during this tribulation period. I listened to my instincts, having observed the results, and obeying the rule of thumb, which is, to listen to your instincts.
       The intolerable bile of vapor, soaked into my eyes, skin, lips, especially into my nostril’s, lungs, and the brain, my brain was like everyone else’s wanting to collapse, but I told my brain to endure the pain, it was agony and helplessness, that had to be endured. It was the lack of oxygen in the lungs with the pain of the gas, and slight dizziness in my balance, or  reflexes, had I had to repeat my Social Security number, I too would not have been unable to manage to stand upright.
       I must have seen a dozen or more soldiers crawling on the ground hands and knees, others struggling manically, walking in circles, running and ramming themselves into trees. For many soldiers that afternoon it was an afternoon nightmare of agony. For a while my consciousness was blurred. From the moment I took the gas mask off there was several temptations for me to take a breath of air but mentally I told myself, I’d fall into an ultimate dark if I did, so yes, I fought my way step by step though the temptations, and dragged myself through the chamber back door, holding my breath for the most part, never lost my cool; this would help me later on while in Vietnam.
       As I look back upon it, I am aware of one thing: not to react to emotions but to think, if not instinct, think, and think calmly, if possible instantly. Ere, one must be tested before he can receive sanction for being under combat, and this must be done by one’s self; of course this was the test that nobody failed, and should they think they failed, they knew now, what to expect, and what not to do. For life and death can reside in one point of issue, under fire: do you freeze or think! I call it ‘Calm instinct thinking’ for I saw many a soldier freeze under fire—

No: 1028/ 19 Oct 2014
Drawing by the Author

For: Private Judson Small

Men among Men

Men among Men (part three)
Men among Men
(Fates of a lost Squad in Vietnam) 1971
A Sergeant Crusher Story II

The men now were spread out on either side of the jungle’s dirt road— SGT Crusher (a nickname given to him because he fit the bill), and Corporal Evens over on one side, Corporal Smiley (Judson being his real name)  and the Indian, a Private First Class from Oklahoma, whom was called Chief (real name being: Henry), and who had done some advance training with Corporal Evens in Alabama, a drunk most of the time, were searching for two, Red Cross nurses, whom were often called in Vietnam, doughnut girls, along with the other half of Sergeant Crusher’s squad, four GI’s,  PFC, Dean,  Cooley, Curry and Corporal Delaney; they had not returned to the Ordnance Company on Cam Ranh Bay, now considered MIA (missing in action); the girls, were to be brought to the Medical Clinic, whom were being escorted  by  Sergeant Crusher’s other half-squad.
       Originally Sergeant Crusher would have remained on the trail, that being the road, to search for further indications of the missing vehicle they were in, but now missing for over twenty-four hours, the vehicle nowhere to be found, and all tire tracks rained and washed out from the night before, he chose a different strategy.
       So the four within the sergeant’s group, proceeded in a different fashion, nearly a half a mile difference, combing deeper into the jungle: thinking they were captured and perhaps left in the thicket of the jungle, no longer to be found on the road.
       After several more hours of searching, here he found a fair-sized space in the jungle, a clearing and copious spring of cold water nearby, the sergeant was thirsty, wanted to fill his canteen. A few low bushes dotted here and there, a grassy like clearing enclosed by dense and impenetrable tropical forest: waiting for his canteen to be filled with water, he spotted something—green: military clothing, black jungle boots sticking out of some bushes: he stood up approached it with caution, and was mortified, he stood in near shock:
       “Here!” he called. “Here’s PFC Dean, and Cooley and the Corporal, they sure walked into a horrible fate!”
       The other three rushed in the direction of the Sergeant, coming to a confounded halt at the sides of three soldiers’ decapitated trunks, their dog-tags wrapped around their boots.
       The Indian, called Chief, reverting something despicable in his native tongue, as he neared the torsos. Corporal Evens under the same stress, and Smiley, he took on the stress of great excitement—or was it blanketed mortification; who’s to say?
       “Who done it?” queried PFC Henry, looking suspiciously into the thicket.
       “Head-hunters,” said Smiley.
       Evens went white faced.
       “No, we don’t have head-hunters here, we have Vietcong savages, who want to terrify us, and they know we’d be in search for them.”
       Something odd came into the Sergeant’s breast, his bulging muscles, poured out sweat, his voice hoarse, he did not try to analyze the situation, but it was from a nervous dislike: when he suggested, that the doughnut girls were in dire need of help, perhaps facing a worse fate, and seldom was he wrong. And as far as where PFC Curry was concerned, Sergeant Crusher’s suggestion was: he’d be let go, to describe what had taken place, this was the Sergeant’s third tour of Vietnam, everyone else’s first, he was seldom wrong, but he would be wrong about Curry, this time.
       Never, to Evens’ recollection, had he seen such insult, to a human body; how could men do this horrible thing to another men?
       “We need to search for PFC Curry and the two girls,” shouted Sergeant Crusher, adding, “You men look as if you’ve seen Dracula, get yourselves together, where are the others?”
       “They’re all murdered, Serge,” cried PFC Henry.
       They found themselves truly between hell and the deep thicket, forty miles from the South China Sea, next to the inlet, called Cam Ranh Bay. Sergeant Crusher glanced about timorously toward the dimly lit, dense jungle in front of him, momentarily expecting to find Curry, snarling face, grinding teeth, “Head-hunters my ass, butchers!”

       Smiley, Evens and Henry followed the example of the Sergeant, firing their M16 rifles into the bushes and foliage as they pressed on into the jungle terrain; the bullets, missing its intended victims, but reassuring there were none shooting back; henceforward, shooting several rounds of, 7.62 mm, bullets to shower the pathway ahead, and kill any hostilities hiding behind the shrubbery.
       “Have they completely gone from the area, you think Serge?” enquired Smiley, with trembling lips.
       “Gone nothing, gone to hell more like it,” replied Crusher.
       The Sergeant’s anger had placed him beyond the reach or reproach, of his men.
       They had now stopped to rest, and eat some K-rations, Chief was dancing about like a madman, He bellowed out like thunder, at which time Sergeant Crusher, caught a glimpse of a man leaning against the trunk of a tree, deeper into the wilds ahead of him. The whereabouts of PFC Curry had been discovered, with his hands cut off, dead: evidently he bleed out.
       Evens knew the metal of his Sergeant, that he much would prefer his presence in the face of battle, than his absence, there was no braver man, but he was mentally absent now, vastly either more or less effective, he didn’t know. Thus, into the face of the jungle they marched, Evens knowing Crusher and Smiley they’d both fight to the death, as he would, but Chief, was another question, a much more cowardly man than he wished him to be; consequently, having mixed emotions, concerning Henry.

       For several minutes more, they searched the area around PFC Curry, and there lay the two doughnut girls, they were tied down, by rope and stakes driven into the earth, stripped, to the menace of the VC’s lusts. Their faces were frozen in terror and exhaustion, cognizance had to be put together on what exactly took place: presently, however, they became aware of their corpses, they had been cut from their ankle, all the way up their legs, and across their breasts, slightly, and a substance was placed on them, and ants were having a feast.
       Sergeant Crusher had known all along the extremity of their danger, Evens had no idea. It was evident, their screams were not heard. Sergeant Crusher gripped his M16, as if it was a short sword, and took a step into the jungle away from everyone, as Chief, took the stakes out, and made preparations for a rescue mission, all hope of finding the culprits were ended, they had escaped. As for Smiley, he could not bring himself to touching the abhorrent bodies, not that they were, hateful, but so destroyed, he was ill. 
       For Evens, all he could see was frail and delicate women, brought to a task of helping people, and for their efforts, succeeded in rolling themselves into a rich man’s war. There was a cold shiver running up his spine.
       “I intended to go down fighting” said Sergeant Crusher, then there was heard the sounds of helicopters, the rescue mission. They all could hear the movement of the Choppers nearing, and Sergeant Crusher was now able to raise his eyes above his shoulders, behind him, not twenty yards away, lay the bodies.

Note: Historical fiction
Dedicated to those two Doughnut Girls, finally their story has been written.

No: 1029 (10-21-2014)

Deadly Pool Sticks

Men among Men

 Deadly Pool Sticks
(…at the 545th Ordnance Company) 1974/Part IV

His utterances were likening to a serpent!
A hovering avenging demon—
Was not all men made from all parts of earth’s soil by God?
From the black, white, red, brown soil of earth, mixed together, at the end, made into dust, and thus the reason for this, to make all mankind brothers—?
Was this not God’s intention?
Was its God’s intention to have his household divided?

No: 4582 (10-23-2014)

Driven into a short madness the black soldier, which it took one glance and I knew, the white sergeant was in trouble, already in trouble, grabbed the center of the heavy pool stick held it like a boom handle, threw his arms with the pool stick in the air above his head, whirling end over end, over his head, then ramming the heavy end, first as accurate as any young man could, over the neck, face back and legs of the white Sergeant, rapidly, consistently in a frenzy: the sound of the whacks, the resounding sharp blows, swift, crazy like, someone could have  shot a shotgun and still heard those whacks. And the young Sergeant looked up when the black soldier stopped, with a foot-long face: bruised, and puffed, and red, and purple, looking as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t know what just happened, something took place, and the black soldier looked as if he should have been expecting it long ago, and even excused the white soldier for not knowing what everyone else in that bar room evidently knew, but me, or should have known. Now halfway thinking about it, his utterances were more liken to a serpent, than a human being, and hard to distinguish! He was no less than a hovering avenging demon—
       The black soldier, a PFC (Private First Class), told the white Sergeant why he should have known, kind of told him, said “Eyes jes’ a digger right? You-all can do whatever you wants to us niggers, haw… an’ wes gits to take it…?” made him familiar with his side of it anyhow, that is, his beef with the sergeant which was evidently something to do with him being in charge of the black soldier and the black soldier not liking it, yet on his face still holding a grudge, still holding a pool stick in both hands over the defenseless sergeant, who sat in near shock on the bar floor, submerged in bewilderment, pain, blood, awaiting whatever was next to come, I think he knew what the black soldier was talking about, his garments spotted with body fluid, still his army boots and thick army green pants, and coat on, slow to move any-which-way, as if glued to one spot, the one he had fallen to, been trashed to, two-handedly by a pool stick, and his face showed it, his arms clinging to air as if there was a widow to grab on to, to sneak out of, or a branch of a tree somewhere in sight  to hold onto, searching for it in the near blind, his eyes just slits, obviously at the moment his will to fight back was broken.

It all was so sudden. A Friday night, evening, at the Enlisted Men’s Club, on base, at the 545th Ordnance Company, 15th Ordnance Battalion,  1974, West Germany, by Munster & Dieburg,  forty miles from Frankfurt. It all was so quick, so sudden, the whole thing seemingly woke me up from a slumberous tranquil mood, the cigarette in my mouth per near dropped onto the wooden bar—catching it in time as it dropped off my lip: it all froze me momentarily, I couldn’t even drink my beer.
       The black guy had been playing pool, preoccupied, so it looked, and the white sergeant and his white friend, awaiting the pool table.  The sergeant had put his quarter on the edge of the pool table as often one will do, to indicate to others, he is next for the pool table. It wouldn’t, or it didn’t even appear to me they knew each other, because the black dud wouldn’t even acknowledge the quarter. And played and played on and on, to antagonize the sergeant, and all the black guy’s friends stood watching, perhaps ten of them around the table and walls, and bar. The window to the back of the table was half frozen with frost, but you could see, night had fallen, and it was cold-dark.
       All was hushed up, the serpent hissed, the sergeant looked at the PFC, and there was a cold snap to the PFC’s hands, and the stiff wooden pool stick slashed. 

There is more to this story, but it need not be told in full, but as brief as I can make it:  only that the sergeant was showing the effects of the beating with his breathing. His body quivered, near death. And although I’ve written the out entirely —this shorter version simplifies it for this book of short stories: the ending is simple: he was taken to the hospital and never heard of again at the 545th, and the  black soldier, whom was on drugs, and that was part of the issue with the Sergeant, the PFC would be brought to prison, and he would escape on the way, and a year beyond this point, he would escape again on the way to prison, and the third time he was rearrested in Germany, I was given the job to secure him and bring him back to prison, he offered me $4000-dollars to allow him to escape, while I had stopped the vehicle to which he felt was an allowable time for him to run again, while pretending to urinate, I declined the offer (evidently, he had escaped twice before, and my best guess is that  $4000-dollars offer was taken: although to my superiors this was never mentioned, but I was told I was the only one to get him there). Anyhow, at the military prison, he cried like a baby when the guards beat him with their shorthanded sticks; as I observed from a distance.  What can I say, but: what goes around, comes around.

No: 1029 (10-23-2014)

The Pure Breed

(…or, ‘The Bearded Old Man Passing by’)

To be a pure breed, and that is to mean, to be in a certain variety, such as a Jew, Poet, Man of God, Prophet, Priest, Philosopher, and so forth, Astral Physics will do too, and so forth, and on and on, requires one’s inheritance of mind and not of blood, one must have absorbed all the: tensions, stresses, all the other strains that their vital group have, through the millenniums, thus, that person is in short part of the pure breed. Let me elucidate: When a poet’s love for the word is strong s/he ‘can sleep on the edge of a sword,’ as they say.  The sum of all pure Jews requires one rule ‘Repent the day before your death,’ and since no man knows that day, hence, repent daily. And so the Jew must live on the edge of death. And for the poet, he must write what he intends to write, today. A priest must not show white-lipped fury, neither the prophet nor philosopher—and realize sometimes his presence is enough to be looked upon as the burden, when more often than not, people feel things must be done on their terms or not at all. And they must realize, the pure breed must realize, those who are in their presence, those who do wrong are often encouraged by their presence. The old bearded man is passing by, step aside (that is the feeling: the question being: does it feel good or awkward? The other question, is for the pure breed: are you genuine? Because ‘no one cares how much you know, until you show how much you care’)

No: 4576 (10-22-2014)

Theological Warfare

Is it not true, Christians among themselves are divided?
Cannot agree upon the nature of their own religion?
And such divisions can cut deep to the point those who believe one way are at times prepared to slay those who believe another?
In other words, the brotherhood in all Christendom is not solid.
The arguments start with the nature of Jesus Christ, and goes over to whether His mother, Mary is the Mother of God, or Mother of a great man!
It extends to her virginity.
And it doesn’t stop there, figuratively speaking: it comes to the point of fighting over which dishwater soap is the right soap to wash our altars with! 
And then we fight over who can forgive sins!
And then we fight over statues—
As if the goddess Isis has become Mary, as if the worshipping of one has been transferred to the other.
Does not God sit appalled to all this animosity?
Should we not discuss that?
There is enduring hatred in all this.
And then we have the mystery of the Trinity, and blind obedience to the church—
Did Christ have two natures?
Was he coequal with God?
Did Christ have a mixture of human and divine?
Some say he was never divided.
And thus, being divine, Mary has to be the Mother of God.
I leave this all to the theologians, but is this not what split the church and to this very day an ongoing grudging peace…
It would seem to me, churches, like men, wall themselves in, inside of dogma, ignoring God’s plan—
To stop fighting the outside world, for a permanent existence with Him, in the kingdom of heaven!

No: 4578/10-22-2014