Poetry, Prose & Commentary

Sometimes A Great Expectation

justiceputnam — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 18:29:35 GMT

"A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog." -- Jack London "If you feel like breaking, think of all the other dreams unfulfilled, the children unseen, the books unwritten, the work never to be done, the last nights together, the countless acres of anguish and the darkened haunted cities: consider the pity war distils and ourselves as creatures of luck, compared with the others who can gain no last moments more." -- Malcolm Lowry Sometimes A Great Expectation by Justice Putnam It wasn't supposed to be like this. They weren't supposed to fall through the cracks, but they did. I was really hoping that THIS TIME, the Captains of Commerce and Government would come to their senses. But I've read this book before; something from my grandparents' time. The Captains of Commerce and Government have capitulated in the past and the hungry mother in a cold water flat coughs a feverish cry for help that will come, if at all, in too small a measure; just as it always has been and just as it always will be. I know hard working men and women who cannot afford dental care, even though they are covered at work. Their coverage may pay for a few cleanings and exams, but heaven forbid that a broken tooth from an old filling needs to be repaired; the out of pocket expense precludes the dental work, so it does not get done and it gets worse and painful and as a last resort the dentist extracts the tooth because the insurance fully covers that procedure, thank you very much! An elderly diabetic I visit regularly tries to regulate by diet alone for weeks because she is over her deductable for insulin. I guess amputating a limb is cheaper to the Captains of Commerce and Government. There was a former book shop owner I knew who died of cancer recently and the Captains of Commerce and Government made sure his last moments were a hell of bills, reprisals against family and friends and the erosion of certainty that none of that would happen. Oh, did I mention he never missed a payment on his premium? But his friends and family still took a collection for and volunteered hospice care. The Captains of Commerce and Government had made sure his coverage considered hospice care to be, "experimental" so he was on his own for that one. It was his 'public option' he joked with us when we came to care for him. We used to laugh together, when he was a little healthier before the end, where he would hold his soup bowl up and ask in a perfect Dickensian, "May I have some more, sir?" "More?" I would respond in mock incredulity, "You want more?" We would laugh and laugh. Because we both knew that something as the expectation of another tablespoon of soup sometimes is too great for the Captains of Commerce and Government to provide; and it is that Great Expectation the poor, the forgotten, the old and the infirm take to their grave. As it always has been and as it always will be. © 2009 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen (cross posted at Daily Kos: http://www.dailykos.com/story/2009/8/18/768630/-Sometimes-A-Great-Expectation)

An Open Letter To The President From An Über Randian: "I Don't Deserve Health Care; All My Ailments Are My Fault"

justiceputnam — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 18:26:02 GMT

Dear Mr President, I'm writing you because I think you're wasting time on this Health Care/Insurance Reform push. Real Americans don't want to be coddled. Real Americans pull themselves up by their bootstraps; and if they have an injury that prevents them from pulling themselves up, they have no one to blame but themselves. I know, because I read it in an Ayn Rand book once. The Medical Insurance Industrial Complex must have a right to refusal, in fact, being the Randian moralist that I am, I will preempt any refusal by an insurance company by denying myself any medical help. All of my conditions are pre-existing; they are all my fault and I don't deserve health care. One might hold, Mr President, that simply being born makes all of our conditions "pre-existing," and they would be correct. But I would maintain that personal responsibility is a purer gauge of a citizen than simply being born. My Randian mates made sure I understood that at an early age. It was my choice to don my Superman cape at the age of four and "fly" into the doorframe of our house; took six stitches for that one. It was my choice to play high school football where I sustained a half dozen concussions, four knee surgeries and a shoulder reconstruction; I mean, my coaches always yelled that we had to give our body to the team, playing hurt is what makes me a Real American. It was my choice to work for a major oil company and was gassed by H2S; occupational hazard, you know. It was all my choice, Mr President and therefore, all my fault. I don't deserve health care, Mr President. One of my friends is a Randian and an insurance actuary. He says that the risk is too great for insurance to cover me and I agree. Empathy is putting oneself in another's shoes. It's important for the little guy to put themselves in the Medical Insurance Industrial Complex's shoes; then he would know how difficult it is to provide a service and still make a profit. I've done that, Mr President. It would be wrong for me to seek health care; and since it's wrong for me, and being a Real American and a Randian; it's wrong for anyone else, as well. Stop this push for Health Care Reform, Mr President. Real Americans just rub some mud on the cut and keep working. Only pansies and fair-weather boys want health care. Yours truly, Randy Rand Doorunrun © 2009 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen (cross-posted at Daily Kos: http://www.dailykos.com/story/2009/8/9/764393/-I-Dont-Deserve-Health-Care;-All-My-Ailments-Are-My-Fault)

Weightless Weddings A Threat To Moribund Marriages

justiceputnam — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 00:37:39 GMT

Noah Fulmor and Erin Finnegan will be floating -- possibly upside down -- as they say "I do" in a specially modified Boeing 727-200 departing Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral on June 20, a statement from Zero Gravity Corporation said. They will be "the first bride and groom to be married in zero gravity," the company, a provider of commercial weightless flights, said. -- AFP ( http://rawstory.com/news/afp/NY_couple_to_be_first_to_wed_in_zer_06032009.html ) Weightless Weddings A Threat To Moribund Marriages NEW WRECK TIMES Senior Travel Editor Gerry Bronco Thursday, 4 June 2009 Omaha, Nebraska-- The first weightless wedding was condemned in a joint statement by a coalition of Catholic, Mormon and Evangelical church groups here today. "In another attack on traditional marriage," the statement began, "the evils of society has reared its hate-filled head and thrust another affront on decency." The coalition of church groups has been adamant that any weightless weddings be outlawed and that a constitutional amendment is needed to protect traditional marriage. "We know that it is not without controversy, yet let me be clear that at the heart of this issue is the central doctrine of eternal marriage and its place in our Father's plan," Mormon Elder M. Russell Ballard said. One Orlando, Florida pastor echoed those sentiments, "Weightless marriage is wrong. If we take sides, we must take the side of God." The statement was one of many events planned supporting a constitutional amendment to take away the right of couples to get married in a weightless wedding. Christian conservatives have come to dominate the religious debate surrounding the issue - even though the Bible's statements on marriage are complex and disputed among Christians. "We cannot allow these evildoers to make light of something as substantial as marriage," one evangelical congregant stated, "without our feet firmly planted on the ground, our commitments are prone to just float away. These weightless weddings threaten my marriage and all the heavy lifting required to make it work. I ought to know," he continued, "I've been married three times." Liberal groups representing Christians, Jews and others are trying to defeat the amendment. But their efforts have been far more modest, even though priests and rabbis have played a pivotal role in creating and cultivating a theology that includes weightless weddings as equal to more moribund marriages. "Culture is going to manifest itself in a way that summons the church to new realities," said Episcopal Bishop Marc Andrus. More conservative christians took umbrage over Bishop Andrus' concilliatory tone. "The last thing we need is to embrace these new realities when they rewrite sacred heritage," said Steve Hansen, pastor of Solid Rock Fellowship, an evangelical megachurch outside of Omaha. "For example, public schoolchildren will be indoctrinated about weightless weddings without parental consent. Everybody knows it's best for children to have their own mothers and fathers ruled by the laws of God and gravity," he said. "People can know the truth of marriage just from reason alone." © 2009 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

Richard Dawkins Confesses: "Evolution is a Marxist Conspiracy!"

justiceputnam — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:00:03 GMT

NEW WRECK TIMES Senior Travel Editor Gerry Bronco Washington, DC-- British ethologist, evolutionary biologist and popular science author, Richard Dawkins, confessed in a series of interrogations early last year that the Earth is only six thousand years old and the teaching of Evolution is a conspiracy by Marxist elements. According to former senior officials of the Bush Department of Faith-Based Initiatives, Dawkins was apprehended in February of 2008 and secretly renditioned to a foreign black site where the interrogations took place. "He was one of the most difficult of the high value targets we've come across," a former senior official remarked, "we waterboarded him 183 times before he confessed." Sleep deprivation, stress positions and other enhanced techniques were also used, according to a little noticed chart included along with the more well-known of the so-called, torture memos. Dawkins came to prominence with his 1976 book "The Selfish Gene", which popularized the gene-centered view of evolution. In 1982, he made a widely cited contribution to evolutionary biology with the theory, presented in his book "The Extended Phenotype", that the phenotypic effects of a gene are not necessarily limited to an organism's body, but can stretch far into the environment, including the bodies of other organisms. A prominent critic of creationism and intelligent design, Dawkins was targeted by the Department of Faith-Based Initiatives, according to the former senior official, who spoke on condition of anonymity because of the issue's sensitivity. "We saw how well the Department of Defense contractors had interrogating Abu Zubaydah and Khalid Sheik Muhammed," the senior official stated, "it was imperative to find evidence of an al Qaida-Iraq collaboration. Without the enhanced interrogations, that link never would have been established. The Department of Faith-Based Initiatives and other departments of the Bush Adminstration were mandated to codify threat levels to their mission. Dawkins was deemed an immediate threat, a ticking time-bomb and was renditioned off-shore." Dawkins also confessed that Regent University and The Discovery Institute are pre-eminent institutions and have been criminally maligned by secret Marxist cells. When asked why Dawkins' confession was not made public last year, the senior official pointed to the recent decision by the Texas State Textbook and Curriculum to include intelligent design in that state's science textbooks. "Actionable intelligence is utilized when needed," the senior official said, "Dawkins' confessions were of little use last year. But with the many Bush loyalists burrowed throughout the Obama administration, expect to see more of these revelations made public as criticism of the previous administration mounts." © 2009 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

Super Bowl Weekend and The Capture of Champmathieu

justiceputnam — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 19:31:10 GMT

by Justice Putnam The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. -- Ernest Hemingway A Farewell to Arms It is by no means self-evident that human beings are most real when most violently excited; violent physical passions do not in themselves differentiate men from each other, but rather tend to reduce them to the same state. -- Thomas Elliot Super Bowl weekend and memories of past glories and defeats percolate in a dim corner of my brain. It is an ancient memory of blood and fire. It is the crisp wind across a cold, chalk-lined field; it is a howl on a hard city street; it is a bayonette-enforced order along a Guadalajaran desert path. I don't really know why I'm wired the way I am; but I have my suspicions. I come from that place in the genetic code that cannot turn away from an injustice; that will act unflinchingly to right a wrong; that will protect the weak and infirm from the hostilities of man and nature. I come from that place in the genetic code that prizes Community and also Solitude; that meditates on Peace and Love; that will stand against Hate and Bigotry, not with the embrace of naive innocence, but with the calloused knowledge of the bruised cheek. It is an equal measure of Nature and Nurture that makes us who we are. That place in the genetic code we come from is a powerful force indeed; but the landscape we are born into is a great teacher as well. There is so much brutality in that landscape, though, that the only sensible act is to have Compassion; and if one is fortunate enough to have the brains and brawn to stand strong against the Hate and Bigotry, then it is almost a duty to do so. I'll be fifty-four towards the end of March. I've been fairly physical all my life, whether it be for work or fun. I tried to play football at Cal Poly Pomona in the 70's and was a semifinalist as a high school sophomore in the California State pole vault championship. I could run the hundred meters in 9.9 seconds. I ran the third leg on my high school's district championship mile relay team. I scored six goals in one game playing in a water polo summer league and was timed swimming 50 seconds in the 100 free. I would never travel without my surf boards and have caught waves from Big Sur to Costa Rica. I bicycled the Pacific Trail from the Sierra Nevada to the Washington Cascades when I was twenty-six. Along the way I scaled the peaks of Mt. Whitney, Mt. Shasta, Mt. Hood, and Mt. Rainier. I sailed along the coast of California and Mexico on a 4-man catamaran the summer of 1974; and was a grinder on a racing yacht during the mid-90's in some regattas on SF Bay. I dug water wells for schools in Honduras and built free standing Sonoma moss stone walls in Marin and Sonoma Counties. I have built homes and dug ditches. I have planted grapefruit trees and harvested alfalfa. Of course all that physicality has taken a toll, for sure; four knee surgeries on each knee, a shoulder reconstruction, broken ribs, torn hamstrings, broken teeth and a few concussions. But these injuries have never prevented me, at any time in my life, from coming to the aid of someone in distress; or turning away a mugger on a hard city street. I could never stand by and watch a woman being abused. I once chased away some toughs who were beating a gay friend. I have faced down racist thugs in Idaho and bayonette-wielding Federales in Guadalajara. This landscape of brutality seems to exist on every level; from the street to the boardroom. People starve in cold alleys and freeze in hungry rooms while million dollar bonus babies wipe their ass with gold leaf 1400 thread-count cloth. The only sensible act left is to have Compassion; to continue to help the down-trodden and the infirm. The only knowledge is that derived from that part of the genetic code that causes us to stand against the Hate and the Bigotry. That is why I feel like crying. I fear that I helped in the capture of a Champmathieu. I had finished my Night Audit shift at the Inn and rode my bike to the Montgomery station to catch a train back to Berkeley. A couple of months ago, one of the housekeepers was hit on the head with a metal pipe and had her purse taken. Maybe that was in some dim corner of my brain when I heard a woman's voice yell, "Stop! Thief!" I was off my bike and could see a guy being pursued by a couple of people. I had the same feeling I've always had in those moments; something is not quite right, somebody is being abused, someone is being taken advantaged of. Someone is being robbed and someone is getting away with it. It's been awhile since I really head over heel in the air tackled someone. I had that same feeling I had during my gridiron days, whether I was running over someone on offense or tackling them on defense, "I didn't really mean to hit you so hard, but, here we are!" I looked up and a half-dozen store security personnel took over and hauled him away. His eyes met mine and he had a look I recognized as not being quite right. Somebody is being abused, someone is being taken advantaged of. Someone is being robbed and someone is getting away with it. And then I saw his great robbery; this act that caused me to impulsively act at the mere mention of Stop! Thief! The act that caused him to be pursued by a half-dozen security personnel: He had stolen a can of fucking Pringles! The man was hungry and I helped his Javerts capture him. This is the landscape of brutality we live in. Million dollar bonus babies need to buy jets and eat sushi off the torsos of nubile twenty-year olds; while a man is charged with the crime of hunger. Someone is being robbed and someone is getting away with it. I can't stop crying and no amount of contrition can absolve me. © 2009 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

Christmas Carols From The Ghost Of Christmas Past

justiceputnam — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 09:35:13 GMT

by justice Putnam Eight long years. Eight long years of tragedy and black comedy. Eight long years of ineptitude, guile and abject greed. It is soon to be over, thankfully. Yet the fatigue of those years weigh heavy and sad as I lay my head down to sleep. I have set the Dickens book on the night stand, open to the passage: "There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." The Ghost of Christmas Present in dialogue with old Scrooge is a slow refrain as I drift into the ether of almost-sleep. The jingle jangle of sleigh ride carols and the fireside chorus from snowy childhood lilts upon pillows of down. Yet the knowledge of these eight long years weigh heavy and sad; do you remember them? These eight long years of tragedy and black comedy? Now I lay me down to sleep... <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Silent Secret Night words and music by Justice Putnam (roughly to the tune "Silent Night") Silent secret night Silent secret night All is known All is right ‘round yon version of truth and light Tender confession Drawn out With our Might Screams from prisons That are secret Screams from prisons That are secret © 2006 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Here Comes The NSA words and music by Justice Putnam (roughly to the tune: "Here Comes Santa Claus") (Cmaj) Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA (G7) Sneaking up National lane (G7) Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA (Cmaj) They can see you Through the rain (Fmaj) Satellite blinking (Em) Microwave cooking (G7) Everything (Cmaj) Watches you (Fmaj) Cell phone beaming (Cmaj) Pay pal buying (G7)Everything (Cmaj) Follows you! Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA With orders From the King He wants more powers To bug more showers He knows a lot Just not everything Light bulbs glowing TV showing Everything Watches you ATM screening Money missing On a balance Just over-due! Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA You can run But you’ll never hide Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA It matters not whether You’re wrong or right! Everything is suspect Even if you say a jest While standing In a line Everyone is listening Their fear is blistering Truth is Turned into lies! Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA (whistles) Here comes the NSA Here comes the NSA (whistles) © 2005 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> O Little Town of Ramadi words and music by Justice Putnam (roughly to the tune "O Little Town of Bethlehem") O little town of Ramadi How still we see thee lie! Above we creep above your dreamless sleep As silent as stars we go by Yet in thy dark streets shineth Our Everlasting Might! The hopes and fears of all these years Are met in thee tonight. For we have deemed thee worthy As we gathered all above To see who sleeps and those who keep Their lives from our eyes above. O mourning cries together Proclaim another death By bombs come from the clouds Above and kissed with fiery breath! Now silently, Now silently The wondrous gift is given! As body parts and human hearts Are blasted to high heaven. No ear will hear our coming; As we bash the front door in Where meek souls will receive us, still And no one will know our sins. O little Child of Ramadi, We bombed your house today We cast out our sin, as we enter in And pillage what’s left away. We hear the Christian Angels Their great glad tidings say Obey you must, abide you must, A secret prison is only steps away! © 2006 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> We're Going To Do It Our Way words and music by Justice Putnam Do you hear the war bells ringing? Do you feel the cannons blasting? We must teach or force Them To do things Our way! There is no rhyme or reason For their terrorist treason Their hate comes from a vacuum We've always done It the Right Way! Go to sleep you dear citizen Don't mind The man behind The curtain The levers that he is working Don't concern you Anyway! Just know that the very next Nation That is blessed with our invasion Was attacked for a very good reason They got in Our Way! It is right for Us to do this God said that WE must do this No matter what the excuse is We're going to Do it Our Way! Just know that the very next Nation That is blessed with our invasion Was attacked for a very good reason They got in Our Way! It is right for Us to do this God said that WE must do this No matter what the excuse is We're going to Do it Our Way! No matter what the excuse is We're going to Do it Our Way! (whispers) No matter what the excuse is (pause) (shouts) We're going to Do it Our Way! © 2003 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Jesus Was A Commie words and music by Justice Putnam Jesus was a Commie Jesus was a Jew Jesus was a fisher Jesus worked with tools Jesus walked across the land Jesus sat at home Jesus led a fiery band Jesus slept alone (m/8) Jesus said to love the ones Who slapped you across the face Jesus called Lazarus from the tomb Jesus touched him with Burning Grace Jesus was loved Jesus was despised Jesus taught simple truths Jesus was crucified (instrumental m/8) (tacet) Now some say Jesus rose to heaven Now some say Jesus only died Now all the High Priests teach the lesson Now even Love should be criticized (instrumental m/8 to tacet) © 2002 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> There’s a Cold Wind Blowing words and music by Justice Putnam There’s a cold Wind blowing It’s blowing North and South There’s a cold Wind blowing No one knows What it’s about There’s a cold Wind blowing It’s blowing East and West There’s a cold Wind blowing Putting so many In duress There’s a cold Wind blowing It’s blowing Through your town There’s a cold Wind blowing It’s blowing All the houses down There’s a cold Wind blowing It’s blowing North and South There’s a cold Wind blowing No one knows What it’s about © 2001 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> GW's Sleigh Ride words and music by Justice Putnam Uncle Donald gave me a book to read About how I can make the whole world free But he said Freedom starts right under your hat That's why I'm changing Camp David To Mein Kampf! (refrain) Runnin' the world ain't really that rough When ya got a team like mine That ya can really trust I call ‘em my stable Of good men They tell me what I want hear Again and again. My personal lawyer came and lectured at me Somethin' about a General Attorney How he needs less of this and some more of that And this ain't Camp David It's Mein Kampf! (refrain) Runnin' the world ain't really that rough When ya got a team like mine That ya can really trust I call ‘em my stable Of good men They tell me what I want hear Again and again. Wolfie and Perle said they got an idea About raisin' some hell east of Crimea I'm still trying to pronounce A-f-k-a-j-i-k-a-s-t-a-n (tacet) But this ain't Camp David It's Mein Kampf! This ain't Camp David It's Mein Kampf! This ain't Camp David It's Mein Kampf! © 2003 Justice Putnam Fleur du Sel Musique and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> View My Blog words and music by Justice Putnam (roughly to the tune, "Kumbaya") View my blog Oh please View my blog View my blog Oh please View my blog View my blog Oh please View my blog Oh please View my blog. I have written things For all to see But no one looks At what I’m writing The only views That are Registered Are my own View my blog! View my blog Oh please View my blog View my blog Oh please View my blog View my blog Oh please View my blog Oh please View my blog! © 2007 Justice Putnam Fleur du Sel Musique and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> cross posted at Daily Kos: http://www.dailykos.com/story/2008/12/21/33415/610/633/675682

The Darkening World

justiceputnam — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 19:30:39 GMT

by Justice Putnam A church organ sounds somewhere in the distance. A small light glows in a small corner of my brain, illuminating a man who is bloody and filthy. His shirt and pants are torn. He is barefoot and his eyes are closed as he sits on a chair. His head is tilted back as he speaks to me, "I was in a fever the first time I imagined this; how it would be executed, how it would unfold. I knew it would be like everything else; a series of symbols and signs, a set of clues. It is for that reason I am willing to digress to the dream," he pauses momentarily and rises from his chair, his eyes still closed, "I think it was a dream! "Now picture this; a long row of cows, slender and emaciated; ribs showing through tattered hides. The cows are walking on a Mexican road, a road that is muddy and narrow. The sky is thick with gray, sinewy clouds; the torn remnants of a retreating storm; a blazed red, sunset western sky. "The cows glow orange and blue; steam and flies rise off their hot backs. They move beside a spare, wounded corn field. There is a man walking with them, perhaps my father. He is dressed in white linen, the cuffs of his pants are wet and stained. He is carrying a large, black leather-bound book. The dark, thick lips of the cows shape and form words. The cows are talking, speaking a language we cannot comprehend. "Then something begins to rush through the cornstalks; something low, tight and swift! Its paws slap the red mud, taut muscles pull it forward. The cornstalks break against its pointed face; webs of saliva twist and leap from a hungry mouth full of shinning, hungry teeth. Its jaw is pushed forward; its throat is embroidered with a lace-work of veins. The cattle sense the danger and twist their giant heads back and forth. Their nervous hooves strike the ground," the man opens his eyes suddenly, "I wake up!" The man looks about himself, I look about as well. I see that we are in a living room. The front door is open slightly, moving in a gusting wind. "What is this place?" the man questions me, "I do not know how I got here. This place is entirely unfamiliar; nothing rings a bell or strikes a chord." The man turns about again to orientate himself, he stops and stares at the floor of a distant hallway. I follow his gaze and notice an elderly woman collapsed on the floor. "Who is that woman there?" the man points, "is she dead? I do not wish... " the man begins to turn away, but curiosity compels him toward the motionless woman. I follow as he kneels to examine her body more closely, "She does not breathe," the man observes. He touches her cheek gently with the back of his fingers, "her skin is hard and cold." The man raises his head and looks about the expansive Hacienda-style living room, "And who is this?" the man says as he crosses the terra cotta tiles to an area near the huge fireplace, "this man in the chair? Perhaps he is dead too." I cross the room and see a dead, elderly man sitting in a wing-backed leather chair. There are claw marks on his face and a nasty cut on his neck. "He has developed a second red mouth," the man states as he touches his own throat, "bloody lips gaping, his esophagus smiles. I do not know these people!" the man screams as he thrusts his arms at me. He then notices his own hands, "What stain is this upon my hands? Dark as the color of blood; enunciating the lines on my palms, my lifeline runs red!" He rubs his hands together, "It is dry and crumbles, flakes away like crisp, autumn leaves." The man then stretches his arms out and closes his eyes, "I see a blue world! A world where silhouettes travel on roads and drink raindrops salvaged on blades of grass," he opens his eyes and gestures at the floor with a theatrical sweep of his hand. He then notices his bare feet, "Look at my feet! How uncivilized, no shoes! My feet are covered in mud, my tracks are everywhere. Look," the man points at the area between the dead couple, "they circle in this place coming from that door left ajar!" He addresses the dead man as he moves to close the door, "Open on a night like this! You are not the wisest fellow, are you?" the man then moves swiftly to the dead man and points back at the door, "The wind has come in behind me! The wind that tortures treetops and twists itself around limbs! "Who are these people?" the man screams at me. He then takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. He is steady and calm as he continues the investigation. "Who are these people? There must be some evidence here, some method by which to discern the clues. Indeed, if I am wise, everything can be understood as clues." He goes to the dead man and observes, "He is an elderly man, Caucasian. Judging from his clothing, well-too-do. His hands, though gray and swollen with a labyrinth of blue veins, portray a Gentleman's life. They are clean and unscarred," He lifts the dead man's hands and scrutinizes the fingers before disdainfully dropping each hand over each armrest, "manicured!" The man steps back and taps his lips with a forefinger before continuing, "The way that he is positioned indicates there was no struggle. He is in a relaxed state; he was taken by surprise. The large book on the floor suggests he might have been reading." Suddenly a gust of wind opens the door. The man crosses the room again and closes the heavy wood and wrought iron portal, "What is beyond this? Pushing through the corn? Something is trying to get in here!" He stands for a moment and continues his investigation, "The woman is somewhat younger than he," the man states as he moves toward the dead woman, "she too is dressed well; conservative. Darker skin, dark hair. Perhaps she is of Spanish descent. The way that she is lying on her side, arms bent at the elbows and hands stretched in front, indicates she was carrying something. She seems to have not blocked her fall, but simply collapsed without resistance. I notice now," he points, "the tray catapulted in front of her. There was it seems, three cups of dark liquid upon it. All spilled, all broken. Alright!" he say firmly, addressing me, "now we are getting somewhere!" The man then moves to the middle of the huge living room, turns to me and states, "I studied philosophy not to arrive at some description of reality, not to find some artificial framework to impose on things. But to sharpen my sense; to be able to read the signs. To find what in fact, is the case. I was required to do this, in no small way, because of my own experience; but also because of my father. He was a professional man. My mother was steeped in superstition. But with his disciplined, surgical hand, he cut away at the myth; the disease of illusion. So I was not going to pursue the vague existence of my brother. I loved my brother, of course; but no reasoned mind would submit to such a life!" The man closes his eyes once again and holds his arms outstretched, "Photographs," he states, "photographs. Frozen, incoherent snippets of time." He pauses and opens his eyes. He takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly as his arms drop to his sides. He then calmly resumes, "What can we learn about the killer? First, he was swift, unbelievably swift! Perhaps he was known to these people. Perhaps one moment, he was sitting in their company. In any case, they had no time to react. It could be, yes, it could be that first, he killed the man from behind and then the woman came in bringing refreshments. She was shocked by the sight of her husband; what with the gaping slice across his throat and the claw-like marks ripped across his face, she simply fainted. The killer did his work on her while she lay unconscious. "Claw-like, I said?" he bends over the woman and then examines the man, "indeed, the wounds are in groups of five. As if a hand fitted with a set of terribly sharp blades was dragged fiercely over the victims. As I examine more closely, I note puncture wounds; a series of small, teeth-like holes; red with blackened bruises around them. Exactly like animal bites." The man looks up at me and states, "This of course is impossible!" He stands, goes to the fireplace and picks up a pewter-framed photograph from the mantle, "My brother had photos. Images of wolf children." He pauses briefly, remembering, "When I was young, I was shown the book by Doctor Bourges, Lupine Influence On Man: a documentation of inter-specie culture. My father called it nonsense. My mother said, 'Cuidado con el perro!' But my brother pursued it. He pursued the irrational, the Carnivalesque. I studied philosophy to eliminate such things. But I knew why my brother followed the dogs. I knew why he photographed the children with the long, wolf faces and stretched spines." The wind blows the heavy door open once again, "Who is it?" the man questions the wind, "who else wants in here?" The man closes the door, turns to me and continues with his dissertation, "You would think with all my calculated reasoning, I would be spared the nightmares. Oh, I could sleep, I could sleep; but all those roads at dusk, all those tangled roads passing irrationally through the fields. Senseless patterns occasionally converging at some small village. I would always come at night, under the influence of some big moon. I would always be heading towards town looking for meat cast out a door; even rotten meat covered with flies. Then the eating and the straining pain in my spine; the tearing of flesh. I would awaken screaming. My father would appear. He would have me describe the dream. He would make a few notes and assure me it was nothing, only the subconscious. He insisted that reason would conquer the dream. "There are photographs!" the man interjects, "real photographs! and stories! But that is for those who look backwards at man!" He looks about the room and points at the staircase, "I must proceed, I must find more clues. Let us climb these stairs to that room, perhaps a child's room." We climb the stairs and the man pushes open the door, "Perhaps a child now grown. As we can see, all the artifacts of the child's various ages are placed in an impeccable, almost chronological order. Reading from left to right, we see first a menagerie of wild animals, stuffed and crowded on the bed together; then books and toys on shelves." He pulls a child's book off a shelf and opens it randomly, "Mmm, a fairy tale, Once upon a time," he reads aloud, there was a moo cow. In the night it met with many animals. The goats and chickens came to hear. Rabbits and horses stood so near. Then on the night of the mighty moon, the howling beast growled and groaned. It came in packs and ran alone. From the forest deep, it tore the eve from quiet sleep. The women in the village weep, husbands dig the graves so deep." He replaces the book and chooses another, "Ahh, a book by Heidegger entitled, An Introduction To Metaphysics," opening the book he reads aloud again, "we have said the world is darkening. The essential episodes of this darkening are; the flight of the gods, the destruction of the Earth, the standardization of man, the pre-eminence of the mediocre." He shuts the book with a loud echo in the large room. He looks at me and says, "None of this is familiar. As clues related to the crime, I am struck by a sense of irrelevancy. I discern these people had a son, one son. That is all I can say. He is certainly grown now, gone," we exit the bedroom, "his room is kept in order as a sort of museum. He closes the door and we continue down the hall to the next door, "Here in the bathroom I am confronted with an unpredictable array of evidence; not related to the killer or victims, rather a peculiar recognition about my own adaptation." The man begins to disrobe, "We too indeed, are animals. Compelled by our environment to behave in certain fashions. Even our reason arises from nature. Our very capacity to transcend the beast is borne from the beast." He turns on the water to the shower and continues, "For instance, I have reasoned it is appropriate to bathe. I am after all, filthy; and if the couple were still alive, I am sure, I am almost certain they would wish that I cleanse myself before proceeding with the rest of my investigation." The man steps into the shower and continues talking to me, "The bright, white tiles, the glimmering chrome, the glowing and intense light; this is the essence of civilization, of thinking! There is nothing out of order here; no rotting leaves, no dark limbs leaning from the sky. Insects are not present. There is no fur, no feathers, no canine howl. A person can think here!" The humidity from the shower causes the mirror to fog and large drops to fall from the ceiling. The man begins to sing in a slow, operatic baritone, "The rhythm of the water, the falling, the shower, the rain. Mud and sticks swirl away over the bleached porcelain. The rain, the tropical rain. The rain, the tropical rain." The man tuns off the water and steps dripping from the shower, humming his song, "The rain!" he suddenly says, "the rain! It rains inside and out." He points out the fogged window and exclaims, "Look at that sky!" The man leaves the bathroom and walks naked and wet to a door at the end of the hallway. He stands at the door contemplating before he finally pushes his way in, "It is their room," he observes, "the dead people's. It is where the dead sleep." He then moves about the room swiftly, his arms swinging wildly, "I searched frantically for clues! I searched the drawers, the closet, under their bed! I studied their shoes, the arrangement of their photographs and paintings; the way their bed was made! I found three things, three things with meaning... " The man stops speaking suddenly. He tilts his head as if listening. After a moment he turns towards me and answers a question I did not ask, "I know meaning is a function of the mind, I know this! But meaning in these things the way power waits in machines! "First, I found the books," he picks up several volumes, " clear proof the man was a physician; general catalogues on pharmaceuticals, an old, bound copy of Grey's Anatomy, a thick journal entitled, Bio Hallucination: the chemical origin of religion, and finally, a thick, worn black volume stuffed with various news clippings entitled, Scientific Treatments For Sapiens Syndrome, by a, Doctor Avernus Lucido, M.D.. "Secondly," the man holds out a photograph for me to see, "look at this photo. Surely it is the man and woman at an earlier age. She is truly beautiful with her dark eyes and black mane of hair. He is somewhat rigid in his white suit and proper hat. Judging from the background, they are in some other country; a much poorer place. Look at that street and those huts. Note the dog that licks her palm. "Finally, I found this leather case in the top drawer of the bureau. The case was open. It holds several surgical instruments. The five longest scalpels are missing. Beside the case, I found these leather straps and chrome clamps." The man sits forlornly on the bed, his head in his hands, "My mother was a Catholic and it was forbidden by my father. She is from a place where animals and people mixed. He refused to let her superstitions be hidden by the Mass and the Confessional. My father saw everything as an experiment, as science. He was right of course; the whole world is superstition. The world is stupid unless you cut into it, see what makes it breathe and speak. "My father came home early once," the man stands, goes to the mirror and regards his reflection, "he caught my mother praying. He took her upstairs and closed the door." I saw that the man was looking at me in the mirror, "My brother was in his room, he heard her crying. He sneaked down the hall and peeked through the keyhole. He saw my mother naked, her hands tied together and pulled tightly upwards. My father struck her ass with a leather strap. 'Who is your god?' he would say, 'Where is your god?' She muttered something in Spanish, I think she said, 'The dog curses you! The dog is in my blood!' He whipped her harder; that caused my brother to moan. My father heard and discovered him. My brother's punishment was terrible. We had a dog, you know. A black dog. 'Your mother is insane!' my father cried as he slit the creature's throat. Blood ran down his hands. The creature trembled on its side and convulsed. When it stopped moving, something came out of it, like a puff of smoke," the man inhales deeply, "my brother inhaled it!" The man slowly extends his arms towards his reflection and shrugs his shoulders, "I do not know these people. It is really not up to me to decipher this event. I cannot tell who does and who does not deserve punishment. "If you note," he says quickly, "every intelligent cosmology asserts the fundamental subjectivity of perception." He regards himself closer in the mirror and continues with intense calmness, "That is why the methods of reason and science are so necessary. Surely we understand that it too, is an arbitrary system; but as a collective, intellectual agreement, it is a powerful tool! "I think it is best that we leave this place." He moves to the closet, "I am sure I can find some clothes that will fit. Perhaps some shoes; heaven fucking knows where my shoes are!" The man throws his head back and extends his arms upwards, "There are dark blue worlds, tattered fields where luminous beasts wander aimlessly on narrow roads. Worlds where thorns strap the backs of clouds and stiff winds torture tree tops. There is a howl in that world! A cry from out of mud and stone; from the hot breath of carnivores! It is a photo of power!" he runs to the mirror and frames his face with an intense hand gesture, "a snapshot of blood and fire!" The man returns to the closet, chooses some clothes and a pair of shoes. I follow him downstairs to the large Hacienda-style living room. He resumes speaking to me as he gets dressed, "I studied philosophy not to arrive at some description of reality, not to compensate for the flight of the gods or the destruction of the Earth. I studied philosophy to sharpen my sense in this darkening world, to be able to read the signs. To find what in fact, is the case. I want to expose this, develop it; bring it into sharper focus." He opens his arms magnanimously toward me, "Who are these dead people? With their smiling wounds and stiffening bodies; with their five cuts in perfect order," he laughs, "using their science to study werewolves!" He then reaches behind the chair of the dead man and picks up a camera, "I think I will capture this!" he flashes the camera on the body of the dead man, "yes, and this," he says as he turns and photographs the dead woman, "this is worth keeping!" The wind slams the door open and the man runs to stand in the threshold, "Look! Day is coming!" he points at the horizon, "see how the moon collapses behind the distant hills!" I feel myself floating again. I see a small light in a small corner of my brain. I hear the distant refrain of a church organ as I howl in the fading darkness. © 2008 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

"Grow Up! You're Too Old To Be Liberal!"

justiceputnam — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 20:30:20 GMT

by Justice Putnam "Grow Up! You're Too Old To Be Liberal!" That's what I was told at the end of a performance review that devolved to the real purpose of the review. I had been called to task for questioning (in my mind, draconian) policies instituted by the Corporate Office. Not anything major mind you; in fact I was really joking and don't take the policy as any great burden on me. It has now been ordered from on high, that men cannot wear earrings at work. In fact, I had been "following" the edict even before it was codified. I work in San Francisco at a boutique bed and breakfast in the Nob Hill area; the Corporate Office is in Laguna Niguel, Orange County, California. Corporate insisted upon this unscheduled review to address my "attitude" and whether it impacts the guests and my fellow workers. I am fifty-three years of age. Maybe I do have a problem with authority; my employment history would certainly belie it. I've been a Chef/Owner of my own restaurants and catering operations; I walked away from a teaching position in Orange County back in the mid-70's, not only because it paid a pittance, but also because my "lesson plan" came into question when I wanted to include the "black cowboy" as part of my American History class. I was a roustabout and later a Production Operator for Gulf Oil; I ran a lathe for an engineering company that manufactured taps and dies for the space industry; I was an orderly in the Emergency Room and ICU at St. Jude's in Fullerton; I taught ESL on the island of Hokkaido, Japan; I was a fruit and vegetable inspector for the California State Department of Agriculture; I built free-standing Sonoma Moss Stone walls I learned in a little village outside of Milano Italy for Paul Hawkin and Will Schutz in Mill Valley and Muir Beach, respectively; I ran a crew drilling water wells for UNICEF in Honduras; I've waited tables, I've bartended, I was on the training staff for TGI Friday's. But no matter what I have done for money to pay the bills, I've always wrote. I don't make much money from my writing, I'd like to, but writing for me is like breathing; if I don't do it every day, I will suffocate. My review was rather standard fare; letters of praise mailed from happy guests, attesting to my skills as an inn keeper and concierge; a citation of thanks for the CPR I administered until Paramedics arrived to an elderly guest who was suffering a heart attack; how I have never missed a day, am always at least fifteen minutes early and never late, never called in sick and have gladly covered other shifts when needed. But I was marked down for voicing displeasure at being told not to wear earrings at work. When I played music in L.A. back in the late 70's and early 80's, I affected a "neo-romantic" look; renaissance shirts, pants and boots, punk pony-tail tied back with a ribbon, a hoop earring in each ear and a ruby stud in the left. You know the look; Adam Ant, but beefier. I mostly wear ruby or garnet studs these days; for me, they represent the Heart of what makes me a Romantic even to this day. When I arrive early at work, I remove my earrings before 'clocking in." But at my review, I was told not to wear my earrings through the door, at any time. I think it's stupid and have said so, but I will probably remove my earrings as has been ordered. And then it came; a visiting corporate "flunky" who was visiting the inn unannounced heard me speak disdainfully of Michael Savage and Michael Reagan a few days ago, with a guest who concurred with my assessment. The guest stated she was from Missouri and would be voting for Obama. I told her I would too. The "flunky" complained to my Manager and the Regional Manager. My manager wanted nothing to do with it, so the Regional Manager "reviewed" me, which is unusual; at least in the five years I've worked at the inn. "I was just like you when I was younger," the Regional Manager confided, "I caroused around pretending I was a Rocker, I partied and smoked pot, I knocked mail boxes off their supports with a baseball bat while driving through the farm country near where I grew up, but unlike you, I grew out of it. You get a family and a house and you can't afford to be liberal, or an artist, or hell, voting Democrat." "First of all," I said gently, " I was never like that in my youth. I've owned homes, I raised a son and put him through university. I now have three grandkids; and you know what," I leaned forward, "I've always voted Democratic, I've always believed that due process and equal protection for all means just that. I have never exploited the labor of those who have worked for me or under my charge. I come from a family who expects no different and no less." "I cannot believe," the Regional Manager continued, "that you're voting for Obama." "Of course, you know that as a matter of policy," I stated, "that my voting preferences have nothing to do with this job." "Oh, no, no," the Regional Manager assured, 'this is not part of your review, I'm just concerned and a few others at Corporate are concerned that your radical politics might offend our guests. When you speak ill of respected voices like Savage and Reagan, I'm afraid our guests will be offended... " "Well, I'm far from radical," I interjected, "Savage and Reagan are far from respected and actually, my experience here is that our guests are tired of the Bush regime and most have spoken favorably of Obama. These are guests, not only from Europe, but guests from Virginia, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Alabama and Florida." "But in this instance," The Regional Manager looked smug, "a guest from the Corporate Office was offended. He was amazed that a white male your age would be speaking so favorably of Obama; don't you know what he's going to do with the economy? He's going to make us surrender in Iraq! You need to grow up!" the Regional Manager said a little too loudly, "you're too old to be liberal!" "Yes," I summed up, "I am older than you; but you would have been well advised in your wayward youth to follow an ethic I've lived by. It's from Robert Frost. He said, 'I never dared be radical when young, for fear I would turn conservative when old.' When you were partying and smoking pot, I volunteered at a convalescent hospital; when you were vandalizing the countryside, I was tutoring middleschool kids in english; when you were pretending to be a Rocker, I was publishing poetry and making music. "What did Robert Frost say?" the Regional Manager asked. "I never dared be radical when young, for fear I would turn conservative when old," I repeated. "He might have been right," the Regional Manager was shaking his head, "he might have been right." "I know he was," I said, as I headed out the door. (postscript: The inn is part of a time share, which is "managed" by a Corporation; the Board of Directors of the inn are defending me against any reprisals from "Corporate," should they come.) © 2008 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen cross posted at Daily Kos http://www.dailykos.com/story/2008/6/18/144513/252/32/537955

The Vast Wright Wing Conspiracy

justiceputnam — Thu, 01 May 2008 23:58:31 GMT

by Justice Putnam Malcolm X had just sent another reply to another Instant Message from Thomas Jefferson. Adams, even though a neighbor of Jefferson's from across town, had replied more and more infrequently these last generations to even regular snail mail; so Malcolm took up the slack. Though Adams was enthralled with the modern Navy, he hated texting and the internet tubes. Nixon, Reagan, Hoover and Jackson never replied to Jefferson's missives; and he had sent them many. It was probably because mail delivery is rather spotty in Hades. Plus, there is no broadband there and interference from the heat disrupts the wireless signal. Kennedy and both Roosevelts carried on an infrequent correspondence; and Lincoln as well, but they were engaged with other pursuits in heaven, so Jefferson and Malcolm X began to Instant Message each other daily. After all, they lived only light years away from each other in Limbo; wireless is free, the signal strong and never disrupted. It seemed Jefferson was worried about Obama's chances for the Presidency with this Reverend Wright oratory causing such concern. T-Jeff: "I'm afraid my southern brethren will take the good reverend's rhetoric all too personal." Mal 10: "As well they should; I'm still picking shards of Plymouth Rock out of my skull." T-Jeff: "But that's the point, my good friend. Plymouth Rock may have landed on you; but they landed on Plymouth Rock and need to feel grateful. Reverend Wright is not respecting their gratefulness." Mal 10: "It's hard to respect folks who will put you in chains, crush your dreams and keep you separate, inferior and feared; and then harp that you are not grateful enough for your good fortune." T-Jeff: "I was just speaking with Sally about that this morning when she was washing my clothes. I could tell she was getting a little snippy when I corrected her grammar and spelling on a letter she was writing to Martin Luther King. After all I've done for her, she seemed a bit, well... ungrateful. Then it struck me; if not for the economic necessities in the forging of this Nation, she might have become the Queen of The Congo that was her birthright." Mal 10: "That's what I like about you man, even though you're a manipulative, white landowner who is formed by the Enlightenment; your profession of guilt keeps me in this amorphous corporeal state so I can continue to point out the inequities still!" T-Jeff: "Well, my dear friend, I'm not taking the bait. But I'm still concerned about this Wright fracas. It's important for the survival of The Great Experiment that Obama convince The People to vote him to the Presidency. Bringing up that the Black Community was infected with HIV and flooded with drugs by the government is a little over the top, no?" Mal 10: "On this we agree, I find it impossible that a society and government that would infect the Tuskagee Airmen with syphilis; who would test insecticides on black communities; who would impose poll taxes, literacy tests and voter ID laws; who would buy drugs from the Contras to sell guns to the Iranians; who would incarcerate black men at rates that are astronomical is capable of such heinous acts. Reverend Wright is surely stretching it a bit." T-Jeff: "So what can be done about this Wright Wing of the Black Community?" Mal 10: "It's surely a conspiracy, another tactic to disenfranchise the Black Man. I'm not disagreeing with Wright's premise, mind you. I was a target in my day; hell they went after Martin the way they're going after Jeremiah. They'll use any means necessary to achieve their ends; even if it means using our words against us, even if those words are the truth." T-Jeff: "Yes, you're correct. It is a vast conspiracy. I feel so helpless, though. Not quite in hell, but definitely not in heaven." Mal 10: "I know what you mean, man. I know what you mean." © 2008 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen cross posted at Daily Kos http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/4/30/32853/1788/276/506192

Myth, Romance and War

justiceputnam — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 20:04:17 GMT

“I must say, I’m a little envious. If I were slightly younger and not employed here, I think it would be a fantastic experience to be on the front lines of helping this young democracy succeed… It must be exciting for you ... in some ways romantic, in some ways, you know, confronting danger. You’re really making history!” George Bush addressing troops in Afghanistan by videoconference from Crawford, Texas 14 March 2008 http://thinkprogress.org/2008/03/14/bush-im-envious-of-troops-on-romantic-front-lines/ *********************************************** "The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust." -- James Shirley “The Glories of our Blood and State” “What the hell does liberty mean anyhow? It's just a word like house or table or any other word. Only it's a special kind of word. A guy says house and he can point to a house to prove it. But a guy says come on let's fight for liberty and he can't show you liberty. He can't prove the thing he's talking about so how in the hell can he be telling you to fight for it?” -- Dalton Trumbo “Johnny Got His Gun” A Windy Day In Normandy by Justice Putnam Your floral-print dress A breeze across fields Of Sunflower and Lavender You told me the story Of the tragedy of Your family Your grandfather on His mailman bicycle The delivery of Resistance correspondence The fear of discovery (The inevitable retaliation Against the village An Uncle hung In the Square A few weeks short Of the liberation) I watched your tears As you prayed near The soldier multitude of White crosses and The occasional Star of David Here and there even An alabaster Crescent Moon You cried for them all As the tournesol Faced West Your dress clung in folds And your red hair Framed the History Of your familial grief (Saint Ceneri, France, 1994) from: "The Nature of Poetics Collapsed Outside My Window" © 2005 Justice Putnam and Mechanisches Strophe-Verlagswesen A Daughter’s Letter Home words and music by Justice Putnam Dear Mama I’m writing to tell you About something that happened The other day But first I just wanted to tell you That I love you In the most Special way. No one’s had A better Mama I thank you for teaching me To stand on my own I know it’s been Six months since I’ve written You must be wonderin’ What I’ve done since I left home. Dear Mama Your little girl’s A soldier I know you Thought that I Ran off to elope But I went Two counties over There’s a recruiting office Out on Stansfield Road At first I thought Now I can pay For some schoolin’ Maybe later on I’ll teach a grade or two I know it’s been Six months since I’ve written You must wonder What it is Now that I do Dear Mama I signed up for engineering But they got me Changing tank parts That I grease And lube I’m part of what’s Known as a Task Group We’re All-American Soldiers with The right attitude But Mama I’ve seen things They say I cannot tell you What I’ve seen Would make even Uncle Robert cry I know it’s been Six month’s since I’ve written You must be Shakin’ your head And wonderin’ why. Dear Mama What I wrote To tell you Is that something Terrible happened The other day The convoy I was driving Passed through A little village A bomb exploded It blew off my leg. No one’s had A better Mama I thank you for teaching me To stand on my own I know it’s been Six months since I’ve written You must be Wonderin’ when I’ll be comin’ home. (instrumental) (spoken) “Dear Mrs. Anderson, My name is Lt. Torrence Jones Your daughter was Among a group of Wounded soldiers On a plane being Evac’d home There’s no other way to Say this But her plane was Hit by a mortar round I’m so sorry To inform you But this letter Was the only thing Of her found No commander could Of had a better soldier She impressed us all How she stood on Her own I’m supposed to save This letter For some higher-up For later But I thought It better That I mailed It home.” (tacet) Dear Mama Your little girl is Coming home. © 2005 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen Bless Me Father words and music by Justice Putnam Bless me Father For I have sinned It’s been so long Since my Last Confession Give me penance Father I’m on bended knee My heart is crying No amount of Hail Mary’s Or Acts of Contrition Can Absolve me. I gave my parents A lot of grief But that doesn’t compare To my evil deed Give me penance Father I’m on bended knee My heart is crying One summer’s night I stole a neighbor’s purse But Father I’ve done Something so much worse Give me penance Father I’m on bended knee My heart is crying Really Father I’ve tried To live an honest life And I know I haven’t Really done things right Give me penance Father I’m on bended knee My heart is crying I’ve been known to carouse Like a soldier will But my sin Is so much bigger still Give me penance Father I’m on bended knee My heart is crying Somewhere near The Tigris River Somewhere north Old Baghdad Lies an old woman In widow’s shrouds I shot her dead. The Sarge said It’s kill or be killed But Father still I shot her dead. Bless me Father For I have sinned It’s been so long Since my Last Confession Give me penance Father I’m on bended knee My heart is crying No amount of Hail Mary’s Or Acts of Contrition Can Absolve me. © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen Josephine words and music by Justice Putnam Josephine Josephine I’m pleading With Josephine (m/8) Taking the steps Down to the sea Somewhere along The coast of Normandy Where the white Fossil sands Churned turbulently Where men rushed Into battle And died violently Whose last Dying breath Was to plead with Josephine Josephine I’m pleading With Josephine (m/8) Could be The grasslands Of the Sioux No matter Which side They were on They were all Thinking of you Could be in In the South Pacific Or the Persian Gulf An Indonesian jungle Or an Arctic hut Could be in a Manhattan penthouse Or a cold water den (coda) We’ll all grasp At that last Bit of hope In the end with Josephine Josephine I’m pleading With Josephine (tacet) Josephine Take me Home © 2005 Justice Putnam Fleur du Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen The Four Forty Second by Justice Putnam “Here my first doubt of American democracy crept into the far corners of my heart with the sting that I could not forget. Having had absolute confidence in democracy, I could not believe my very eyes what I had seen that day. America, the standard bearer of democracy had committed the most heinous crime in its history.” – Joseph Yoshisuke Kurihara, Manzanar Detainee and Lieutenant 442nd. Thomas Matsui hadn’t slept for almost 46 hours. The Italians had long stopped the fight, but the Nazis kept at it. Mortar shells exploded nearby with a frightening consistency. The rocky Italian hillside bucked and rolled with each explosion. Battle has an uncanny affect on a soldier; it becomes a kind of tedium. The first month of a soldier’s battle is the worst, it all being so new. The mortality rate is highest during that first month. After six months, with bombs exploding around the battlement, a soldier will daydream. Thomas Matsui thought of his family’s orange and avocado orchards rustling in the warm coastal breeze. He thought of the smell of his mother cooking rice in the farmhouse just above Pacific Coast Highway near Balboa. He conjured his father in the workshop, standing at the grinding wheel, sharpening the tools. These were daydreams that made the tedium of battle tolerable. But Thomas Matsui had other daydreams that were not so idyllic. He saw his parents crestfallen from the notice tacked on the farmhouse. Civilian Exclusion Order Number 33 gave only two days to sell the farm before the Military evacuated them to the camp in Montana. He remembered the offer that came from The Irvine Company later that day. Mere pennies on the dollar for what the farm was worth. He remembered the drive to the Civilian Control Station in Los Angeles, his mother crying the whole thirty miles. Twenty years growing avocados and oranges; all gone in a day. Twenty years and all the possessions acquired; gone in a day. Only allowed bedding and linens, some kitchen utensils and clothes; twenty years of Thomas Matsui’s life was spent on that farm. He was born there. It was lost in a day. The Nazis increased the frequency of the mortar attack and shook Thomas Matsui out of his reverie. He knew Marines on the other end of the hillside were getting the brunt of the bombing. The Four Forty Second though, were well hid and dug in. Soon the bombing would cease and the real battle would commence. There would be no time to daydream then. Thomas Matsui chuckled at the memory of the military recruiter who came to his camp that Thursday in June. How fresh-faced and upright he was; the perfect embodiment of American righteousness. Thomas and his family had been at the camp for a month and life was a brutal series of bad weather and racist guards. The chance to escape that prison, with the hopeful promise of making his parent’s life easier was too great to pass up. If he fought hard and patriotically, maybe the war would end sooner and his parents would no longer be incarcerated. But the farm and all they had was lost. No, not really lost, in effect stolen. But that did not matter any longer. He wanted this war to end so his parents would not suffer any more. The mortar attack suddenly stopped. Thomas Matsui shouldered his rifle and aimed down the hillside. The real battle was about to begin. © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen I Have No Mouth by Justice Putnam “Like the wind crying endlessly through the universe, Time carries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we are, all that remains, is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment.” -- Harlan Ellison “I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream” “Mes den hep tavas a-gollas y dyr.” (From the Cornish, “the tongueless man gets his land took.” --Tony Harrison “National Trust” I had to, don’t you see? You’d do the same if you were in my place, and a lot sooner too! I’d tell you if I could, but as you can see, one of the conditions of my release is that my mouth has been surgically removed. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take standing for hours, the threats of beatings. Oh, they beat me, for sure. Early on the beatings were constant, so much that you expected them, so a mere threat was enough for some of us to literally piss our pants. I couldn’t take being forced awake after just a few seconds of sleep in seventy hours? Or was it a hundred? Did I sleep only an hour ago? Don’t you see? This is what they have done to a man! I have lost all sense of time; a minute is a year and a year is a mere minute! Damn! Why won’t you listen to me? I’m blinking my eyes in Morse code! If you would just listen, you’d see that I am talking to you! The first time they let me see the sky was after five months of darkness! They let me see the full moon, I only know this now, but at the time I thought it was the sun at noon! It was that bright and blinding and painful. There are so many things I want to tell you, I want to tell you about the years of abuse, I want to tell you how they break a man to confess to killing God, how they can make you confess to crimes committed by ancestors twenty years ago. I want to tell you about why I chose to have my mouth removed so I could go home. In fact, I planned this long ago. That’s why I taught myself Morse code. I started to teach myself sign language, but I was caught and isolated for another year and a half, or was it longer? Damn it! This is what they do! I see now on all the legal documents how long I was isolated at different times during my imprisonment. A year one time then out for four months, isolated for two years and then out for only three weeks, then another year long isolation. It went on and on and on like that. So I taught myself how to blink my eyes in Morse code because I knew they would remove my mouth! I know they are fighting a war and wars are messy. I knew I had a story to tell and I would tell it, no matter what! If you would just listen, I’d tell you one. In fact, I was not even a soldier. I only drove some soldiers to an airport in my cab! I even had the paperwork to prove it! It was that paperwork that convicted me, I see. The new laws they passed said I helped those soldiers by driving them to the airport. Why won’t you listen to me? It’s so obvious! Look! Dot, dash, dot! Damn it, and all that follows! Someone has to know Morse code, here! Why won’t you listen to me? I’m looking right at you! Listen! "Hey Sarge," the young reservist called to the military contractor, "look at that one there." "Yeah," the military contractor, replied, "that one just got out of iso this morning and is being prepped for another cycle in a day and a half." "But Sarge?" the young reservist asked, "what’s with his face?" "That was one of the earlier ones we picked up," the military contractor informed, "the worst of the worse. After a while these little mama’s boys admitted to anything we wanted, which proved that they were capable of anything. But we also got tired of hearing day after day how they did this or they did that just so’s they can go home to their mamas. So we had one of our plastic surgeon contractors do a number on these slime ball’s mouths!" "But what’s up with the eyes?" "Oh, that!" the military contractor laughed, "one of our company’s division vice presidents for procurement made that call. Since we were moving these slime balls from one prison to another and we didn’t want them to know where they were; and also since all of them would be in isolation, it was decided it was more cost effective to just sew their eyes shut. Some of them don’t even know, they look around just like they can see, just like that one!" "When does this one go back to iso?" the young reservist was looking at the prisoner’s chart. "A day and a half." The military contractor replied. © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen To Give a Little Humanity by Justice Putnam “We had orders to obey the head of state. We weren't a band of criminals meeting in the woods in the dead of night to plan mass murders.” --Hermann Goering “Nuremburg Transcripts 5 Jan 46” "I was given this assignment which I could not refuse--and besides, I did everything possible to treat the transferee’s well." --Fritz Sauckel “Nuremburg Transcripsts 23 Feb 46” Yes, yes your Honors. I remember the boy, he was the most reticent I’d seen pass through the transfer camp. Yes, yes, quite unlike all the other children. He was most difficult. You see we were mandated by the High Command to put these children at ease before they were transferred. So we used many means to elicit some kind of benign emotion. To see a young one cry or to laugh meant we were successful. It would not do for them to be transferred as mere zombies. We are not cruel nor are we uncivilized. We never tried to make those children unconscious about their lives; we wanted them to be awake and aware, as all children must be taught. All the others had no success with him. He neither cried nor smiled; he didn’t play with the other children. He was mostly by himself but always, always, awake or asleep, he kept his right fist tight and clenched. I was called in after a few days. The next transfer scheduled was only two days after that. I offered him candies and he refused any; unlike any of the other children that have passed through the camp the last year. My! He was the talk of Camp! I asked him to relax, I said that he would be taken care of and had nothing to worry about. I assured him that he would be with his parents soon and if he could just unclench his fist, we’d shake on it. That reticent little boy ran away! No, normally, normally that would not do. Any other child would have been punished, severely. It will not do for other children to observe such a lack of authority in those circumstances. But this boy was my project and I wanted his laughs or his cries to come without force. I am after all, as I’ve stated before, neither cruel nor uncivilized. I would sit with him and show photographs of great works of Art the High Command confiscated for protection. I read passages of literary giants from the last few books not burned. Simply being there and feeding him, so to speak, with a firm but learned affection did indeed, yes indeed, calm him. So like a frightened puppy, that reticent little boy finally began to befriend me. He finally began to speak, to only me mind you, but his little whispers gained some trust in a very short time. And not a minute too soon. The transfer was only minutes away. He told me how the authorities apprehended his father one morning a year before. The little one cast his eyes down to the ground as he told me his story; his right fist tight and clenched. He told me of how hungry and sick his mother was; how he would scavenge for some kind of food and bring her some little thing he found. All the while that reticent little boy told me his story, but his fist remained tight and clenched. I could hear the fires being stoked. The pellets of Zyklon-B were put in place. The children were being lined up for the transfer and I am sure the little boy had an epiphany. Because he gazed up at me finally and held his right hand out for me to look. Some sad crumbs of an old muffin were moldy on his palm. He had been saving them for his mother, for when he would see her again. He told me she was so hungry and sick. Then, with tears welling up in his eyes, he said he didn’t think he needed those crumbs anymore. He cried as he was transferred. You cannot know the sense of accomplishment I had! That little boy faced his transfer with the right amount of humanity mandated by the High Command. As I’ve said, we are neither cruel nor uncivilized. © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen Tra La Luna E Tempo (Between the Moon and Time) by Justice Putnam “Life, thought the naked man, was a hell, with rare moments recalling some ancient paradise.” --Italo Calvino “Difficult Loves” I came upon a man Kneeling in the desert. He was crying. I put my hand On the man's shoulder And I felt a warmth Move up my arm And into my Heart. The man Looked up at me. I saw that He was Jesus. I knew he was Jesus From all the paintings I had seen. He was holding A dead lamb against His chest. The lamb appeared To have been shot. The man stood And faced me. Blood trickled Onto his Bare stomach. "I feel it all!" He said, "All of it! Nothing passes That does not pass Through me!" The man continued To cry for A very Long time. I felt water rise up To my ankles And over My knees. When the water Had gotten to Our waists The man looked About himself And let out a Painful groan, "I must go now!" He said, "I must go! I cannot stay In one place For very long Or my tears Will drown The Earth! Bless you," He said, As he turned And walked Away. Io venni su un uomo che si inginocchia nel deserto. Lui stava piangendo. Io misi la mia mano sulla spalla dell'uomo ed io sentii su una mossa di calore il mio braccio e nel mio cuore. Gli uomini guardarono su a me. Io vidi che lui era Gesù. Io seppi che lui era Gesù da tutti i dipinti io avevo visto. Lui stava contenendo un agnello morto contro il suo torace. L'agnello sembrò essere stato sparato. Gli uomini stettero in piedi e mi affrontarono. Sangue gocciolò sopra il suo stomaco nudo. "Io lo sento tutti!" lui disse, "Tutti di lui! Nulla passaggi che non passano attraverso me!" Gli uomini continuarono a piangere per un tempo molto lungo. Io sentii su aumento di acqua alle mie caviglie e sui miei ginocchia. Quando l'acqua era arrivata alle nostre vite gli uomini guardarono circa lui e lasciarono fuori un gemito doloroso, "Io ora devo andare!" lui disse, "io devo andare! Io non posso stare in un luogo per molto lungo o le mie ferite lacere affogheranno la Terra! La benedica,” lui disse, come lui girò e si allontanò. from: “Philosophy in Tongues” – Section Two “The Unfinished Manuscripts” – Part B “Tra La Luna E Tempo” © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen (cross-posted at Daily Kos http://www.dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/3/14/17937/1281/208/476759 )

Yosemite Haiku

justiceputnam — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 08:21:51 GMT

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security does not exist in nature." -- Helen Keller "We are bits of stellar matter that got cold by accident, bits of a star gone wrong." -- Sir Arthur Eddington I Invisible sits The pheasant in red maple Two solitudes dance II Cold alpine spring day Hydrogen nuclear air A ram at birth breathes III Red Columbine sways Snow-plant not easily seen Rock-fringe White Heather IV Blue meadow wind wave Stream collapses hard down stone Clouds shadow white rock V Still time of bare oak Ancient destiny blossoms Sky-tear pilgrimage VI No thing is solid Clouds reflect upon the lake Granite cliffs shatter (Lake Ostrander, Yosemite, California 1985) © 1986 and 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

Baby Killer Mom Executed At Federal Prison

justiceputnam — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 18:31:15 GMT

by Justice Putnam "I think that life begins at conception, that we have every reason to do everything we can to protect human life, because it's the really heart and soul of what makes us unique as a civilization," -- Republican Presidential Contender Mike Huckabee NEW WRECK TIMES Baby Killer Mom Executed At Federal Prison The Faces of Our Nation Special Edition Senior Travel Editor Gerry Bronco Little Rock, Arkansas -- Lenore Michelle, who sought an abortion after being impregnated by a rapist in a violent attack, was executed in a Secret Federal Prison at 12:05 am today. Convicted under the extension of the Leave No Child Behind Act of 2010 that outlawed all abortions in the US, Mrs. Michelle ran out of appeals fifteen minutes before her execution. In a sad sidebar, her unborn fetus that was the result of the rape died during the execution process. Lenore Michelle, nee Lenore Jackson, age 32 was the first woman executed under the provisions of the Act. Several thousand more sentences are awaiting execution dates; with several hundred thousand more in the hearing stage. A secret emergency order signed by President Huckabee late last week seeks to streamline the hearing process so execution dates will correspond more efficiently with Religious and Natural Holidays. "It is every woman's sacred duty to sacrifice their own lives to bear the children God has chosen them for," the President said during his weekly radio address, "that is why I insisted on the provisions of the Leave No Child Behind Act. Every child is sacred and a gift from God. The Act simply codified when that child is protected under US Law." The Leave No Child Behind Act Extension of 2009 specifies the beginning of life, otherwise known as conception, to be the first ovulation that a woman experiences. By Executive decree, that was determined to be when a woman is twelve years old. To attempt to terminate a pregnancy for any reason was a mandatory sentence of death. The Mandatory Sentence Act of 2009 that was inserted in a bill already voted on was cited as the judicial precedent for the Federal Mandatories that became part of the Act Extension. Mrs. Michelle sought an abortion two weeks after the violent attack at her office in late December. Mandated by an Executive signing statement that demands all gynecological questions to be reviewed by the Total Awareness Agency, Mrs. Michelle was arrested two days later. Her rapist was never apprehended as the investigation moved to the crimes of Mrs. Michelle. The wife of a sous chef, Jacques Michelle, Mrs. Michelle was the office manager of a small auto repair shop when she was raped and beaten while alone at the business. When it was discovered that Mrs. Michelle was pregnant with the rapist's child, Christian hospital personnel secretly recorded her demanding an abortion. The tape was reviewed by the TAA and Mrs. Michelle's arrest, trial, sentencing and execution were the fastest recorded in US history. "That just shows the efficiency of the Act Extension," White House Spokeswoman Dana Perino said today. One of many holdovers from the previous administration, Miss Perino explained further, "Without the Federal Mandatories, some of these trials would have taken years to resolve in executions, instead of the weeks it takes now. Is that efficiency, or what?" When asked about rumors of protests over the execution, Miss Perino replied, "It is the duty of the press to report the good news and the good news is that this woman got just what she deserved." When reminded that the unborn fetus was killed during the execution, Miss Perino sternly read from a prepared script, "Who is to tell what makes us sinners and when sin first begins. But we are all sinners and we will all be judged." © 2008 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

What Has Happened To Me

justiceputnam — Fri, 05 Oct 2007 07:55:42 GMT

by Justice Putnam I am a 52 year old broken down athlete, suffering the ills of society in the SF Bay Area, while basking in the unholy glow of self-interest. I am living Neruda’s dictum that the Poet is both a Force for Solidarity and for Solitude. I began my writing “career” in earnest during my twenties, though I had published poems and stories since high school. I taught History and English at private schools while coaching football and track briefly. I have worked at various jobs while traveling around the world; sometimes surfing, sometimes fishing, sometimes to learn, sometimes to love; but always, always I wrote! I have climbed up Mount Rainier and I have bicycled the Pacific Trail. I have chipped glacial ice in the French Alps and taught English on Hokkaido. I was the cook on a tuna boat in the Gulf of Alaska and I have seen the gutted remains of Honduran peasants desiccated next to red bougainvillea, as green hummingbirds darted and stopped at delicate petals and darted away again. I have seen the blasted remains of the last hospital in Sarajevo spilling stone and beds onto the street. I have held my own son at the moment of his birth. My son now, is almost 30. He has given me two grandchildren and a step-grandchild. I have two ex-wives who remain dear to my heart but don’t know it, no current lovers but many loving friends, no dogs or cats; save for the neighborhood ones that know I’m a soft touch. Wild finches splash in the rough stone bath in my little garden. Their songs fade as they fly to the cottonwood that stands as a monument in the neighborhood. French lavender, lemon thyme, rosemary, and English sage await their certain demise in a skillet on my stove. When sated, I curl up with an ancient author I choose from my shelves. © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

Kurds And Weigh

justiceputnam — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 18:21:43 GMT

by Justice Putnam (Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating her curds & whey. -- child’s Nursery Rhyme) The Barsanis are a clan in the Middle East. Every nation in the region has persecuted them. I don’t know enough about all the particulars, but in a culture of Gypsies, the Barsanis are the gypsies of the Gypsies in the Middle East. I don’t really care to know more than that. It would just interfere with my job. It is a challenge to administrate to such a stubborn population, for sure. But I was put in touch with another graduate of RU Right who now works in the Department of Education, but used to visit Africa as part of her church’s wildlife fund, anyway! We had a fellowship by e-mail and I found out she’s a Goodling too, just like me! Anyway! She pointed out that Wildebeest roamed the Savannah since biblical times and so did the Kurds around the Holy Lands! Put that way, I understood completely. But I still had to figure out how much drayage of human pounds moved over the square miles I had to factor for. I must confess, I feel a little like Noah's personal assistant at times. After all, the Company is a little like the Ark. There is going to be a flood, and the Company is building the infra-structure for the survival of the Exalted Few. It is rapturous to know that by working for the Company and graduating from Regent University, or as we alumni affectionately call the school, RU Right, and even more importantly, being a Penitent Goodling, that I am part of the Exalted Few, that I have a seat on the Ark. Praise be to the Lord! Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. I had to figure out how much human tonnage roamed over the square miles that I was to factor. I saw a nature show once when I was a little girl that showed the animals of the bible and I remembered how Wildebeest would stop for water along their grazing routes. That was important to me, because I once worked for a major hamburger chain and I would provision supplies for outlets that had major sales along well-traveled commuter routes! Now this is getting easy! Because all I have to factor for is a soft drink syrup for the region. We already have the local bottlers in place. Who knew that the right prayer circle would get me a job with more pay and less work? Praise be to the lord! Anyway! For some reason, the Company has decided to factor supplies by “human tonnage” than by Point of Sale Units. I’m sure it has something to do with accounting for the upcoming Government Contract signing. I have another friend from RU Right, and another Penitent Goodling, too! Who works for Homeland Security and she says her department always uses the heavier approach. When dealing with Government Contracts, she said, the heavier the sound of the documents hitting the table when dropped from one foot above the surface, the more important the document and likely that passage would occur. No one can read that much business jargon, so very few do. My report will generate more paper than just a Point of Sale analysis, so this is a really important Government Contract, I can see! It is so wonderful to do God’s Work by adding my small part. Of course, that is what makes me a Goodling. Praise be to the Lord! © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

The Princess and the Frog

justiceputnam — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 07:41:16 GMT

by Justice Putnam (By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you'll be happy. If you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher. --Socrates) She said she chose me because I was the best behaved in the whole pond. I guess those etiquette lessons my frog aunts taught me when I was a tadpole really helped. All those Saturday night Brown Derby dinners dressed in my little tadpole-sized frog tuxedo, my frog aunts in their pearls and gloves, all seated in our special Brown Derby frog booth, somehow all that prepared me for the chance of a frog lifetime; to be kissed by the most beautiful Princess in the world. I must tell you, everything we frogs heard was true. The sun back-lit her dark red curls, her full ruby lips touched mine. I remember she tasted of lavender and orange. The transformation was magical; I was no longer the ugly frog. I became her handsome Prince standing tall and strong and happy! Oh, sure. She had to change my wardrobe and make it more diverse, as a Prince’s wardrobe must be. I was mostly into turtlenecks because I thought it would hide my frog throat more. But she liked the open collar look, she said, because she liked how manly a strong neck was. I always thought my best feature were my legs! Such is the mystery of the most beautiful Princess in the world. She insisted I grow my hair longer. I took to sporting a goatee and wearing little round sunglasses. I grew accustomed to jet lag on royal visits to her ancestral homes in Europe. I became her Prince, but she seemed unhappy. We had just returned from a weekend at the home of my best bullfrog friend. His property included some of the best mud baths in all of Sonoma County. “Your frog friends are ill mannered and uncouth,” she sobbed, “they smack their lips when they eat and use terrible grammar. You must choose them or me and if you choose them, you will not be my Prince!” I didn’t know that the spell could be reversed. I thought, once kissed and transformed, a Prince forever you would be. “Are you serious?” my Bullfrog friend spit at me later when I told him of the ultimatum. “You think you’re a Prince? She’s too good for you, man. She’s way out of your league. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You might be a Prince, but in your eyes, not hers! What made you think you could keep a woman like that happy? I hate to hurt your feelings, but at least you have feelings to hurt!” All of my frog friends practice “tough truth,” but knowledge of that has never lessened the sting of their observations. A note sat on the table when I came through the door that hot afternoon. She had gone and would not be back. I went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror there. I knew which fork to use for the salad and how to swirl a vintage red to check its legs. But there was no mistaking it. I had always been a frog. But now I was one with a goatee and little round sunglasses. © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

For The General Good

justiceputnam — Fri, 20 Apr 2007 00:46:26 GMT

by Justice Putnam I thought the State had no need for my services any longer. But a Certain Member of the Assembly visited a few days ago with a message from the Forum Of One Leader. “The FOOL requires your expertise,” the Certain Member of the Assembly pleaded, using the jargon peculiar to all bureaucrats through all of history, “without your special talent, the People will remain unconvinced and the Assembly will not act. Only you can report the Good News of all that has been done for the General Good!” An Appropriations Bill was stalled because the People were only hearing negative reporting from the Just Deserts region. It was on all the news. The Forum Of One Leader had decided to silence his critics once and for all, so he recalled my commission and brought me Back On Board. A good decision, I might add, because that not only makes me one of the BOB’s, I am also a Brownie. You see, I was once the head of the Federal Emergency Manipulation Agency, otherwise known as FEMA. Our task was to communicate how to make lemonade. Life and Government throw many things our way. So it is important that the People can find the pony; that they know at least it’s a dry heat; and if bridges are to be mended, what better time than during a flood? "It’s not necessary to fly to the Just Deserts region," I said to the Certain Member of the Assembly, "I only need to address all 135,000 of the Brownies." "How does the Superdome sound?" the Certain Member of the Assembly asked. "Super!" I responded. The next day I’m at the 50-yard line of the Superdome surrounded by a sea of brown; not a brown like the muddy Mississippi. No, this was a crisp, ironed and buttoned-down sea of brown. Everyone wore brown shoes, everyone wore brown slacks, (brown skirts for the girls and women, of course!) and most important, everyone wore a brown shirt. Anyone could wear brown shoes, or brown slacks; but only a Brownie is allowed to wear a brown shirt. A Brownie takes a kind of blood oath. In the beginning, the FOOL’s loyalists were called brown-noses for what critics said was the obvious ass-kissing that allowed the FOOL to govern as he did. But the Federal Emergency Manipulation Agency went into action and issued brown shirts to the loyalists in response. A Press Briefing was organized and the first ritual ass kissing was broadcast. About 70 loyalists, on bended knee, kissed the ass of the FOOL and then donned their brown shirt. Now a Brownie gets his or her brown shirt when they kiss the ass of a life-sized statue of the FOOL. It’s a lot easier on the Forum Of One Leader, as you can imagine! "When I was called by the Forum Of One Leader to bring back the Good News of all that has been done for the General Good," I began my speech, "I thought of the hurricane that almost brought down this reverent stadium. Harsh winds tore at her roof. The floodwaters rose and threatened to inundate her. The Little People who used to live in the Old City flocked to her arms for succor in their time of need; and succor them she did!" 135,000 right hands rose in unison as if at a great evangelical church service and shouted in one giant voice, "Amen!" "And I thought of our brave troops" I continued, "who have sacrificed so much and for so long because of our freedoms! Those brave men and women who are your brothers and sisters, your husbands and wives, your aunts and uncles, your mothers and fathers; and yes! Your grandparents, too!" The Brownies couldn’t restrain themselves. Pandemonium broke out as they bounced straight up and down like on pogo sticks, their right arms thrust upwards with shouts of "Amen!" echoing throughout the Stadium. I let them have their riot of ecstasy. After several moments I put my finger to my lips to hush them. "So when our critics accuse us of self-serving political treachery," I said, barely above a whisper, "when our critics accuse us of self-centered political gain," I raised my voice, "when our critics accuse us of inaction, ineptitude and incompetence," I was now full throated, "I want each and every one of you to find those critics," I was yelling, "you find them in their libraries, you find them in their secular schools, you find them in their chat rooms and you ram your finger in their bony chests and tell them, all that we do is for the General Good!" "Amen! Amen!" echoed throughout the giant structure. "And it’s all true," I was patting my brow like a great evangelist, "it’s all true! Because all that we do, all that we are, is for the General Good! Because at midnight tonight, the Forum Of One Leader will don his ceremonial fighter jet jacket and forever be known by his new title, THE GENERAL GOOD!" I shouted. 135,000 Brownies took to the streets on that clear as crystal night shouting, "For The General Good! For The General Good!" I know a few windows were broken and a few fires were set. I know I got them hot under the collar. But at least it’s a dry heat! © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

I Have No Mouth

justiceputnam — Tue, 17 Apr 2007 06:43:06 GMT

by Justice Putnam (“Like the wind crying endlessly through the universe, Time carries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we are, all that remains, is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment.” -- Harlan Ellison “I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream”) (“Mes den hep tavas a-gollas y dyr.” From the Cornish, “the tongueless man gets his land took.” --Tony Harrison “National Trust”) I had to, don’t you see? You’d do the same if you were in my place, and a lot sooner too! I’d tell you if I could, but as you can see, one of the conditions of my release is that my mouth has been surgically removed. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take standing for hours, the threats of beatings. Oh, they beat me, for sure. Early on the beatings were constant, so much that you expected them, so a mere threat was enough for some of us to literally piss our pants. I couldn’t take being forced awake after just a few seconds of sleep in seventy hours? Or was it a hundred? Did I sleep only an hour ago? Don’t you see? This is what they have done to a man! I have lost all sense of time; a minute is a year and a year is a mere minute! Damn! Why won’t you listen to me? I’m blinking my eyes in Morse code! If you would just listen, you’d see that I am talking to you! The first time they let me see the sky was after five months of darkness! They let me see the full moon, I only know this now, but at the time I thought it was the sun at noon! It was that bright and blinding and painful. There are so many things I want to tell you, I want to tell you about the years of abuse, I want to tell you how they break a man to confess to killing God, how they can make you confess to crimes committed by ancestors twenty years ago. I want to tell you about why I chose to have my mouth removed so I could go home. In fact, I planned this long ago. That’s why I taught myself Morse code. I started to teach myself sign language, but I was caught and isolated for another year and a half, or was it longer? Damn it! This is what they do! I see now on all the legal documents how long I was isolated at different times during my imprisonment. A year one time then out for four months, isolated for two years and then out for only three weeks, then another year long isolation. It went on and on and on like that. So I taught myself how to blink my eyes in Morse code because I knew they would remove my mouth! I know they are fighting a war and wars are messy. I knew I had a story to tell and I would tell it, no matter what! If you would just listen, I’d tell you one. In fact, I was not even a soldier. I only drove some soldiers to an airport in my cab! I even had the paperwork to prove it! It was that paperwork that convicted me, I see. The new laws they passed said I helped those soldiers by driving them to the airport. Why won’t you listen to me? It’s so obvious! Look! Dot, dash, dot! Damn it, and all that follows! Someone has to know Morse code, here! Why won’t you listen to me? I’m looking right at you! Listen! "Hey Sarge," the young reservist called to the military contractor, "look at that one there." "Yeah," the military contractor, replied, "that one just got out of iso this morning and is being prepped for another cycle in a day and a half." "But Sarge?" the young reservist asked, "what’s with his face?" "That was one of the earlier ones we picked up," the military contractor informed, "the worst of the worse. After a while these little mama’s boys admitted to anything we wanted, which proved that they were capable of anything. But we also got tired of hearing day after day how they did this or they did that just so’s they can go home to their mamas. So we had one of our plastic surgeon contractors do a number on these slime ball’s mouths!" "But what’s up with the eyes?" "Oh, that!" the military contractor laughed, "one of our company’s division vice presidents for procurement made that call. Since we were moving these slime balls from one prison to another and we didn’t want them to know where they were; and also since all of them would be in isolation, it was decided it was more cost effective to just sew their eyes shut. Some of them don’t even know, they look around just like they can see, just like that one!" "When does this one go back to iso?" the young reservist was looking at the prisoner’s chart. "A day and a half." The military contractor replied. © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

What’s It All About, Alfie? Bye Bye Buchwald

justiceputnam — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 19:35:21 GMT

by Justice Putnam I think of a song lyric, "What's it all about, Alfie?" I don't know how well I've done while I was here, but I'd like to think some of my printed works will persevere -- at least for three years. I know it's very egocentric to believe that someone is put on earth for a reason. In my case, I like to think I was. And after this column appears in the paper following my passing, I would like to think it will either wind up on a cereal box top or be repeated every Thanksgiving Day. So, "What's it all about, Alfie?" is my way of saying goodbye. -- Art Buchwald “Goodbye, My Friends” ____________________________________ Goodbye, Art Buchwald and thanks for the laughs. Not only for the ones you gave me, but also for teaching me how to make others laugh; just like you. Goodbye. I have never laughed so sadly as I did at some of your stories. Some of your other stories made me laugh in howls. But all of them made me think. The first time I finally understood Satire was in relation to your work. I finally understood a power that could change minds without violence. I was eleven years old. The year was 1966. That was the year the first cross was burned on our front lawn. We were always active as a family in the civil rights movement. My father was a history professor and my mom had been a jazz singer with some regional fame in the Northwest briefly. They were and remain free thinkers and we were raised the same. We moved from Oregon to the San Gabriel Valley of Southern California in the summer of 1965, a few weeks before racial tensions exploded finally on the West Coast with the Watts Riots. We stayed at my great-aunt's place in West Covina that summer of 1965. My dad had been teaching at Oregon State and was to begin what turned out to be a thirty-five year tenure at Cal State Fullerton. We moved to Rowland Heights before the school term began. Shortly after the New Year, my parents found out there was no ACLU chapter in the San Gabriel Valley, but there was a chapter of the John Birch Society near Diamond Bar and also a Chapter of the West Coast version of the White Citizens Council in Hacienda Heights; there was only one thing to do. The local papers covered the ribbon cutting and also conveniently publicized our address. That was when the fun began; death threats called to my dad's office at the university, bottles thrown at our house and the first of several cross burnings I mentioned earlier. I knew what a cross burning meant. Not only had my parents started the first ACLU chapter in the San Gabriel Valley, but my parents also had many friends and collegues, many of them black, asian, hispanic; and they all came to the many soirees my parents had. Racial slurs were an every day occurrence in that neighborhood. It was around that time that I was allowed to use my dad's library at home. His home library held almost 8,000 books. Many of them in his field, but he also used a lot of literature in his classes on history, so that was what I was looking at and that's how I found your work. I pulled down one collection of stories and opened it randomly. "Little Green People" caught my attention. I've looked for the story recently so I could link it here, but I was unsuccessful. Anyway, "Little Green People" was the story that taught me that power I mentioned. I know you've written many stories in your life, so I'll remind you a bit about how you had been in a conversation with a spokesman from the NAALGP (the National Association for the Advancement of Little Green People) and the President of the White Citizens Councils. The NAALGP spokesman argued that it is irresponsible to use the Jolly Green Giant as evidence of advancements the aliens had attained, that the unskilled little green person was deemed just as equal in our society and needs to be helped to become skilled. The White Citizens Council President complained that they were just getting used to blacks moving into the neighborhood and now they have little green people being jammed down their throats. You brought up some salient points and the White Citizens Council President asked how you'd like it if your sister dated a little green person and you demurred. "You bleeding heart liberals are all alike!" The White Citizens Council President retorted. Well, that story put me on a quest to read as much satire as I could and try my hand at it. As I got older and traveled more, I put your Paris writings next to Genet's on my shelves. And now you're dead but you still have us laughing. So, what's it all about, Alfie? Au Revoir and Goodbye. Je ne suis quand Americain, but you taught me something about being a citizen of the world. You taught me that laughter has great power; that laughter can illuminate a wrong, change a mind and even seduce beautiful women. You taught me that authority must always be questioned, no matter who it is; and these last months, you've taught us all how dignity is not bestowed, it is lived. You lived so very, very well. Goodbye, Art Buchwald. Goodbye. © 2007 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

The Lost War Dispatches: A Public Parody

justiceputnam — Sat, 13 Jan 2007 23:12:49 GMT

by Justice Putnam “Authentication no longer required reference to the individual who had produced them; the role of the author disappeared as an index of truthfulness and, where it remained as an inventor's name, it was merely to denote a specific theorem or proposition, a strange effect, a property, a body, a group of elements, or a pathological syndrome.” -- Michel Foucault "What is an Author?" “Perhaps our eyes are merely a blank film which is taken from us after our deaths to be developed elsewhere and screened as our life story in some infernal cinema or dispatched as microfilm into the sidereal void.” -- Jean Baurillard “Simulacra and Simulation” __________________________________________ The story of Gerry Bronco is a story of mystery. He was first noticed by other war correspondents during the Balkan War photographing for AP. Convinced that the cult of personality was the only avenue open in the New Reporting, Gerry set out to create a character he called the, Corresponding Corespondent. Taking a page from the Civil War writings of Whitman, the dispatches to the Toronto Star by Hemingway and the swagger of a seasoned stage actor, Gerry achieved a minor cult following. He made fast and long friends, as evidenced by the following testimonials: “We had a seating chart. The student with the highest score sat first seat, first row. Second highest, in second seat and so on for ten seats for each seven rows. Gerry sat first seat, first row the entire year save for the last two weeks of school. He confided to the Mother Superior that he should be sat last seat, last row. 'But why?’ Mother Superior asked. ‘Because, he answered with a question, ‘when I have something to say, should not the whole class hear it?’” -- Sister Bernadette First Grade and Catechism Instructor Sacred Heart Academy Klamath Falls, Oregon ***************************************************** “He finished our four year program in just under two years. The first week of the term, he handed in a five hundred-page manuscript entitled, ‘The Socratic Conception of the Soul.’ In it, he posited the thesis that the function of the soul was not just to know good and evil, but that the soul was to be used to govern one’s actions; so that good was achieved and evil avoided. The brilliance of his argument of good thoughts and good actions reverberated throughout the campus. This was a scholar athlete the University had never before encountered. So you can imagine the surprise of student and faculty alike. He not only turned down a professional contract to leave school and play football, but he also turned down the invitation for the Rhodes Scholarship, all that, so he could work as a cook on a tuna boat in the Gulf of Alaska.” -- Dimitri Dimitrischen, Ph.D. Professor of Philosophy and History Portland State University Portland, Oregon ************************************************** “Yeah, we was buildin’ the tunnel at 54th Street, and in walks this galoot. We all look at each other and our eyes roll up in our heads, see. Because when we looked at the union job card it said Gerechtigkeit Imbronciato. Well we’d had Krauts and boys from the old country, but this guy, geez. Anyways, he comes right up to the foreman and says, ‘Hi I’m Gerry Bronco, which stack of rebar do you need tied first?’ Well, wouldn’t you know it, this guy works like a dervish, carries big bundles of rebar, and get this, recites Baudelaire. I know it was Baudelaire because he told me. I been readin’ Baudelaire ever since.” -- Vince Vecchio Teamster Brooklyn, New York *********************************************************** “We initially hired Gerry as a roadie. Big, strapping kid. We were playing some dive poker bar in the Badlands and one of our back-up singers got sick. Gerry said he could carry a tune, so we thought what the hell, we’re in the middle of nowhere, it couldn’t hurt. But damn, didn’t that kid know all our songs. We played a couple sets and asked Gerry if he wanted a solo. Well, he moves slowly to the center stage microphone and whispers back to the band, ‘House of the Rising Sun.’ He stands at the mic and keeps us from starting. He just stands there until the place gets a little quieter. Then he says to the crowd, ‘I want to dedicate this to my mother, without whom I wouldn’t be where I am today.’ And he sings this song in a style I’d never heard before; totally caught the audience unawares. Loudest applause we ever got.” -- Jerry Foreman Musician Paradise, California ************************************************************ “He wasn’t like the other guys that came into the bar. I mean, sure, he’d talk to the girls, but he was polite, real polite. He made you feel like you could just hang on his arm and follow him upstairs at the Ritz.” -- Nikki Stone Cocktail Waitress & Exotic Dancer Huntington Beach, California **************************************************** “We were in Madame Breussling’s Salon in Frankfurt. Most of the group was there. We had been discussing something dreadful, either about the Balkans or wine. Madame Breussling introduced Gerry to us during the cocktail service. I was certainly struck by his physical presence, indeed. But his repartee’ was quick and I must say, very sexy. I knew right away that he was to have a major input in my life.” -- Miwa Ito Classical Cellist Tokyo, Japan ************************************************************* “The whole time we spent together at La Tranche Sur Mer, he kept referring to the movie, ‘The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.’ The part I remember him speaking most about is when old Walter Huston is telling larcenous and impatient Humphry Bogart how much the mountain was like a woman. How you must put her back together, that she must be in better shape when you leave her than she was before she met you. I’ll always love Gerry Bronco for that. He taught me how to live in my body again.” -- Flore de Valicourt Actress Paris, France ********************************************************** The following “Lost War Dispatches” were found two days after Gerry Bronco disappeared attempting to locate Sebastian Junger in the Afghanistan Mountains in late 2003. Though rumors of his sightings have surfaced regularly, he has not been seen or heard from officially since: Princess Abdullah Acquires Adequate Assurances New Wreck Times-- Dateline: 2340 GMT 16 Aug 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Saudi Princess Abdullah toured this war-ravaged region of Iraq last week and remarked how it was that, "...with all the technical know-how of the United States Concessionaires..." ... that something as simple as a nautical tour along the Euphrates could not be arranged. Her Highness was bedazzling in a floor-length faux ermine robe and cosmetics by Thomas Gustavason. Her henna-red curls glistened in the desert sun while the infamous High Temper seethed. "First I must hide the fact that my cousin's terrorist activities are tied to my Trust, but even more insulting, are the published dates of my breast augmentations." Princess Abdullah was reported to have had surgeries to enhance the lift and fullness of her breasts on August 6 of 1993 and February 14, 1997; on May 17, 1998, a nipple realignment was performed; a symmetrical maintenance procedure was conducted on June 7, 1999; scar tissue was removed on September 12, 2001. Princess Abdullah was here to meet Coalition High Commissioner Paul Bremer to discuss possible alliances for the building of roads and mosques in the emerging Iraq. Prince Abdullah had discussed the same issues with Mr. Bremer last month. The Princess's visit was considered by pundits to, seal the deal. Dancing girls undulated across the mosaic floor of the exhibition hall. Figs and melons were served on the backs of faux Nubian slaves, imported especially for the occasion. Tapestries designed by Ralph Lauren sighed in the slight breeze, a breeze made possible by the feathered palm fans swung in wide arcs by Filipina au pairs on vacation from Kuwait. Paul Bremer was not available for comment. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Private Private Privy to Privileged Positions New Wreck Times-- Dateline: 0050 GMT 26 Aug 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Pvt. David Private of Vida, Oregon, age 20, had never heard of Donald Rumsfeld before his Reserve Unit was called up last September. A bright-eyed young man more acquainted with the lush green of his Oregon Cascade home than the sands of Iraq, he nonetheless displayed an uncanny knack for keeping things in perspective. "We used to dune buggy on the Florence Sand Dunes every summer and winter," Pvt. Private said, referring to the Coastal stretch west of Eugene, "though we never had people shooting at us from all sides." Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld met with a small contingent of soldiers for pictures and handshakes. Pvt. Private had just been relieved of, "VIP Duty." "That's when a VIP comes through," Pvt. Private described, "a twenty block radius around the Green Zone is swept clean of all indigenous peoples. The 82nd Airborne conducted the sweep. My unit wore Desert Camo and looked happy while Mr. Rumsfeld talked about the great job we're doing." After "VIP Duty," Pvt. Private's unit was ordered to, "play the shellgame." "That's when we take a dozen M-1 Tanks and clear the main roads into the Green Zone of old blown up and burned out cars and trucks. It's really fun, just the shells of the cars!" Pvt. Private's tour of duty was increased by 90 days during Mr. Rumsfeld's visit. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Mobile Medical Management New Wreck Times -- Dateline: 2230 GMT 27 Aug 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Civilian Military Subcontractor, Mobile Medical Management is but one of scores of subcontractors under the Halliburton umbrella. Appointed Lead U.S. Concessionaire just after 11 September 2001, the Halliburton team called on its subcontractors for a meeting in Vice President Dick Cheney’s Office at the White House. Mobile Medical Management of Laguna Niguel, California, won its “bid” for supplying battlefield hospitals with hi-tech cauterization lasers for preparing amputated limbs for stateside prosthetics. “Another subsidiary of Halliburton supplies all the Kevlar armor the troops wear in the field,” Mobile Medical Management Inter-Regional Manager C.D. Parks said recently, “that armor is so effective, that without it, the kill rate of U.S. troops would be eleven or twelve a day, not the one or two we are seeing now. The armor is especially protective of the torso area; less so for arms and legs. The upside for our company is that we not only supply the cauterization lasers, but we also supply the prosthetics. Why, I was just crunching the numbers last week. We’re going to publish a profit increase of over 600% since March.” Mobile Medical Management Spokesperson, Melody Wrangle held a press conference outside one battlefield hospital near the Halliburton Headquarters in what was once, downtown Baghdad. “Mobile Medical Management is committed to this patriotic mission we’ve been entrusted with. Our motto is: we not only staunch the flow, we offer a helping hand and give a leg up!” Vice President Dick Cheney cited National Security issues and invoked Executive Privilege when queried about the meetings with the Halliburton Subcontractors. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Lamentable Lawlessness Lessens Lateral Liquidity New Wreck Times -- Dateline: 0050 GMT 01 Sept 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Mudhar al-Abdel, a Baghdad resident his entire 36 years, is but one of thousands of Iraqis being interviewed by Halliburton subsidiary, Hopkins Research. A member of the important moderating force in Iraq, The Badr Brigade, Mr. al-Abdel hopes to also become a member of the “All-Iraqi Security Detail.” The “All-Iraqi Security Detail,” is the brainchild of Hopkins Research’s Senior Vice-Research Fellow, Dr. Dwight Gilman. “I’ve been analyzing the situation for many weeks now,” Dr Gilman stated today, “I finally came to the conclusion that the ratio of situational liabilities to causal field casualty reports will lessen lateral liquidity, so the use of indigenous peoples is warranted.” Unidentified American Officials conceded today, that trained Iraqi security personnel are now much-needed. With a rotation of U.S. Military personnel still months away, a skilled force of Iraqi nationals is required to quiet the foment that has reached a peak with the assassination of the cleric, al-Hakim on Saturday. “What we are looking for,” an unidentified American Official said, “in the prime candidate for the Security Detail, are individuals who can identify disparate Iraqi tribal clans and help us codify their intents so we can better serve the building of this nation.” Halliburton officials declined to respond to repeated requests for comment. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Rumsfeld Rues Repercussions New Wreck Times -- Dateline: 2345 GMT 05 Sept 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- A glum Donald Rumsfeld, on his own "world tour" to drum up support for a lagging endeavor, parried a volley of questions from the Baghdad Press Corps today. The familiar scowl still firmly in place, Rumsfeld seemed to be jabbing off his back foot the entire Press Conference. When confronted with the increasing costs of the War, both monetary and in human lives, Rumsfeld was quick to point out, "I never said this conflict was going to be a rose garden. I never said we'd come out of it with nary but a thorn prick. I told you all along that it would be rough. Well, it's rough!" When asked about United Nations help to stabilize the region, Rumsfeld shot back, "That's a State Department tactic! You need to talk to State! Whatever happens, the United STATES will be firmly in control, just as we are now. Never forget that we won the war in record time. That cannot ever be discounted. That is why we are firmly in control. We won, dammit!" 149 American Soldiers have died since 1 May 2003, the day President George W. Bush announced from the Aircraft Carrier the Abraham Lincoln, that the war was over. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Optimism Obfuscates Outrage New Wreck Times -- Dateline: 0052 GMT 10 Sept 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Paul Wolfowitz and Donald Rumsfeld have been touring this decimated country with the most wide-eyed optimism. Determined to prove a horse somewhere in all the filth, both have embarked on a whirlwind tour of Iraq. Mr. Wolfowitz held a press conference shortly after President Bush's Address to the Nation. Standing on a crate, so he could reach the podium's microphone, Mr. Wolfowitz answered questions for almost fifteen minutes before departing to his next conference down the road. Later, in a private moment with his motorcade, Mr. Wolfowitz confided to all within earshot that all was well in Iraq. "Of course," Mr. Wolfowitz said, "the reason so much chaos has been endured is because the War is not over. The War can never be over. That's the Beauty of it!" Reminded that the President declared the War over in May, Mr. Wolfowitz retorted, "Yes, he did say the War was over. In a sense, that War is over. But the War can never be over. It will go on and on. It must!" 166 Billion Dollars has been allocated for the cost of the War in just the last six months. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Chemically Killed Kurds Commemorated New Wreck Times -- Dateline: 0020 GMT 17 Sept 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Standing near rows of white crosses commemorating the 5,000 Iraqi-Kurds who died in a chemical weapons attack, Secretary of State Colin Powell pledged such brutality was over. “I can’t tell you that Saddam Hussein was a murderous tyrant; you already know that. What I can tell you is that what happened in 1988 will never happen again.” Powell was in Halabja to dedicate a memorial and museum for the Kurdish victims of modern chemical warfare. Women wearing black thrust bouquets of flowers toward him. Many in the audience wept, holding framed photographs of family members killed.The massacre on 15 March 1988, in the northeastern city, 7 miles from the Iranian border, has been cited repeatedly by President Bush as evidence of Hussein’s brutality. The chemicals used in the massacre were developed by Dow Chemical and sold by a subsidiary of Halliburton as part of a yearly 120 million dollar U.S. Military Aid package to our longtime ally to secure its border with Iran. Two months after the massacre, Iraq requested and was granted an additional 10 million in U.S. Military Aid to replenish its depleted chemical stock. Iraq continued to receive 120 million a year in U.S. Military Aid until three months after its invasion of Kuwait. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Self-Fulfilling Prophecy Denied By White House New Wreck Times-- Dateline: 2220 GMT 20 Sept 03 -- Senior Bureau Chief Gerry Bronco Baghdad-- Responding to withering criticism over it’s invasion of this Gulf State, the White House today denied that al Qeda and Iraq were involved in any way with each other before the U.S. invasion in March. "When even William Safire accuses us of a self-fulfilling prophecy," an unnamed White House Official lamented, "it’s time to set the record straight. There was never any terrorist link with Iraq. You might think we think that, but we don’t. We never did. Of course, there is tremendous terrorist linkage now. That must be stopped, and we really need that $87 Billion to make sure!" U. S. fatalities continue to average two a day. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> “A man who has depths in his shame meets his destiny and his delicate decisions upon paths which few ever reach, and with regard to the existence of which his nearest and most intimate friends may be ignorant; his mortal danger conceals itself from their eyes, and equally so his regained security. Such a hidden nature, which instinctively employs speech for silence and concealment, and is inexhaustible in evasion of communication, desires and insists that a mask of himself shall occupy his place in the hearts and heads of his friends; and supposing he does not desire it, his eyes will some day be opened to the fact that there is nevertheless a mask of him there--and that it is well to be so." --Friedrich Nietzsche "Thus Spake Zarathustra” ***************************************************** from: “Philosophy in Tongues” Part 1 “The Public Parody” and Part 4 “The Lost War Dispatches” © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswessen (This has also appeared in the Recommended section of Daily Kos http://www.dailykos.com/story/2006/7/1/232513/1219 )

O Little Town of Ramadi

justiceputnam — Sat, 16 Dec 2006 23:44:55 GMT

(words and music by Justice Putnam) (roughly to the tune “O Little Town of Bethlehem”) O little town of Ramadi, How still we see thee lie! Above we creep above your dreamless sleep As silent as stars we go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth Our Everlasting Might! The hopes and fears of all these years Are met in thee tonight. For we have deemed thee worthy As we gathered all above To see who sleeps and those who keep Their lives from our eyes above. O mourning cries together Proclaim another death, By bombs come from the clouds Above and kissed with fiery breath! Now silently, Now silently The wondrous gift is given! As body parts and human hearts Are blasted to high heaven. No ear will hear our coming; As we bash the front door in, Where meek souls will receive us, still And no one will know our sins. O little Child of Ramadi, We bombed your house today We cast out our sin, as we enter in, And pillage what’s left away. We hear the Christian Angels Their great glad tidings say; Obey you must, abide you must, A secret prison is only steps away! © 2006 by Justice Putnam Fleur de Sel Musique and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

In Memoriam: “John Lennon and Tomorrow Never Knows”

justiceputnam — Fri, 08 Dec 2006 05:46:24 GMT

by Justice Putnam 8 December 1980 was a Monday. At best, I was then only a pedestrian-participant in the LA Poetry/ Performance/ Art/ Punk scene, but I performed enough and published enough to sit in a late-morning meeting with the Board of Directors of Beyond Baroque. I had surfed some steady winter waves in Malibu earlier that morning. Even after showering at a friend's in Venice and taking the time to eat at Rose Cafe, I was still a little early, so I waited in the foyer as members of the Board arrived. I thought how odd it was, that even being the son of a professional historian and academic, had John Lennon and Bob Dylan not been the profound voices they were from my early childhood on, I might not have read Rimbaud or Donne at the ages I had; I might have missed Byron and Robbie Burns until much later. I had heard Lennon and Dylan read those authors. I had to as well. Because I could simply go to my dad's shelves and find any author only made it easier. But, I thought, if I hadn't read the back of "With the Beatles" when it first came out, where Lennon had listed under Occupation: "Poet", I might not even be standing in the foyer outside the Beyond Baroque Board Room in Santa Monica, California on 8 December 1980. Roger Suva and Bart Yoder of Elektrum Magazine, along with Luis Campos, Richard Weekly and Jerry Danielson of Vol No Magazine had pitched a proposal to the Board before about an event, so I was asked to give a small presentation. Roger, Bart, Richard and Luis had other commitments but Jerry said he was going to be drinking beers with Mike Watt of the Minutemen at Gorky's later that afternoon. He invited me to join them. The Board Meeting took several hours. Afterwards I hung out in front of Full Circle on the Venice boardwalk until about 3pm and drove across town to Gorky's. When I arrived, Exene Cervenca of X and Maria Talamantes (who was teaching dance at Cal Arts at the time) were also there. The five of us had a few laughs and animated conversation, then I had to go. It was an issue that I never brought up with that LA crowd. I’d heard the derisive comments made before about jocks in general at shows, but football players and football itself was reserved for bitter scorn. I liked Football. I still do. I have a relative who was a five –time, All-Pro Offensive Guard for the Rams in the 50's and 60’s; I tried to play at Cal Poly Pomona. But to say that Monday Night Football took precedent over flirting with Exene and Maria was inconceivable to many in that crowd; and anyone who knows Maria Talamantes or knew her then, would attest to the folly of choosing football over her incomparable beauty and soulful grace. Yet Maria gave me her phone number and I drove on to Orange County. The events of that evening have become a blur. I do remember that the 405 was a mess and there was no way I'd get home in time for the start of the game; so I stopped at a redneck bar in Westminster where an old girlfriend sometimes shot pool. I don’t remember much of the game, try as I might, I can only conjure snippets of memory that I can place in some loose time-frame; up to just before 9pm. That was when the commentary on the football game was interrupted by what was alluded to as a major news story. The clunk and smash of the pool tables suddenly stopped. The whole bar turned eerily quiet. The halting, nasal inflections of Howard Cosell caused the bar to quiet further as everyone's attention turned to the various TV’s, "John Lennon… shot dead in New York... " resounded in stereo around the hushed room. I looked about. Tears were welling up in the eyes of men I thought incapable of crying, let alone caring about a John Lennon. Not one voiced a discouraging word that Lennon had it coming. There was true and startled disbelief. "Damn!" a woman about sixty stated as she angrily snubbed out her cigarette. One guy wearing a grease-stained blue shirt with a machinist company decal was shaking his head as he caught my eye, "John Lennon? Why would John Lennon get shot?" I was unable to answer his question. I couldn't stay. I drove home to Laguna Beach in a morose stupor. I eventually turned left up Bluebird Canyon Road to the top of Arch Heights, stopping at my small, yet large-windowed, Eichler-like home. I stepped out of my truck and gazed up Pacific Coast Highway. A steady line of headlights and taillights snaked around the point at Balboa. I was feeling sentimental as I pulled my surfboards out the back of the truck. I remembered the title of a Lennon song. I made it my own and it became a sort of prayer. "Tomorrow never knows I cut my finger on the long-stemmed rose The candles go out When the winds blow And tomorrow never knows." I went to my study and called Maria. She already knew. The next day I picked her up at her place in Antelope Valley, we drove to the top of Angeles Crest and parked at the lookout point. We walked over to the guardrail and looked west, past the wind-scrubbed LA sky, out to the ocean. I sang my prayer. She tilted my chin and looked up in my eyes. The winds gusted and licked out the small flames from the small candles we were holding. And tomorrow never knows. © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen

The Four Forty Second

justiceputnam — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 09:05:24 GMT

by Justice Putnam Thomas Matsui hadn’t slept for almost 46 hours. The Italians had long stopped the fight, but the Nazis kept at it. Mortar shells exploded nearby with a frightening consistency. The rocky Italian hillside bucked and rolled with each explosion. Battle has an uncanny affect on a soldier; it becomes a kind of tedium. The first month of a soldier’s battle is the worst, it all being so new. The mortality rate is highest during that first month. After six months, with bombs exploding around the battlement, a soldier will daydream. Thomas Matsui thought of his family’s orange and avocado orchards rustling in the warm coastal breeze. He thought of the smell of his mother cooking rice in the farmhouse just above Pacific Coast Highway near Balboa. He conjured his father in the workshop, standing at the grinding wheel, sharpening the tools. These were daydreams that made the tedium of battle tolerable. But Thomas Matsui had other daydreams that were not so idyllic. He saw his parents crestfallen from the notice tacked on the farmhouse. Civilian Exclusion Order Number 33 gave only two days to sell the farm before the Military evacuated them to the camp in Montana. He remembered the offer that came from The Irvine Company later that day. Mere pennies on the dollar for what the farm was worth. He remembered the drive to the Civilian Control Station in Los Angeles, his mother crying the whole thirty miles. Twenty years growing avocados and oranges; all gone in a day. Twenty years and all the possessions acquired; gone in a day. Only allowed bedding and linens, some kitchen utensils and clothes; twenty years of Thomas Matsui’s life was spent on that farm. He was born there. It was lost in a day. The Nazis increased the frequency of the mortar attack and shook Thomas Matsui out of his reverie. He knew Marines on the other end of the hillside were getting the brunt of the bombing. The Four Forty Second though, were well hid and dug in. Soon the bombing would cease and the real battle would commence. There would be no time to daydream then. Thomas Matsui chuckled at the memory of the military recruiter who came to his camp that Thursday in June. How fresh-faced and upright he was; the perfect embodiment of American righteousness. Thomas and his family had been at the camp for a month and life was a brutal series of bad weather and racist guards. The chance to escape that prison, with the hopeful promise of making his parent’s life easier was too great to pass up. If he fought hard and patriotically, maybe the war would end sooner and his parents would no longer be incarcerated. But the farm and all they had was lost. No, not really lost; in effect stolen. But that did not matter any longer. He wanted this war to end so his parents would not suffer any more. The mortar attack suddenly stopped. Thomas Matsui shouldered his rifle and aimed down the hillside. The real battle was about to begin. © 2006 by Justice Putnam and Mechanisches-Strophe Verlagswesen