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Wise Words with Bruce Wise

 

The 2018 Nobel Prize in Medicine
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

The 2018 Nobel Prize in Medicine has gone
to Allison and Honjo for their landmark work upon
immunotherapies for cancer patients that are known
by the immune checkpoint blockade, attacking cancer’s zone.
The use of proteins for this work, like CTLA-4:
if blocked, a brake released attacks the cancer cells with force.
A second protein PD-1, likewise a system brake,
released, attacks the cancer cells with zest, for goodness sake.
Now melanomas, lung and bladder cancers, once diffused,
can be reduced, defused, by medicines that are infused.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of the medical arts. Though many excoriate Big Pharma for some of its practices, Bristol-Meyers Squibb, Merck, Roche, AstraZeneca, Pfizer, and Sanofi have all brought forth new drugs, as options for cancer patients, utilizing the work of scientists, like James Allison in the USA and Tasuku Honjo in Japan.

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No Matter
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
          “Right on, Jas!”
              —”Weird” Ace Blues

No matter when you feel like you’ve got no where else to go,
knocked down, flat in the ring, upon your back, and feeling low,
remember there are those who will appreciate you for
all of the good things you possess, pressed hard on to the floor.
Remember there are those who will still love you very much,
those who can lift you up a bit, if only but a touch,
those who will be inspired by the things that you have done,
enamoured by the parts of you, o, unlike anyone.
Take heart, when you are at the bottom of humanity,
though you may never know them, some may hold you perfectly.

Bic Uwel, “Erased,” is a poet of the common and the unknown, the uncommon and the known.

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The Punching Spar
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

I saw him training for a match; he stood inside the ring.
Upon the bright blue floor he stood, there doing his own thing.
His sparring partner entered through the taut gray, ring-side ropes,
each fighter longing to subdue the other fighter’s hopes.

They battled hard, their muscles taut, they hit, they pushed, they shoved.
This was a sport they both enjoyed. This was a sport they loved.
They fought, they wrought, they got quite hot, such anguish in each face;
but still they kept it up at one invigourating pace.

They hit the floor, but there was not a referee in sight,
and so they fought with all they had, o, every bit of might.
But at the end they paused, they stopped, they did not go too far;
they let up their brutality and stopped the punching spar.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.

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The Golden Footbridge
          by Lê Dức Bẚệ “Wires”

The visitors to Ba Na Hills in Central Vietnam
can cross the golden footbridge near Da Nang, that’s called Cau Vang.
It is 500 feet long and above 3,000 feet,
but what is most amazing are the giant conrete hands,
that hold it up, out from the rocky hills and from the trees,
like some great god within the lands of the Vietnamese.
He puts his hands forth, this stone titan, out into the air,
to hold the golden path away from off his mountain lair,
connecting cable cars with gardens from too steep declines;
the TA Landscpae Architecture group made the designs.

Lê Dức Bẚệ “Wires” is a poet of Vietnam.

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A Soldier on the War in Vietnam
          by War di Belecuse

The War in Vietnam was messy. Nothing worked
the way it was supposed to. Everything
went south that didn’t go wrong. We were jerked
around all so much it changed our breathing.
It irked the hell out of so many souls,
we didn’t know if we were coming or
going, stuck in those damn muddy fox holes,
there fighting, shooting up—that horrid horde.
It was a moral jungle filled with death.
We marched through piles of shit with no escape.
The only thing we had left was our breath.
We sighed, but all was gone—or had been raped.
And in that snafu, communists triumphed;
Yep, situation normal—all fucked up.

 

At Boot Camp
          by War di Belecuse

At boot camp it was time; he had to face the obstacles;
the wall of hanging ropes was next; it was his job to scale.
He grabbed the hanging ropes securely in each of his hands;
he only had to wait for his drill sergeant’s firm commands.
He tensed his body’s length in prepping for his high ascent,
his boots securely on the ground, his body, ready, bent.
His gruff drill sergeant yelled his orders; it was time to climb;
he leapt up to a wooden beam and sprang forth from the grime.
He scrambled up with speed, with agony upon his face,
but, o, he made it, panting, and he reached the top with grace.

War di Belecuse is a poet of all aspects of the military.

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Up Near Dilwara
          by Abu Dilwere Sec
          “Ah, to flex like Tiger Shroff”
          —Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

I saw him meditating in the stretched-out lotus pose.
His legs were folded, hips were open, up his head arose.
He tried to concentrate on tolerance, compassion too.
He tried to clear his mind of thoughts that were not pure or true.

His arms hung at his sides for balance, ballast to the call
of all that was so beautiful on this rotating ball.
He felt like he was leaning back upon a sofa’s arm,
and raised his head up to his god; he felt secure and warm.

His life was like a lovely festival of rules outdoors,
o, high up near Dilwara standing on the rocky tors.
He felt as if he did the splits; his legs flew out, like birds.
He closed his eyes; the gray drapes left; he had no room for words.

Abu Dilwere Sec is a poet of Indian depths.

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On Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
          by Basil Drew Eceu

His vigour, not his rigour, is what most impresses me,
not esoteric exigencies into poesy.
And though he was not limited to balladry and such;
it is his verse I like the most, if maybe not that much.
I also liked that he would write on topical events.
His novels and short stories filled my mind with thoughtful sense.
His jungle jingles, epigrams and hymns were stirring stuff,
stiff upper lip and all that rot, be off, be damned—enough.
It seems such bliss to have been born and lived in India,
as Joseph Rudyard Kipling did, our English Gunga Din.

Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of Romantic and Victorian outlooks.

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Besides the Maldive Shark
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
          “They dump their trash on Thilafushi.”
              —Seaweed Lubric

The lowest country in the World, just feet above the sea,
there’s much besides phlegmatic sharks, in Maldives coral reefs.
There’s myriads of fish, crustaceans, and echinoderms,
there’s snappers, puffers, lobsters, wrasses, rays and fusiliers,
there’s groupers, nudibranches, barracudas, eels, shrimp,
there’s dolphins, whales, turtles, sponges, crabs and angelfish.
And also there amidst the oceanic passing arks,
one finds the pilot fish accompanying whitetip sharks,
as Herman Melville pointed out, so many years ago,
striped black and bright blue, aye, they’ve one, with whom they’d like to go.

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the sea and gorgeous beaches. The Coralarium, an environmental sea gallery off the Maldives, was recently destroyed by police with pick axes. Jason deCaires Taylor was crushed by the destruction of his art.

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A Sleek Gazelle
          by Badrue Ecsweli

I saw a sleek gazelle leap up, a startled antelope,
small hope to flee its predator, but still prepared to cope.
I saw its curving back go past the cheetah on the grass—
lickety-split kilometers, it was amazing fast.
I saw its stretching legs go by, extended out and far,
this African savannah was its chance to arch and soar.
I saw it turn its head back just to check where was the threat;
it sped ahead maniac’lly so to escape the dread.
I saw this in some pictures; I was not there at the time;
but it impressed me with its graceful energy and might.

Badrue Ecsweli is a poet of southern Africa.

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Dmitri Prigov (1940-2007)
          by Rus Ciel Badeew

He was a literator in the Cafe of the Mad,
a cross between a Samisdat Catullus and King Cad.
He wrote one thousand poems for each view of Hokusai,
but all he had to sculpt was steely, vast, gray Russian sky.
He made his installations of conceptual bed-pans
and wrote Warholic verses on the sides of real tin cans.
In ’86 he had a run-in with the KGB
for daring to hand out to passersby his poetry.
He was sent to a psychiatric institution, till
protests by poets, such as Bella Akmadulina.
Together with philosopher Mikail Epstein, he
fought off the old absurdity with new sincerity.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of the vast Russian landscape.

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Peter Pome at the Clavier
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

He sat at the piano playing Schumann’s Opus 1,
the Abegg Variations, an eight minute loping run.
His fingers moved as quickly as some furtive animals
that ran away the moment that some hunter shot his gun.
He sat erect and played correctly at his task, his post,
producing scintillating, scattered, patterned strings of notes.
There was no pausing as he went through all Herr Schumann’s themes,
with energy, enunciating streams of loving dreams.
He paced himself, embracing, racing, where appropriate,
and then he quit, got up and left piano, piece, and pit.

 

The Man With the Red Piano
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

There were no gentle pleasantries, when he sat at the keys;
Acwiles could be very rude, when he would play a piece.
The keys bright white, piano scarlet, red seat circular;
he flexed his muscles, sat erect; he was right-angular.
He forced his way into the piece and played with slight ado;
the long legato shook the audience that was in view.
The double octaves at the start of the sonata were
tumultuous, too much to suss, in th’ air-raw stratosphere.
How could he take the music in; it was too hard to hold;
and yet he played—Magnificent! both beautiful and bold.

Ewald E. Eisbruc, known as EEE, or “Triple E”, is a poet of music.

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Jacques Salomon Hadamard (1865-1963)
          by Euclidrew Base

I never saw him in between complex analysis
and analytic number theory, golden palaces.
I never saw him in the chaos, falling matrices,
and partial differentials, in symbolic atrias.
I never saw him all wrapped up in marked off chains or primes,
about n over log n less than n, those vile times.
I never saw he had a marred life…but then who does not?
beyond the differential geometric of his thought.
I never saw his conquests of the intuition that
left ever at the edges of his life…left ever flat.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. “n over log n less than n,” that is, n/log n < n.

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On the Davenport
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

He sat back on the davenport; the news was on the screen.
The talk was on Brett Kavanaugh; it came from the machine.
He stretched his legs out far and wide, o, he was quite relaxed;
the news report was tense, the pundit outraged to the max.

Apparently there were teenage shenanigans afoot;
or were there? can one tell? and was there evidence to boot?
He tried to concentrate on tolerance, compassion too;
he longed to come up to the beautiful, the pure, and true.

Was someone lying? someone standing up for their beliefs?
Had some been drinking, tossing ice, or nurturing their griefs?
He closed his eyes and sighed. Was not one innocent until
one had been proven guilty of the living he had spilled?

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure and inactivity. He likes nothing better than lying around and doing nothing. One of his favourite characters of literature is Ivan Goncharov’s Oblomov.

 

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It’s All One Thing #189: A Spectre is Haunting America/The World

 

or Some Things Never Go Away

I come from almost 4 weeks outside the U.S.A. U.S.A. U.S.A. bubble
of corporate media spin, spin, spin and a Spectre is haunting the maze
of vinyl strips on waist high posts that makes us go back and forth
back and forth across the great room just to spread out our number
so we won’t stack up at the touch screens whose only real function
is to get us to commit again that we have no contraband food, plants
or animals and to record our pictures exhausted, sleep deprived, travel
blasted for the surveillance state and somehow already between it all
the vinyl stripping and the surveillance cameras there is a Spectre
haunting America, indeed the World right there in Logan Airport
Watergate is waiting, yes has been there all along waiting this third rate
burglary as they say a band aide on the cancer sore of the war crimes
of Vietnam, the assassination of the Diem brothers engineered by the C.I.A.
with Henry Cabot Lodge as U.S. ambassador so I remember the rhyme
                         (Boston land of beans and cod
                         Where the Lowells speak only to Cabots
                         And the Cabots speak only to God)
that is the “secret” bombing of Laos and Cambodia, agent orange chemical
warfare only you can end forests deforestation, the secret Phoenix Program
of torture and assassination, the Tiger Cage detentions, the sales of heroin
to finance militia allies, the genocidal war on “the little yellow people” and
my platoon on Okinawa actually provided the radio teletype operators for U.S.
secret operations in Laos so one day one guy just appeared on his once empty
forever bunk and the sergeants just left his sad PTSD ass alone in the morning
when the rest of us went out to formation for report and I came home knowing
Richard Millhouse Nixon’s “secret” plan to end the war would keep it going
for many more years and tens of thousands of U.S. deaths and millions more
dead little yellow people while Nixon would spy on everyone and use the war
to deploy the Internal Revenue Service and F.B.I. and C.I.A. against dissidents
who were locked up by the war on drugs and array of political dirty tricks
deployed against protesting veterans for peace and activists like Black Panther
Fred Hampton, author of the original Rainbow Coalition as he tried to ally
with Hispanic and other organizers for which they assassinated him as he slept
one night in Chicago and the U.S. Attorney there and the F.B.I. and Chicago
Police who shot Fred in his sleep all got away with it because Watergate, you
see, Watergate was just a third rate burglary (of the Democratic National Com.)
and the free fire zones and reconnaissance by fire and dropping a grenade in
the Hooch to make sure no one was left alive but the bodies never stay buried
and the blood keeps screaming deep from the Earth and Watergate won’t go
away even now as all the real crimes of Vietnam and its domestic suppression
of the anti-war movement are drone strikes in seven different countries and
Indonesian mass murderers business partners of agent (Russian?) orange head
in the White House and the Nobel Peace Prize winners’ war on whistle blowers
still ongoing and the woman who ran the torture site in Thailand is Deputy
Director of the C.I.A. and the Deputy Attorney General who presided over the
creation of the torture memos and deployment of the (un)Patriot Act is fired
as F.B.I. head for being too independent although initially they pretend it was
because he dropped the bomb on Hillary (Clinton) whose smithereens must be
there somewhere spectral adrift haunting the nether world between national
                                                                   borders.

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. Van Looy leads the Labyrinth Creative Movement Workshop, which his Labyrinth titled poems are based on. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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It’s All One Thing #128: Vietnam and Iraq: Bookends of an Adult Life

 

rice paddies jungle, delta and highlands
desert twin rivers, palm grooves and marshes
punji sticks, booby traps, roadside bombs
bouncing betty bombs, grenade launchers
claymore mines, rocket propelled grenades
tunnel complexes, suicide bombers
satchel charges, martyr belts
Long Binh Stockade, Abu Ghraib
Tiger cages, stress positions, enhanced techniques
bringing smoke, Humvees , kits
Puff the Magic Dragon, lighting up the night
agent orange, only you can end forests
we had to destroy the village to save it
clear and hold, protective hamlets
counter-insurgency, search and destroy
recon by fire, check points, 18 foot blast walls
Phoenix program, death squads, special ops
the Cong, Charlie, bad guys, Haji ragheads
national liberation civil war sectarian strife
sectarian death squad ethnic cleansing genocide
genocide, genocide, genocide, genocide ….

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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It’s All One Thing #78: May Day: The Silent Generation

 

for Richard Higham and John Margret Powers

I think of you both as Boston waits for a jury to deliver a verdict in the Marathon bombing case sentencing phase.
Of course, I think of Sacco and Vanzetti as if we might have learned something since 1927 when they were executed
in the Charles Street jail right near where Jack, a vegetarian, was forced to work in Buzzy’s Roast Beef just around
the corner from the original Stone Soup in the still extant store front which is the last stand of the old West End.

Jack was proud of that and it was Jack’s quest to open new outposts on the frontier of poetry that brought us all
together down in what became the Combat Zone and then faded back into China Town as strip bars and porn shops
clustered there in a tight seed pod that eventually burst and drifted out to new nubile fields on the outer rim.

In 1927 they electrocuted Sacco and Vanzetti but right now reminds me more of the Scottsboro Boys as mug shots
of young black men alternate with replays of their fatal confrontations with multiple police officers across the land.
You grew up in the 1930’s that saw probably the lowest crime rates of any decade in U.S. history even as a rash
of bank robberies and shootouts with police by people with names like John Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty
Boy Floyd, and Ma Barker and her Boys became infamous all over America if not all over the world.

Decades later as I worked the shelters I would still meet old hobos occasionally who had been children then
who in their old age would remember how you could walk everywhere and be safe anywhere in those years.
Even in the late 1960’s when I hitch hiked around the North East I experienced the remnants of that mutual aide
ethos not yet cut to pieces by the fear that has grown and grown with the cult of individual privatization. Click.

But like Jack and Richard, I grew up in it, and we were all marinated by that splendid spirit of cooperation.
Orphaned and abandoned as they both really were they had only hope in something larger than personal failure.
They were survivors, of course, with the survivor’s grim guilt of everything that happens by inevitability.
People do what they do and then people make the best of it. Jack would always remember coming home to find
all his family’s things out on the street. Richard would end up working on a farm where the care of chickens would
become the great solace of his young life. They were both too young for the war, but just like me they were caught
by Vietnam, Richard overseas in Saigon, Jack at home in the resistance movement. And yet they remembered WWII
and the depression that spawned it. They were only babies then. Richard was born in the depths of the post 1929
economic collapse. Jack was born with the Spanish Civil War still ongoing. For both of them WWII would have
been the backdrop of their school years. Richard was starting first grade as Hitler invaded Poland. Jack was still
in middle school when the A-bombs went off in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. My whole world was still vibrating from
events that formed their youth. And somehow our lives all crossed as Jack tried to plant a poetry seed in the former
Combat Zone at a restaurant attempting to front run a city development plan to re-invigorate the mid-town Theater
District that was left legless as it was side swiped by the Reagan-Bush recession of early 1991. Instead Jack
ended up doing a poetry workshop at St. Francis House day program just down the street from the Mason Bld.
I took over the workshop from Jack when I came up from Delaware after having gotten married there in 1989. I
became the poetry guy there and then at Pine Street where I worked. Every week I would see Jack at Stone Soup
at T.T. the Bears where I would usually be the closer. Every week I would meet Richard at the Thai restaurant
after facilitating the St. Francis House poetry group so we could relax and talk while I read his poems to make sure
I could get all the words and punctuation right when I typed them. I still have his handwritten versions and what
I typed back then sitting on my mother’s little coffee table some of Jack Powers poetry seeds still living now as if
Johnny Appleseed Stone Soup Jack had left them for me to re-member May Day. Richard’s May Day of flowering
red flags. And Jack’s May Day of Haymarket martyrs for the 40 hour week and overtime and the real Labor Day.
                                             And both May Days for the mother of months.

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.

 

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It’s All One Thing #67: The Only Time

 

The only time I was actually in country someone says, “Hey this is Vietnam,”
visions of black and orange getting blown up on the run way but then when we got out
it was just this piece of an airfield socked under a thin grey mist, grey over grey, concrete
and the corrugated front of a hanger in steel mist of dazzling runway moist and silver all around
a womb of space on the ground until a jeep emerges w/o a driver in memory just, just
a machine gun with the belt hanging and a M.P.’s corporal stripe arm gripping a M-16 and clip
right there on his hip distant artillery sound and turning around the hanger drools forth this dude
(always watch out for that 1st character who come up to talk we always said “he’ll break your heart”)
and this one dangling his hand over his nose sez “oh, that ain’t nothin’ nothing happens on the perimeter
here, but it’s something man when the rockets come in wow! it’s wild, man, it’s wild” twitch, twitch, twitch
we took off in a huddle destined again a heap asleep amid our equipment I looked out the porthole in back
the transport as we banked to reveal a few flashes around Da Nang through the clouds of humidity on the
way to Thailand to play a game of nuclear war in S.E. Asia on walls of maps for the stars of generals but
returning home it was then to Okinawa we flew non-stop first class separate from our bag and baggage,
and our communication equipment, when the clouds opened up a vision valley appeared trapped by the
too green hills slashed with purple, a muddy brown river flowing squares of rice paddy delta, a blue mouth
to the sea, a living stage for nine pillars of smoke some more black than white, others more yellow than
brown, nobody said anything I counted 9, 9 columns in the sky in a cloud, did some on say it
or did we all just think it ‘what the fuck was going on down there?’

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. Today marks his one year anniversary as a poet columnist for Oddball Magazine.

 

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It’s All One Thing #50: The Gout and the Great Grandee Global Gout

 

I discovered the chronic persistence of gout just as I came across the description in the booklet biography of my great, great grand father’s great, great grandfather, Robert “king” Carter Builder of Christ Church” and read about his gout under the heading of “Carter’s Ills and Remedies”. At the age of 37 he wrote a letter “protesting his worthiness to become a member of King’s Council in 1700, “pleading the great distance from his home at Corotoman to Williamsburg, along with the fact that he was already Speaker of the House” (of Burgesses). The cliché of royal victim of gout recently found its contemporary verification in an archeological dig that claimed to have unearthed Richard the III, the scoliosis legend of hump-backed king who assumed the throne in Shakespeare’s play by drowning his two bonny young nephews in barrels of mead, that fermented honey concoction so dear to the Angles, Saxons and Jutes. (Probably more of my relatives from the North Nether lands.) & They all had problems with the gout and inflamed veins filled with uric crystals, the end product of the metabolism of protein, the building block of muscle, the strength of the body which the scientists now maintain was normal in Richard the Third’s body until in his mid-30’s he became King and ate a royal diet that gave him the gout he had when a blow to the head ended his reign. The change in his diet was documented in his bones even in his skull with holes in it. My great-great grandfather died at 39 charging across the flank of Ft. MacGruder in front of Williamsburg in 1862 in defense of his “rights” (which included his property rights the 10-12 slaves he owned). Corotoman, Robert “King” Carter’s home plantation, the center of network of plantations, was worked by over 200 hundred slaves over 200 years on that one “quarter”.

Gout is a disease of waste removal gone wrong. The Nitrate crystals with oxygen radicals collect in the connective tissues of joints first especially in the toes and feet because gravity helps the accumulation that then inflame the joints that hold the body politic together. The Great Global Gout is, of course, All One Thing. The gout of the cover up in plain sight that wrote the memos to make torture legal, that allowed the creation of the total surveillance state and the Terror Tuesday killer drone assassinations of citizens is All One Thing with the new Vice President of Afghanistan who in the earliest days of that poor lands U.S. invasion 2001-02 had his warlord troops load hundreds of captives in cargo containers on the backs of trucks and seal them so tightly that when they begged for air orders were given to shoot bullet holes to allow breath to those not killed by the bullets before the survivors were driven up into the mountains to be shot into mass graves. The U.S. special operators working with these allies did nothing to stop the mass murder and first the Bush administration and then Obama-ites covered it up (in plain sight) since there was a full length movie where the mass murder was well documented (never seen in the U.S. but shown around the rest of the world). Similarly, in Iraq, where the U.S. (just as in Afghanistan) had to broker the creation of new government after another constitutional crisis necessitating political maneuvering following the formulation of a new regime after a series of elections with contested results and allegations of election fraud, well lo and behold a powerful and continued member of the new order which is supposed to take back the Sunni province of Iraq called Anbar is the head of the Shiite militia linked to sectarian torture centers and death squads originally set up by a former U.S. colonel now private contractor veteran of Vietnam and El Salvador death squads and torture platforms reporting directly to Donald Rumsfeld Sec. of Defense 2001-06. These militia are the only troops that have had any success against the “New Enemy”(actual sign behind newscaster Brian Williams as he announces Obama’s war on the Islamic State in their New Caliphate) which the U.S. has been bombing for weeks now. Wherever they take back new ground the Sunni’s who live there can choose between the tender mercies of the Shiite militia death squads and the “Sharia” law of our “New Enemy”. Lawlessness at home and lawlessness in the government the U.S. formed abroad. Torture memos at home torture in occupations abroad. All One Thing. All One Thing.

Tar sands oil extraction, the XL pipeline and petro chemicals in the bones and blood stream of downstream Canadian indigenes.The forty year drug war, the NAFTA-CAFTA free trade boondoggles and at least a century of U.S supported coups and juntas and overthrow of the few miraculously elected governments in Cent4al America and all those tens of thousands of young children riding the “Beast” hundreds of miles north trying to escape kidnappers, rapists, and drug gang torture and murder that now runs their once remote and isolated home lands. All One Thing. All one Thing. The drug money and the shadow bank that launders it. The All One Thing that bleeds from the toxic waste pools and that can be found in all our blood and sweat. All One Thing I.M.F. and World Bank and the Public Health System of Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea that could stop an Ebola epidemic from going endemic. All One Thing the 40 year one way ratchet of economic neo-liberalism and fossil fueled fundamentalism that is spreading chaos and permanent and perpetual war run by corporate caesars whose governance can never govern as it sets all against all to protect an ever narrower base supporting more wealth piled into fewer hands. This is the global gout releasing its toxic crystals, blood diamonds, petro cocktails, poisoned drinks, deadly breaths, inflamed social joints, toxic thoughts grown into ideological concrete nihilism, a global system of ecological suicide. All One Thing. All One thing. All One Thing.

Richard the III and “King” Carter could eat the diet of royalty and wealth. They had a right to whatever they wanted and they had the ability to fulfill their desires how and when they wanted. They got the gout with their imperial diets. As a poor working class artist who almost never got paid a penny for my best work I could never have afforded the “red claret” that my great, great, great, great, great, great, great grand tried to give up to mitigate his swollen toes and feet that left him unable to walk to the church his father built. Now almost at the age he was when he died I am able to hold my gout in abeyance by abstaining from meat and dairy and for me it’s easy because I’ve spent a life time living on a poor man’s tight budget buying the cheap alternative and putting off the too costly. As I go into elder years still on no medication the world around me throbs with ever greater inflammations , toxic material effusions of an ever growing list of petro-based chemicals which are just the physical manifestations of the poisoned power relations which are All One Thing, All One Thing. “King” Carter’s Global Slave Trade and Free market Fundamentalism, My Great, Great Grandfather’s Civil War and the Current Age War of Terror All One Thing, All One Thing. The Great Grandee Global Gout. Slavery and Capitalism. Neo-Liberalism and Ecocide. Radical Change and the Continued Survival of Civilization. All One Thing. All One Thing. The Great Global Grandee Gout. The eruption from so far underneath, the global flare-ups at the neo-liberal rubs, the insurgencies, civil wars, invasions and occupations, the militarized police and the prison industrial complexes, all the corporate monopolies where rises up, in response, the resistance, the movements, which is the movement, the aroused people, the affected people, black, immigrant, gay, feminist, other minded, transgender and lesbian, anti-fracking, anti-pipeline, anti-bankster, love, peace, justice, mercy first, understanding always, all for life, life, life people and All one Thing, All One Thing, All One Global

Thing.

 

James Van Looy has been a fixture in Boston’s poetry venues since the 1970s. He is a member of Cosmic Spelunker Theater and has run poetry workshops for Boston area homeless people at Pine Street Inn and St. Francis House since 1992. His work appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.