Become a Militant Pacifist . . Charred by Nagasaki

Become a Militant Pacifist .. Charred by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Nagasaki

I remember going to the Army Medical Museum adjunct of the Smithsonian in Washington DC as a child long long ago. Trust me, I happened upon this ghoulish place by Total Mistake. I'm sure it's most useful to the medical student, but to the 10-year-old seeing 30-gallon, two-foot-in-diameter glass test tubes with, say, an enormous elephantiasised leg from the knee down frayedly floating in formaldehyde was skincrawling. Row upon row of huge glass-tubed Everything in the place was diseased.

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But the scorching, the charred memory was all the black & white pictures of Hiroshima and Nagasaki victims. Maybe, though I never thought about it til this exact instant — those pictures were the boschian journey through the darkside of the human blackheart for why I grew up to be a militant pacifist?


I have never seen anything else like those pictures since. They were probably so clinical and blunt and close-up because it was the Army Medical Museum and not thought of as for the general public. And presumably they had Army access to photos that reporters wouldn't.


The wreckage and the radiation effects and the so-far past Hell monstrous hurt to children and to men and to women and to old people and the visible burned burned pain. It ripped open my young soul to what violence actually is in the violently tortured poor flesh. Having seen it, you could not cause it.


Maybe you could bear and repress three such pictures in a magazine or some in a book, but this was walls of them in ruthless medical close-up absent any remnant of artistic composition or recoil. Just 'Let's look at the boiled eye pulped socket and the radiation boiled flesh.'


There is something about radiation burns entirely different from fire-burns. It is unnatural in a way I only remember from all that life ago. Fire happens from the outside in as if there were some layer, some human refuge left however tormented. But radiation burn is from the marrow out all at once a fury of the insanely enraged and offended flesh as if it were microwrithingly boiling the flesh right in front of your screaming eyes. 


Walls of these pictures and your pity and horror rose until the idea of causing harm or closing your eyes to harm changed your very dna — never. Never will I be party to, excuse, stop speaking, I owe it to these silent ruined people who could have been as shiny and delighted and sunstruck somersaulting as I was.


So here I am. Militant pacifist. Never speak to me of collateral damage. Put yourself in the dark fire first. Dare not do this harm to another whose hand you do not hold in the very incineration moment. Dare not stand apart.  




ps. It was that day in Washington DC that I stepped upon another species path. I did not care if I was the only one. I claim nor exalt kin nor kindness with a species that would do that deliberately charred mutilation to its own kind whose photographs I saw upon the walls. Better alone in the universe with no friend nor God than to be one of the glorified, sung and storied DeathDealers or one of their apologists.


Militant pacifism. It was and is a reviled view. I cannot recommend this deep a loneliness to you, friend, but if you cannot bear the lies and the slither of rationalization, your own heart will feel light to you and you will have earned the wholehearted right to hear the dawn songs of birds without the static of the screams of the dead that the Killers hear in their own forsaken child’s heart. There was a time before they joined the Legions of DeathDealers, before they chose to walk across the line of blood and justifiy the sword; the machete; the M16UziAK47; the jellied gasoline. Before they surrendered their will to the command of a Dark Purpose which feeds on the blood of the innocent under the guise of glory.


There must have been a day when an X became sufficiently distinct from an Y to become a different species. Whatever is in the blood or in the minutely coiled memory of my parents, I too wave farewell across a divide over which I will never return. The death you deal is evil. There is no camouflage for that. I am not one of you.


I looked at eternity and I accepted that utter a loneliness rather than drink radioactive human blood again – or have my military priests share that evil sacrament on my behalf. In my chalice is water.


My anti-war views have evolved this far now. I would not have described myself with the phrase militant pacifist at once.


I remember when I stood in some shocking lightning illuminated moment in the Nixon era and saw that war wasn’t just sad and too bad –ah, the necessary evil – but was insane. That if you put a man on the couch and had him explain his actions with armies and air forces and what he was commanding to be done, you’d call for the strait jacket and ready the RubberRoom. Unless he was your President. It’s clearly clinically mad and just because  so many people believe it doesn’t make it right or so. The earth was never flat no matter through how many generations or with how much God-granted authority it was proclaimed.


I recommend you stay with your fellows unless you have the stomach and sinew for a deep and silent dark which none could warn you of how far from human habitation it is, without the reassuring rustle and murmurs of your own kind. A very few will still speak to you and leave a bowl of soup for you to find. But none will hold your hand.


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Cogism .. .. Capitalism become Psychotic

Cogism .. Capitalism become Psychotic


ToadSpawn, Be Gone! The Exorcizm of George Bush from America's Soul Chapter 8


     I've been trying to grok the horror of these Present Menaces' creed of giga-greed. One always needs the fortune-cookie phrase or word. I got it: cogism. A ‘cog’ is one of a series of identical interchangeable teeth, as on the rim of a wheel or gear.
    Some more quick vocabulary is in order. These words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. What's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean? Fascism is an unholy (tho usually holier than thou) alliance among business, military, and government. A theocracy is a government ruled by or subject to religious authority – not unlike our present mob who are swept by the winds of piety. Oligarchy — the rule of a few. Plutocracy — government of the wealthy. Yes, these words have been floating around in the political lexicon but they don't quite grasp the present extreme American situation. So what's wrong? Why is it so horrible and mean?
    I was gonna call the Present Phenomenon FatHogism and remark sardonically that They don't need to get fatter, They got plenty of bacon already, the FatHoggers. Ha ha. 
    My model of, like, a Buenopia, a society that works pretty well is Europe where they invented al fresco dining and even the bus drivers and janitors get four weeks of paid vacation a year to allow for life other than as a minion or a cog. Another basic self-evident truth ought to be that each person's life is as valuable to them as any other person's is to them. This seems even tautological, but our society does not act in that sweet and evident light.
    What's happened in a peapod is that to the giga-greed corporations, those grim reapers of the harvest of our labor, to Them, we are cogs. They screw us under the fog of socially-correct, slippery platitudes; tranquilize us with cars; sports; war; malls. But we are really interchangeable; we are cogs in the profit machine. They pretend that we matter, like the Leaders pretend that the soldiers they send to slaughter matter.
   They think nothing of buying up a company, putting its assets into new company-A & its liabilities into company-B which they then put into bankruptcy. Only to find out in the small print that bankrupted Company B is the company that now has all the disappeared pensions of the retired people and the promised long-term health plans of the workers, 2/3 of whom are laid off and replaced by temp workers who are offered no benefits whatever and eat it because they're desperate for a job of any kind — or unkind. In our Cogacracy, the platinum parachutists gobble up the assets and spit out the bones of the workers.
   The profit motive has taken such an aggressive and gruesome and all but medieval turn that it chills the blood. Even in medieval times the hoggishly rich were wrung out of a few pence by Fear of Damnation — tithing was considered de rigueur if you wanted to squeeze through ye olde eye of the needle instead of through ye latest tax loophole.
   At what point does profit go past a reasonable profit so you can live comfortably and become an filthy obscene profit? At what point does an filthy obscene profit become the moral equivalent of usury? This Midas/Miser Syndrome, this horrible acquisitiveness, CEOs gorging soullessly on their gold, has become, heaven does forbid, admired widely in
<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America. Dear President Clinton said “Nowhere in the Bible does it allow us to exalt the rich over the poor.” Clearly not. Well, I prefer to also go to the undeniable bible (‘bible’ with a small ‘b’), the undeniable bible of the sky and the trees and the birds and the beasts. Naked we all stand in that holy light, without facades. The ditchdigger has no less strength and glory under the just stars than does a titan of industry. The titan of industry has hogged up on the backbreaking work of the ditchdigger. Dig your own damn ditches and see how you would wish to be treated, Cogist.
   I don’t mind grotesque differences in gross accumulation of cold midas gold. It just seems just that if you’re really so damn smart Mr. FatHog, you could figure out as an obvious ethical fiat how to provide healthcare for your workers and a wage that could lead to a 10th of your comfort.
   Every single elected official should be required to spend one seven-day week of each month while they are privileged to serve actually living on the minimum wage. And that same week be required to take public transportation exclusively. And no hoarding of tasty snacks to ease the week on minimum wage. No secret stash of expensive well-brewed beer. Chivas Regal would blow the budget. Compliance would be monitored in Minimum Wage Week. My friends, my dear perceptive luminous friends, how FAST – HOW FAST do you think the minimum wage would rise if the FatHogs had to live on it? How soon a gracious rise in the frequency of buses?
   We need to lash our hearts to every policy decision. We may not cogize people. (As E.B. White once said, “I’d as soon simonize my grandmother.”) We may not cogize people. The quality of mercy cannot be abridged.
   People are as afraid to speak out against obscene FatHog amounts of money in this country as they are to speak out against war. Well, I dare & you must dare too. Will you be able to face the lidless eyes of God who judges only that you were kind or unkind? God cannot blink and sees if you dwell in greed or in generosity. Cogism is not kind. It does not seek to uplift thy brother. That bum on the street corner? That is Jesus asking for a dime. It is always a test. It is Jesus to whom you are denying healthcare. It is Jesus to whom you are paying a meager minimum wage. It is Jesus to whom you are paying minimum wage so some FatHogger can have eight Hummers. Is there no place on the Richter Scale of outrage where the terror of the shaking wakes you up? Does it make you more secure to have more than 10 years worth of my annual wage in your bank accruing what? Interest? Spiritual mold?
   My capitalist friend Bill from
Canada is a super-entrepreneur up there, but he pulled his business-card-sized National Health Card out of his wallet and said, “If I am sick anywhere in Canada, I can get help. You people are crazy in America. Single payer is so obvious.” It isn’t the people who are crazy in America, it is the FatHogging Cogists. It is the Cogists who imagine that there is anything right about making obscene profits on other people’s pain. There is a difference between profit and profit at any cost.
   It is not right to cut all the art and music out of schools so the mongers of fear and the mongers of giga-greed can buy more and more and more war machines. Our souls – your soul and mine – are stained by complicity in these giga-greed creeds. Our silence stains us.
   Let them roll in cake, our FatHog Cogist masters, let them stuff cake down their own throats like the foie-gras geese until their livers become swollen and fat and greasy. Let them roll in cake. But should we stuff their coffins with cake? As they, a new phantom, stand beside  their cake-stuffed coffin and look starkly back over their life, will they be glad for the bomb they bought to blow up a kid in
Iraq? Will they hold content and deep in their heart the lives their free enterprise impoverished so their coffin could be stuffed with cake? There is no free enterprise. There is no free love. You must pay the peace of your heart if you do not do these things as right as you can. Be as harmless as  you can.
   It is Gandhi whose pension you stole, Mr. Free Market. The free market is costly. The free market is costly in human peace of mind. It is Martin Luther King to whom you denied healthcare, Mr. FatHog Cogist. Your giga-greed has consequences. It is not ethically neutral. God has lidless eyes. God does not blink. God does not look aside.
   There are too many Scrooges in
America now. Too many accumulating and accumulating Scrooges. And too few Tiny Tims finally noticed.
   The thunder will astonish you. You will wake and your heart will break, your heart will break. You might have done right and you did not. If by your business or by your investments, you find yourself forgetting the faces and the tears of the people whose lives and whose labor are providing you your semi-annual dividends, you are become a Cogist. And if I were you, I would tremble at the judgment, at how long in hell it takes to pay off the debt you accrued in unkindness. A terrible toll will be exacted. The 10th circle of hell is not hot; it is relentless ice. To remind you. To remind you dreadfully of your cold cold cogist heart.



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The fugu of the Humor Transplant ..Toad Spawn Chapter 5


[To READ ALL of Toad Spawn Be Gone! Click on Toad Spawn Complete under Topics on Main Page.]


ToadSpawn Be Gone! the Exorcizm of GeorgeBush from <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America’s Soul

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Chapter 5 .. the fugu of the Humor Transplant


     Myrth said, “In ClownSchool InterD, we don’t just get to indulge in fugu. There is fugu discipline. Fugu is the expert filleting of the exceedingly poisonous Hypocrisy fish, especially those found in the Religious and Political Oceans of Hubris. Gods alone know that our keen tools and our only wyrd and terrible weapons – Be ye terrified ye 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings – our wyrd and terrible weapons are words. It’s necessary and fun to kebab the 12ftTall Lizards. I love weapon-words third only to the silver cat and the feloniously handsome Fuller. But we need to turn sword-words into plowshare words after we’ve welcomed the unfanged and unblinded, reasonably cheerful and modest 12ftTall Lizards back into the gallivanting human family. We need to explore with you students of comedy how people live in the aprèsWar world.

     “First let’s remind ourselves of the three great Greek philosophic constellations of inquiry: metaphysics; epistemology; ethics. Metaphysics deals with what is real. Epistemology with how we know. And ethics with what is good. The epistemology, the how of thinking, being, seeing is a lot of what ClownSchool InterD is about.

    “What do you do when you’re not gnashing your teeth; not wasting obscene sums of money on megalomaniacal weapons systems like missile defense; and not lashing out at people who snog a Different Deity than you do?    

    “Sursurprisingly, there is a way to live fruitfully and passionately and cheerfully without waking up in the morning rarin’ to perfect more Schemes to mutilate children.

    “But first, the ClownSchool InterD psybio team works holoday round perfecting the Humor Transplant operation that deflates the crazy hubris of the 12ftTall Lizards to bring them back into genuinely empathetic human scale. The radical and aggressive treatment probably necessary for cheney viperiens extremos is emergency splenectomy. The metastasized spleen just has to be hacked out on the spot—at the bus stop (As if any of them would ever ride a bus!) or at the dinner party with the butter knife or at the humvee sales lot.

   “Hustle ‘em off to the ClownSchool ER and stick an Irony transfusion IV into the soft skin inside the crook of their left elbow (the one nearest their vestigial heart) and play Mozart, Yo Yo Ma, Bella Fleck, and Hui Ohana til you see them giddy with grin. For a Cheney or Rove equivalent, this treatment could take years.

     “For people in less acute stages of satanically septic Reptilianosis, a course of ironyotherapy treatments are critical to recovery. Severe religiopatriosis is, like stroke, an attack whose redemptive recovery is long term – you’re never cured, you’re always a religiopatrioholic in recovery. The high the 12ftTall Lizards get is so fauxEupho that you have to kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least to protect yourself from the toxic effects of the effluvius and supperating corruption.

   “ ‘What!?’” you 12ft Lizards cry in unbridled disbelief. ‘What?! kiss your left little finger 8x a day at the very least?’

    “ ‘What!?’ the clowns cry, ‘You’re sharing our supersecret occult ritual with the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings? Not. You can’t. It’s our, well, our thing, our secret handshake.’

   “Shhh. It’s ok. They won’t be 12fttall Lizards any more. Their swollen spleens will be removed or de-inflamed. The kissing the left little finger 8x will help them keep on the yellow brick path to recovery.”

   “Well,” Salma Nella groused, “ok, I guess. I liked having one exclusive thing. They had the Jesus blood-drinking, fleshing-eating thing; cathedrals; heavy bishops’ rings that clunk on your head at your first communion; psalm books; hymn books; stained glass windows. I wanted some gear, some paraphernalia, a hash pipe equivalent or two. But at least our Kiss8 secret. Dammit all, Myrth.” Salma glared. “Oh, ok, go ahead and spill the bloody beans.” 

   “Here goes, ClownSchool InterD clownfants. Kiss8.”



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