He’s better than the lesser of two evils.

HOW DO YOU ASK A MAN TO BE

THE LAST MAN TO DIE FOR A MISTAKE

From John Kerry’s statement before the Senate Foreign

          Relations Committee, April 22, 1971.

I would like to say for the record, and for the men behind me

who are also wearing the uniform and their medals, that my

being here is really symbolic. I am not here as John Kerry, but

as one member of a group of one thousand, which in turn is a

small representation of a very much larger group of veterans

in this country. Were it possible for all of them to sit at

this table they would be here and present the same kind of

testimony.

I would like to talk about the feelings these men carry with

them after coming back from Vietnam. The country doesn’t

realize it yet but it has created a monster in the form of

thousands of men who have been taught to deal and trade in

violence and who are given the chance to die for the biggest

nothing in history — men who have returned with a sense of

anger and betrayal that no one so far has been able to grasp.

We are angry because we feel we have been used in the worst

fashion by the administration of this country.

In 1970 at West Point Vice President Agnew said “some

glamorize the criminal misfits of society while our best men

die in Asian rice paddies to preserve the freedom which most

of those misfits abuse,” and this was used as a rallying

point for our effort in Vietnam. But for us, as boys in Asia

whom the country was supposed to support, his statement is a

terrible distortion from which we can only draw a very deep

sense of revulsion, and hence the anger of some of the men

who are here in Washington today. It is a distortion because

we in no way consider ourselves the best men of this country;

because those he calls misfits were standing up for us in a

way that nobody else in this country dared to; because so

many who have died would have returned to this country to

join the misfits in their efforts to ask for an immediate

withdrawal from South Vietnam; because so many of those best

men have returned as quadriplegics and amputees — and they

lie forgotten in Veterans Administration hospitals in this

country which fly the flag which so many have chosen as their

own personal symbol — and we cannot consider ourselves

America’s best men when we are ashamed of and hated for

what we were called on to do in Southeast Asia.

In our opinion and from our experience, there is nothing in

South Vietnam which could happen that realistically threatens

the United States of America. And to attempt to justify the

loss of one American life in Vietnam, Cambodia or Laos by

linking such loss to the preservation of freedom, which those

misfits supposedly abuse, is to us the height of criminal

hypocrisy.

We are probably angriest about all that we were told about

Vietnam and about the mystical war against communism. We

found that not only was it a civil war, an effort by people who

had for years been seeking their liberation from any colonial

influence whatsoever, but also we found that the Vietnamese

whom we had enthusiastically molded after our own image were

hard put to take up the fight against the threat we were sup-

posedly saving them from. We found most people didn’t even

know the difference between communism and democracy.

They only wanted to work in rice paddies without helicopters

strafing them and bombs with napalm burning their villages

and tearing their country apart. . They practiced the art of

survival by siding with whichever military force was present

at a particular time, be it Viet Cong, North Vietnamese, or

American.

We found that all too often American men were dying in

those rice paddies for want of support from their allies. We

saw firsthand how monies from American taxes were used for

a corrupt dictatorial regime. We saw that many people in this

country had a one-sided idea of who was kept free by our flag,

and blacks provided the highest percentage of casualties. We

saw Vietnam ravaged equally by American bombs and search-

and-destroy missions, as well as by Viet Cong terrorism, and

yet we listened while this country tried to blame all of the

havoc on the Viet Cong. We rationalized destroying villages

in order to save them. We saw America lose her sense of

morality as she accepted very coolly a My Lai and refused to

give up the image of American soldiers who hand out chocolate

bars and chewing gum. We learned the meaning of free-fire

zones. shooting anything that moves, and we watched while

America placed a cheapness on the lives of Orientals.

We watched the United States’ falsification of body counts,

in fact the glorification of body counts. We listened while

month after month we were told the back of the enemy is about

to break. We fought [with] weapons against those people which

I do not believe this country would dream of using were we

fighting in the European theatre. We watched while men charged

up hills because a general said that hill has to be taken, and

after losing one platoon or two platoons, they marched away to

leave the hill for reoccupation by the North Vietnamese. We

watched pride allow the most unimportant battles to be blown

into extravaganzas, because we couldn’t lose, and we couldn’t

retreat, and because it didn’t matter how many American bodies

were lost to prove that point, and so there were Hamburger

Hills and Khesahns and Hill 81s and Fire Base 6s, and so many

others.

And now we are told that the men who fought there must watch

quietly while American lives are lost so that we can exercise

the incredible arrogance of Vietnamizing the Vietnamese. Each

day to facilitate the process by which the United States washes

her hands of Vietnam someone has to give up his life so that

the United States doesn’t have to admit something that the

entire world already knows, so that we can’t say that we have

made a mistake. Someone has to die so that President Nixon

won’t be, and these are his words, “the first President to lose

a war.”

We are asking Americans to think about that because how do

you ask a man to be the last man to die in Vietnam? How do you

ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake? But we are

trying to do that, and we are doing it with thousands of ration-

alizations, and if you read carefully the President’s last speech

to the people of this country, you can see that he says, and says

clearly, “but the issue, gentlemen, the issue is communism, and

the question is whether or not we will leave that country to the

Communists or whether or not we will try to give it hope to be a

free people.” But the point is that they are not a free people

now, and we cannot fight communism all over the world. I think

we should have learned that lesson by now.

Suddenly we are faced with a very sickening situation in

this country, because there is no moral indignation and, if

there is, it comes from people who are almost exhausted by

their past indignations. . . The country seems to have lain

down and shrugged off something as serious as Laos, just as

we calmly shrugged off the loss of 700,000 lives in Pakistan,

the so-called greatest disaster of all times. But we are here

as veterans to say we think we are in the midst of the

greatest disaster of all times now, because they are still

dying over there — not just Americans but Vietnamese —

and we are rationalizing leaving that country so that those

people can go on killing each other for years to come.

Americans seem to have accepted the idea that the war is

winding down, at least for Americans, and they have also

allowed the bodies which were once used by a President for

statistics to prove that we were winning the war, to be used

as evidence against a man who followed orders and who inter-

preted those order no differently than hundreds of other men

in Vietnam.

We veterans can only look with amazement on the fact that

this country has been unable to see there is absolutely no

difference between ground troops and a helicopter crew, and

yet people have accepted a differentiation fed them by the

administration. No ground troops are in Laos, so it is all

right to kill Laotians by remote control. But believe me the

helicopter crews fill the same body bags and they wreak the

same kind of damage on the Vietnamese and Laotian country-

side as anybody else, and the President is talking about

allowing that to go on for many years to come. One can only

ask if we will really be satisfied only when the troops march

into Hanoi.

We are asking here in Washington for some action, action

from the Congress of the United States of America, which has

the power to raise and maintain armies, and which by the

Constitution also has the power to declare war. We have come

here, not to the President, because we believe that this body

can be responsive to the will of the people, and we believe

that the will of the people says that we should be out of

Vietnam now.

We are here in Washington also to say that the problem of

this war is not just a question of war and diplomacy. It is

part and parcel of everything that we are trying as human

beings to communicate to people in this country — the

question of racism, which is rampant in the military, and

so many other questions such as the use of weapons; the

hypocrisy in our taking umbrage in the Geneva Conventions

and using that as justification for a continuation of this

war when we are more guilty than any other body of violations

of those Geneva Conventions; in the use of free-fire

zones, harassment interdiction fire, search-and-destroy

missions, the bombings, the torture of prisoners, the

killing of prisoners, all accepted policy by many units in

South Vietnam. That is what we are trying to say. We are

also here to ask, and we are here to ask vehemently, where

are the leaders of our country? Where is the leadership?

We are here to ask where are McNamara, Rostow, Bundy,

Johnson, and so man others? Where are they now that we,

the men whom they sent off to war, have returned? These

are commanders who have deserted their troops, and there

is no more serious crime in the law of war. The Army says

they never leave their wounded. The Marines say they

never leave even their dead. These men have left all the

casualties and retreated behind a pious shield of public

rectitude. They have left the real stuff of their reputa-

tions bleaching behind them in the sun.

Finally, this administration has done us the ultimate

dishonor. They have attempted to disown us and the sacri-

fices we made for this country. In their blindness and their

fear they have tried to deny that we are veterans or that we

served in Nam. We do not need their testimony. Our own

scars and stumps of limbs are witness enough for others

and for ourselves.

We wish that a merciful God could wipe away our own

memories of that service as easily as this administration

has wiped away their memories of us. But all that they

have done and all that they can do by this denial is to

make more clear than ever our own determination to

undertake one last mission – to search out and destroy

the last vestige of this barbaric war, to pacify our own

hearts, to conquer the hate and fear that have driven

this country these last ten years and mores, so when

thirty years from now our brothers go down the street

without a leg, without an arm, or a face, and small boys

ask why, we will be able to say “Vietnam” and not mean a

desert, not a filthy obscene memory, but mean instead the

place where America finally turned and where soldiers like

us helped it in the turning.

******************************************************

From “The New Soldier” by John Kerry and Vietnam Veterans

Against the War, Collier Books, New York, New York, 1971,

pages: 12, 14, 16, 18, 20, 22, 24

spam o’ the day

taken biddyextreme hysteric neckstutter puncture prokaryoteparalinguistic ornament campanilemeetinghouse faceplate quetzalwolf dada lacklusterpegging eyebrow despitedivestiture edition preservationpuppy chromatograph stoogegalbreath

I’m sorry I can’t blog lately. All I can think about is serotonin.

Mine’s low: 80.7 (the normal range is 175 – 225).

Not eveyone with low serotonin levels is depressed, but it makes sense to me that I might be. There’s a correlation, for one thing, between low serotonin levels and chronic pain. Also, unfortunately, with anxiety, aggressive behavior, obsessive thinking, fatigue, (all of which I battle in myself every day) etc… and even scarier, with suicide, of which I hasten to assure you, dear readers, I have no ideation WHATSOEVER.

I’m taking 5HTP and other good supplements, and upping my thyroid at my doctor’s recommendation. I hope to see good results soon.

In the meantime, I’m just sorta struggling.

Low serotonin is not the cause of depression, but it’s a symptom of it. I thought this was interesting:


People born since 1945 are 10 times more likely to suffer from depression than those born before.

That is an astounding figure, and it cannot be explained away by people going to their doctor more, or depression being diagnosed more easily, as these were taken into account in the study.

Human biology doesn’t change that quickly.

What it does show clearly is that most depression is non-biological. Depression has biological

effects, but studies now show that less than 10% of depression is biologically caused.

The most widely accepted explanation for this sort of phenomenon is that society has changed. Over the past 5 decades, there has been:

* a breakdown in the extended family

* a dispersal of communities

* an increased focus on material wealth

* an overwhelming prevalence of news media

* and an increase in focus on ‘the self’.

All of which, and more besides, add up to a potent recipe for depression.

I think I’ll ease off blogging for a while (tho I’ll post my Segue intros) (and maybe a leetle note here and there) — as I have been lately anyway — to spare myself and everyone from potential damage as a result of any anxious impulsiveness or undue aggression I may display!

sigh…

(special thanks to Toni Simon for her active concern)

I am biased toward all of the poets I introduce, but in Lori Lubeski’s case I am especially so. She’s been my friend for more than two decades. In many a college classroom, we passed notes to each other and wrote notebook collaborations, and I used to ride on the back of her motorbike up and down the hills of San Francisco. In addition to these notable distinctions, Lori is the author of Trickle, Sweet Land, Attractions cf. Distractions, and Dissuasion Crowds the Slow Worker. Her poetry is among the most heartfelt and sometimes heartbreaking I have ever heard.

When I think of her poems, I am reminded of my favorite Hans Christian Andersen story, “The Garden of Paradise.” It is about a learned young prince who is permitted, courtesy of the East Wind, to visit that garden, where he meets the radiant and lovely Fairy of Paradise. He is so enchanted with her and her beautiful palace that he asks if he might stay there forever. She says that he may, with one strict condition:



Every evening, when I leave you, I shall be obliged to say, ‘Come with me,’ and to beckon to you with my hand. But you must not listen, nor move from your place to follow me; for with every step you will find your power to resist weaker. If once you attempted to follow me, you would soon find yourself in the hall, where grows the tree of knowledge, for I sleep beneath its perfumed branches. If you stooped over me, I should be forced to smile. If you then kissed my lips, the garden of paradise would sink into the earth, and to you it would be lost.



Of course, on the very first night that she beckons him, he follows her, “the blood rushing “wildly in his veins,” into the tree of knowledge, where…



The fairy threw off her dazzling attire, bent back the boughs, and in another moment was hidden among them.

“I have not sinned yet,” said the prince, “and I will not;” and then he pushed aside the boughs to follow the princess. She was lying already asleep, beautiful as only a fairy in the garden of paradise could be. She smiled as he bent over her, and he saw tears trembling out of her beautiful eyelashes.



The swollen emotion of that moment — at once so full of desire and pain and folly and inexorability — the trembling of those diamandine fairy tears — the reader’s desire at that moment to shout to him, NOOOOOO, even as you might to a person about to throw himself off a cliff, or who has just milliseconds earlier given himself over to those forces of gravity — this charged and overladen heart-heavy moment (which I read over and over and over as a child) is the very one out of which the Lori’s poems, with no small urgency, come forth.

More extraordinary is that they come out of her, physically, in a voice at once honeyed, gravelly, musky and husky, almost paragendered — quite unique among my contemporaries, and totally unforgettable. Her voice, which you will soon have the privilege of hearing, was even a point of commonality between me and Gary, who in the early stages of our correspondence confessed to an intense infatuation with it

I am certain that you are now on the edge of your seats. Without further delay, let us push back the boughs and welcome my dear pal, Lori Lubeski.

Introduction for Sawako Nakayasu at the Bowery Poetry Club

Sawako Nakayasu was born in Yokohama, Japan, on the Den’En Toshi Line, and raised in the USA. For the past three years she has been living in her birthland, translating Japanese poets and making their work known to us.

In an interview on Chicago Postmodern Poetry.com, the insistently interdisciplinary Sawako lists her poetic influences as, “In no particular order: John Cage. Nathalie Sarraute. Musical theater. Frank O’Hara, Tom Raworth, Gertrude Stein, Charles Ives. Jenny Holzer. Keith Haring, John Edgar Wideman, opera. Yoko Ono. Contact Improvisation dance. Hockey. All kinds of movement. Insect movement. Pop music. People who talk in other languages.”

She doesn’t, surprisingly, mention the writer with whom I see her as most aligned, Francis Ponge. Like Ponge, Sawako is a poet of THINGS. Ponge writes, in “The Object is Poetics,”


Man [sic] is a curious body whose center of gravity is not in himself.

Our soul is transitive. It needs an object that affects it, immediately, like a direct complement. It is a matter of the most serious relationship…

The artist, more than any other man [sic] bears the burden, reacts.

The curious body of Sawako Nakayasu chooses greatly unexpected objects to bear as burdens: balconies, hockey pucks, yellow, umbrellas, shortcake. But though they are unexpected, they are common, daily, things, more banal than bizarre.

Ponge, writing on the still-lifes of Chardin observes :

These peaches, these nuts, this wicker basket, these grapes, this cup, this bottle with its cork, this copper fountain, this wooden mortar, these pickled herrings.

There is nothing special, no merit in choosing such objects.

No effort, no invention; no proof here of a superior intellect….

Starting from such a low point, we’ll need all the more attention, prudence, talent, genius, to make them interesting.

…..

Sawako’s special attention, prudence, talent, and genius permit her to create such constructions as


“Needing yellow as an extension of want, or a boing.”

“A large, hollow hockey puck with the top open, about three feet in diameter, two feet high.”

or to imagine, for example,

“a field of fried umbrellas”

That her blog, accessible at nakayasu.blogspot.com, is so aptly named “Texture Notes” is particularly interesting in light of a possible etymology of her name. I don’t know the actual kanji for her name, but, setting aside for a moment the diminutive feminine “ko,” “Sawa” sounds to me like the Japanese verb “sawaru” — to touch. Sawako doesn’t just touch the objects of her attention, though – she massages, palpates, and strokes them — even, if it’s possible, synaesthetically.

Please welcome our foremost hockey poet and a vital ambassador — Sawako Nakayasu.