Subsume The Troops

(wrote this up, originally, in a very short time. after it came to me in a narcoticized meteor and fever. and, i, somehow, got brave. though, at the time, it didn’t seem anything like brave. just Right. and so i rode it. because that’s the way the real ones come. let there be lightflash from the sky. boil your brain. and then you are reborn. riding. the black. next, slim slow slider. until to, finally, tir na nog. and try. then. just to hang on. to continue to ride. so i rode. and i wrote. and i published to stormkos. which: oops: got my ass from that site banned. so banned they even erased the thing from their site. pretty much unprecedented. poor pitiful knuckledraggers. as in the shivering quavering quaking incompetent smoothbrained nudnik no-brain cementslit. “so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” to when, as ever, she did nothing. this time, with the nothing of nasa. then there’s the pale indian. sitting on his lips. behind her. banning me. and all the rest of the all and every blind melon chitlins. bad: boy: me. did not, sufficiently, in this piece, slobberingly, kiss, the cock and balls, of the us military. as apparently commanded—since he personally pronounced this piece “vile,” and eminently ban-worthy—by marky-markos himself. nice little cul-de-sac, he has built over there. in his sterile cerebral onanistic ouroubouros. hoo-rah. pedal, hey, your marky-markos bicycle, to the metal. heigh. ho. nobody home. meat. nor drink. nor money. have i none. though, have i, a little bit, of a little bit, of a merry something. some. for, while it arrived, the piece, in meteor, and fever, and ride; though it was then quickly erased; still, though orginally published in february, it remains the best november veterans day piece i’ve yet inscribed. “right on target,” as mr. zimmerman once put it, “so direct.” uh uh uh uh uh uh uh. caledonia soul music. what it is.)


in this place or in any other place
may there come abundant peace
race, lovingkindness, and compassion
ng life
mple sustenance, and salvation

may there be abundant peace from heaven
and good life
satisfaction, help, comfort, refuge
healing, redemption, forgiveness, atonement
relief, and salvation

—Kaddish, prayer for & from the dead

Chris Kyle killed human beings for money.

On the American taxpayers’ dime, he, for too many years, wandered to and fro in Iraq, killing, from concealment, from ambush, from firehiding, a craven coward, citizens of a country where he had no business being.

Kyle was there because, in Iraq, George II was determined to pursue, and end, an atavistic dynastic family feud, like something out of the 8th Century, roll right over that country, because Saddam Hussein, decreed he, was “the guy who tried to kill my dad.”

Though George II was not, alas, able to mount in the Oval Office Saddam’s head—after he had successfully cut off from life, in the great dynastic family-feud tradition, both Saddam, and his sons—he did take prideful personal strutting possession of Saddam’s metallic phallus, in the form of his revolver. Which, one should suppose, must serve as the next best thing.

And because George II’s Secretary of Defense, Colonel Walter E. Rumsfeld, advised, when the planes flew into the towers on September 11, that Afghanistan should mostly be eschewed, as a retaliatory site, because Iraq presented “better targets.” For all his little war toys. And all his little war boys.

That Kyle “fought” like a craven coward should not be something laid wholly at his own feet. For, as I first expressed here, cowardice today defines the way Americans wage war. A nation of cowardly back-shooters. From their snipers, to their drones.

And, as I said back then, every time an American, wielding sniper to drone, cowardly back-shoots a human being, in that human being’s home region, said American births, in full flower, another dark Jesse James.

“Blood,” knew Aeschylus, some 2500 years ago, “begets blood.”

And so, Saturday, Chris Kyle, the cowardly back-shooter of the US Navy, of a career of cowardly back-shooting in a country land-locked but for a tiny tip, where no Navy-man should ever logically or even sanely go, was himself cowardly back-shot. By a veteran of the United States Marine Corps.

Semper fi.

Many ways there might have been, to prevent the death of Chris Kyle. But first and foremost might have been if there was no United States Marine Corps. The death cult from which his killer sprang.

Would that the world had heeded the words of decorated veteran Hunter S. Thompson, who, in 1987, and quite correctly, commenting upon the greatest intelligence failure in US history, noted that there was absolutely No Reason, any longer, for any Marines.

The whole Marine Corps should be disbanded, finished off with other useless relics like the Sea-Bees, Hitler Youth and the Lafayette Esquadrille. The USMC has been useless as tits on a boar hog since 1951, when they led the famous “Inchon Landing” for Gen. marines. hoo-rah.Douglas MacArthur and saved America from total disgrace in Korea. That was [60] years ago, and since then they have done little more than hang around foreign embassies like drunken peacocks and get the nation into trouble. The US Army’s 1st Airborne Division could eat the whole Marine Corps for breakfast and take the rest of the day off for beer and volleyball. The only solution to the “Marine problem” now is to croak the whole corps.

Abolishing the Marines would have no real effect on national military preparedness, and it would cut [a minimum of $29 billion] off the bloated national defense budget—which now must include the billions it will cost to raze the entire new US Embassy compound in Moscow and build another one—a huge concrete igloo with no windows, or maybe a deep underground bunker like the ones Albert Speer used to build. All we really need over there is a roomy place with no bugs or spies or sex-crazed whiskey-wild women from the KGB, or even the ghost of a US Marine. Res ipsa loquitur.

Of course, all the armed forces in the United States, are soon going to go. The Marines are just the most pathetic, and absurd, of these various laughable oh-so-over grunt-a-munga appendi.

Look: the Founders did not intend this country to maintain even a standing army. Which is why the Constitution specifically prohibits army appropriations of more than two years.


—The US is at peace with its neighbors, Canada and Mexico; therefore, it does not need an army. So the army should be eliminated.

—As the only legitimate use for an air force is in support of ground troops, it should be eliminated as well.

—The Marines need to be folded back into the Navy, from whence they sprang; they are support troops for ships, that’s all they are; that they are sent to fight in landlocked countries, like Afghanistan, is madness. So: down the loo, they go.

—Since we already possess a Coast Guard, perfectly capable of patrolling the waters of the continental United States (Alaska and Hawaii are imperial possessions, and should be permitted to break free, as should all overseas territories, possessions, protectorates, and the like), we can go ahead and get rid of the Navy, too—Marines and all. Make a clean sweep.

Or, the US can continue to try, for a time, to gaspingly hang on, as glow-in-the-dark five-star cowardly back-shooters.

In the bent genealogy that trails from this:

When the English introduced the longbow, French knights despised it. They believed that if you were going to kill a man, you cowardsshould do it while looking into his eyes. The British were perfectly happy to take advantage of this French notion, which they considered quaint, because it allowed them to gobble up huge sections of the European continent, until the French too employed men who could kill from a distance.

To this:

It was the British, in the years preceding WWII, who blocked international measures that would have barred the use of aircraft in warfare. As the wife of British “statesman” David Lloyd George noted in her diary on March 9, 1934:

At Geneva other countries would have agreed not to use aeroplanes for bombing purposes, but we insisted on reserving the right, as D. puts it, to bomb niggers! Whereupon the whole thing fell through[.]

To this:

From their cockpit at Creech Air Force Base in Nevada, the pilot and co-pilot are flying a pilotless Predator on a bombing mission over Afghanistan, 8,000 miles away. A forward air controller in another unmanned drone spots the target and the Predator bomber takes off under local control from Kandahar in Afghanistan. Minutes later, control of the bomber is handed over to satellite control in the cockpit at Creech.

Two hours later, the crew sees on the cockpit screen two suburban vehicles stop in front of the targeted mud-baked house. Half a dozen bearded men hurry into the dwelling that intelligence had spotted as a Taliban command post. Seconds later, the bombardier in Nevada squeezed the trigger and a 500-pound bomb flattened the Taliban dwelling with a direct hit.Watching the action on identical screens are CIA operators at Langley, Va., who can call in last-minute course corrections.

Their eight-hour mission over, pilot and co-pilot climb into their vehicles and drive home. Thirty minutes later, they are playing with their children.

In the hours and days since Kyle has been killed, there have been many ululations, throughout the tubes, and even upon so-called “lefty” sites, that Kyle was “a hero,” a “good man,” a “gentleman soldier.”

No. He was a stone-cold killer. Who killed, concealed, cowardly, from ambush. A sneak, a sniper, indistinguishable from the DC sneak snipers. Except that he wore a uniform, and could wrap himself in the flag of a country. And that the people he killed were brown. Rather than white.

Listen to what the man himself did say:

—He regarded those he killed as “savages.” And had a crusader cross tattooed on his body, so that those he killed would know they had savagesdied in Christian jihad: “‘I wanted everyone to know I was a Christian,’ Kyle wrote. ‘I had it put in in red, for blood. I hated the damn savages I’d been fighting. I always will.'”

—”Everyone I shot was evil,” he decreed. “I had good cause on every shot. They all deserved to die.”

—He said: ‘It was my duty to shoot the enemy, and I don’t regret it. My regrets are for the people I couldn’t save: Marines, soldiers, buddies.” That is, he gave a damn for no one but his fellow killers, who, like him, had no business being in Iraq, drawing a paycheck to kill people and destroy their property and possessions.

At the end of his book, Kyle wrote: “When I die, God is going to hold me accountable for everything I’ve done on earth. But in that backroom or whatever it is when God confronts me with my sins, I do not believe any of the kills I had during the war will be among them. Everyone I shot was evil. I had good cause on every shot. They all deserved to die.”

I would prefer to believe that he instead underwent that experience identified by WWII South Pacific combat veteran James Jones, who, when inscribing The Thin Red Line, wrote to his publisher that he was endeavoring to channel the dead, all those—American, Japanese, native—who never left the island of Guadalcanal:

[T]he dead, frozen like flies in plastic, realized—at the moment of death, when of course they stopped—that humanity must grow to feeling, to empathy, or become extinct.

There are many ways that the universe could communicate that all the guns are going to go.

Back-shooting the back-shooter Kyle at the “all-gun zone” of a shooting range seems message enough, in full color, through very loud bullhorn, to obviate any need, for any other.

And for those that must call Kyle “hero”: perhaps they are right, so long as they understand and employ the term, as the Greeks did:

A World War II study determined that, after 60 days of continuous combat, 98 percent of all surviving soldiers will have become psychiatric casualties. A common trait among the remaining 2 percent was a predisposition toward having “aggressive psychopathic personalities.” Lt. Col. Dave Grossman in his book On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society, notes: “It is not too far from the mark to observe this wheel's on firethat there is something about continuous, inescapable combat which will drive 98 percent of all men insane, and the other 2 percent were crazy when they got there.”

War is necrophilia. This necrophilia is central to soldiering just as it is central to the makeup of suicide bombers and terrorists. The necrophilia is hidden under platitudes about duty or comradeship. It is unleashed especially in moments when we seem to have little to live for and no hope, or in moments when the intoxication of war is at its highest pitch. When we spend long enough in war, it comes to us as a kind of release, a fatal and seductive embrace that can consummate the long flirtation with our own destruction.

War ascendant wipes out Eros. It wipes out delicacy and tenderness. Its communal power seeks to render the individual obsolete, to hand all passions, all choice, all voice to the crowd.

War is the beautiful young nymph in the fairy tale that, when kissed, exhales the vapors of the underworld. The ancient Greeks had a word for such a fate: ekpyrosis.

It means to be consumed by a ball of fire. They used it to describe heroes.

in this place or in any other place
may there come abundant peace
grace, lovingkindness, and compassion
long life
ample sustenance, and salvation

may there be abundant peace from heaven
and good life
satisfaction, help, comfort, refuge
healing, redemption, forgiveness, atonement
relief, and salvation

—Kaddish, prayer for & from the dead


22 Responses to “Subsume The Troops”

  1. 1 Alexa November 16, 2013 at 1:49 pm

    it was deleted because it’s too much truth for comfort. you are entirely correct. Chris Kyle in his own words killed “brown savages” [for] “God” and also [for] “money.”

    those who would attempt to whitewash his memory aren’t living in the truth of what this man admitted . . . and not just a few times. so fuck them and fuck their dishonest revisionist history.

    all because of you, i know:

    I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.

    —Kenneth Patchen

    and everybody say amen.

    • 2 bluenred November 16, 2013 at 2:02 pm

      But Kyle is Mr. America. We know this because Steven Spielberg eagerly signed on to direct a film based on Kyle’s murder manifesto, American Sniper. Then, when scheduling conflicts exited Mr. Spielberg, the project proceeded to Clint Eastwood.

      The horror. The horror.

      • 3 Alexa November 16, 2013 at 2:27 pm

        i know you’re not serious . . . . who gives a damn what Steven Spielberg or Clint Eastwood or the fake luminaries of the amateur left have to say about anything?

        the horror is for real, though. never have i seen so many uninformed, ignorant blogmouths who u-lu-late — and hell NO there’s no surcease – LOLz – who they have nothing else to do with their apparently endless free time.

        • 4 bluenred November 16, 2013 at 3:41 pm

          Spielberg is Mr. American Zeitgeist. Next comes Dirty Harold.

          • 5 Alexa November 16, 2013 at 3:44 pm

            i don’t think that fuckup conversation with a chair at the RNC was a great career move. do you?

            • 6 bluenred November 16, 2013 at 4:09 pm

              The latest story is that Clint earlier in the day heard the Neil Diamond song “I Am I Said,” which contains the lines:

              I am, I said
              to no one there
              and no one heard at all
              not even the chair

              And then he got a brainshower that he should go on stage and talk to a chair.

              What has not yet been revealed is what booze and/or narcotics were then controlling his mind.

              • 7 Alexa November 16, 2013 at 11:14 pm

                you know i ain’t shed the first tear for any of the above . . . . but at times i forget you are the very most shy guy i’ve ever known, entirely too modest and unassuming.

                so here’s the thing, Hollywood. in case it ain’t crystal clear to you (‘cuz believe me, it’s clear to all others involved, agents of the law, and luckless pedestrians) there is one reason why you were silenced. only one reason and don’t get me started on any “vile” blame-shifting. you have a gift. a talent. you can think and write and construct the most beautiful, intense, meaningful words to a level that’s an art form.

                by comparison they see their own inadequacies. they can’t stand it. they won’t have it. tu perdon. who the hell calls another human being “vile” without even cursory knowledge of that person? i think that is pretty fucking vile, but his opinions don’t interest me. yours do.

                so go on with your bad self and remember these dolorosa losers who are so jealous of you damn well ought to be. nothing they’ve ever written is memorable or worth the pixels it “occupied.”

              • 8 Alexa November 23, 2013 at 1:21 am

                i hope somebody got a CT scan and MRI of this brain shower. he never was the brightest crayon in the box but at this moment, he just stopped making sense at any level.

            • 10 bluenred November 16, 2013 at 4:22 pm

              And it occurs to me that his American Sniper might be cool if Kyle were portrayed by a chair. Preferably a potty chair.

              I would go see that.

  2. 15 Alexa November 16, 2013 at 1:56 pm

    mi abejo, this is more truth than has ever been said at that other place, and in a helluva lot less pixels:

    that’s the way the real ones come. let there be lightflash from the sky. boil your brain. and then you are reborn. riding.

    let there be light, que chevere. you know better than i how throughout history, those who tell the truth about any damn thing must be silenced, even if it meant ripping the tongue from someone’s mouth in medieval times. don’t let them or anybody else take the fight out of you.

    • 16 bluenred November 17, 2013 at 11:00 pm

      Well, hell, Golden Flower, everybody, in this here racket, knows that the real ones, they come in lightflash, from the sky, boiling the brain, into reborn riding.

      Though, reading, here, this, over again, I don’t think I got anywhere near that.

      But I know that’s the Come.

      Meanwhile: fear not. Nobody’s coming near ripping out my tongue. Because nobody’s listening to what it says.

  3. 17 Alexa November 21, 2013 at 3:04 pm

    what? i’m listening, nancy is listening, and others . . . we don’t count? thanks boatloads, mister!

    for every one comment, we can safely estimate at least 100 lurkers who read but don’t have anything to add.

  4. 21 sebastian March 15, 2014 at 12:21 pm

    Thanks for the read, haven’t laughed this long in a while. The people who are the furthest removed from the harsh realities of the world always have the most amusing view points.

    • 22 bluenred March 15, 2014 at 12:48 pm

      No one is more removed from reality than the serial killer (see, for instance, Gomer Kyle), and those who would fellate him.

      There was nothing at the edge of the river
      But dry grass and cotton candy.
      “Alias,” I said to him. “Alias,
      Somebody there makes us want to drink the river
      Somebody wants to thirst us.”
      “Kid,” he said. “No river
      Wants to trap men. There ain’t no malice in it. Try
      To understand.”

      We stood there by that little river and Alias took off his shirt
      and I took off my shirt
      I was never real. Alias was never real.
      Or that big cotton tree or the ground.
      Or the little river.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

When I Worked

November 2013
« Oct   Dec »

%d bloggers like this: