Pudgy Indian

I see casualties of war
everywhere I go.

I want to sit in the bathtub
and try to wash it all off
but I've been there before
and it is not a method that works.

I see casualties of war
everywhere...

I have no desire to wash them off
no desire to push them away
no desire to let them go.
They are my fellow human beings.

Yesterday, during the vigil, a young darkskinned woman emerged from the recruiting station on Broadway here in the great city of Portland, Oregon. I pointed my "Killing is Wrong" sign toward her and pointed to the words with a smile. A look of wanting to run crossed her face, and she left as rapidly as possible. An elderly woman protester with us told her she looked cute. I know those eyes.

I've seen them
In the mirror
in my family
in my loved ones
in my friends
in strangers passing by
on television
on the internet...

That woman
in the simple act of joining the military
in the probable desire of "serving" her country
maybe make some money for school
has greatly increased her chances of being
sexually harrassed
or raped
by her fellow military.
These people are trained to be aggressive.
Rape is aggressive.

The black man was not there yesterday, and I missed him. I want to talk to him some more. Tell him how cluster bombs were created. How two psychologists were hired by the U.S. government to find out what colors most attracted children. Turned out to be flourescent orange and flourescent green. So they colored the little bomblets those colors, because, you see, the original intent of cluster bombs was not to kill, but to main children. Med-aids would have to take care of the children. Hospitals would be filled with wounded children and thus using resources that could be used to repair troops to fight back against American imperialist forces in Vietnam. And those beautiful children would not be able to fight against the American imperialst forces when they grew up. Those beautiful children would become drains on the social structure of the society when they grew up. This is the thinking of the organization the recruiters and their military brethren work for. That is not freedom.

Rhonda is so Beautiful.
I looked at her frequently
talking with others
holding her sign
smiling at me from time to time.

The only negative response we received at yesterday's vigil was from an elderly man and an elderly woman, and I yelled for both of them to sign up. And I half jokingly...HALF JOKINGLY...believe that the recruiters would actually attempt to sign them up. "Can you hold five pounds to your shoulder? Perfect. Does your trigger finger work? Perfect. Sign on the line."

Met a man with an amazing mind. Crack addict and alcoholic and a victim of a domestic war that still happens to so many I see walking down the streets. The man writes with an amazing style and the crack he was high on makes his energy so intense. War and its victims have many faces. And his trigger finger is used in holding a lighter to a pipe, wrapped around a can, holding a pen to write words that many of our fellow humans should read.

And Mr. Peace
would NEVER befriend
those who ever pulled the trigger
even if they changed their hearts.
They weren't born
with the purity of Jesus
like him
and therefore
should be excluded
in his Peaceful mind.
And I've seen the victims of his war.
Heard them speak about
a violence
that doesn't require wars
or killing.

But those in the military
are the people I want to reach.
I have many vet friends.
Their hearts have changed
and they speak out.
And once we can get
all those who pull the trigger
simply because someone tells them to
to STOP,
the only people that would be left
to pull the trigger
are the assholes
who pull the strings
who are too chicken shit
to face down the bullets
or kill those
that help their corporate owners
here in
"The Land of the Privileged."

If those who create the wars
had to fight them,
there would be fewer wars
and a lot more friendships.

I see beauty everywhere. I see beauty in the eyes of those vitimized by the MANY wars all over this world. I watch beauty in the trees, the smell of the pink rose yesterday. Beauty in the way Rhonda holds her sign, smiles, talks about the people she nurses. Beauty in the words created by Kmt. Beauty in the words by Rhonda, Rainelle, and so many others. Beauty in the faces of those recruiters, my fellow protesters, those passing by. Beauty in our open hands reaching for connection with a smile.