FP

Rockaway Park NY 11694 * July 4 2011 * * in the 40th year of the Society "For God Republic and Society
Geoff Jackson:

The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu (1913)

"Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan…Imagine that awful being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu Manchu, the yellow peril incarnate in one man." (‘The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu`quoted from Wikipedia) The high brow and terrible deep-set limpid eyes – add a white turban and you have:- Osama bin Laden. From the Toraborah Mountains, he menaces Western civilization. Just like early Yellow Peril (fictional) heroes like Harvard educated Kiaong Ho, who has a super-submarine and a mission to sink all western ships, Yue-Laou, who is ruler of an empire in mid-China (Afghanistan?) and a black sorcerer or Dr. Yao How, who unites China and Japan to take on the united forces of the West, only narrowly to be defeated by the White Hero. There is more substance to Osama but his story nonetheless has some of the elements of the Werewolf-cum-Fu Manchu Yellow Peril myth, which we will probably now never be able to analyze objectively. The Yellow Peril phobia originates in the mid-nineteenth century. Americans stereotyped the Chinese as physical, racial and social pollutants. They depict them as drug-using, sexual deviants in the 1860s and 1870s by the 1880s, their population and the migration of Chinese were seen as a threat that the world would be overrun by them. The first true Yellow Peril figure, "that is, an intelligent, evil, mastermind intent on destroying the West" appears in 1892. (Jess Nevins ‘On Yellow Peril thrillers`) In 1900, the Boxer Rising broke out in China and was only suppressed by eight nations after considerable fighting. The Boxers were groups organized by secret societies. They were instructed in martial arts. They claimed supernatural powers such that bullets could not penetrate them. The whole was promoted behind the scenes by the Dowager Empress, who was using the boy Emperor as her puppet. The whole struck fear and loathing into the heart of the West and probably particularly into Britain and her Empire into which the author of Fu Manchu was born.

His name was Arthur Sarsfield Ward and he wrote ‘The Mystery of Fu Manchu`, the first Fu Manchu book in 1913. It was soon re-published in the US as ‘The Insidious Fu Manchu`. Arthur Ward changed his name to Sax Rohmer and this is how he is known today. He had been a reporter in the London Limehouse district, which was a Chinatown and he claimed that his experiences with the Chinese there qualified him to write about them. In particular, he was familiar with a Mr. King, whom his compatriots viewed with fear and horror and who was at the heart of a criminal net. Sax Rohmer claimed that Fu Manchu was based on Mr. King. Others criticize Fu Manchu for a total lack of functionality but, be that as it may, the prolific pen of Sax Rohmer produced a prodigious number of books making Fu the pulp hero of our era. First and foremost, he is based on nationalistic and racial prejudice. Who will run the world? Will it be the White Race or will we be overwhelmed by the Yellow Peril?

"What fiend is this?

A friend, who, unless my calculations are at fault, is now in London, and who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind (i.e. poisoned arrows). Petrie, I have traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British government merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly believe – though I pray I may be wrong – that its survival depends largely upon the success of my mission." We see here that Fu Manchu, who is the fiend in question has, like a computer worm, found his way into the very epicenter of the world namely London and that our hero is pledged to defending the white race. The White Race, of course, is the important part of humanity and loss of supremacy to another race is almost unthinkable and must be resisted at all costs. Fu Manchu, by the way, has his backing group, the Sin-Fan, who are a secret society of terrorists, pledged like their leader to the Gotterdammerung of the White Race. This Wagnerian formula, of course, reminds one once again of bin Laden at the center of his secret terrorist network, Al-Qaida – which spans the world and is also dedicated to the overthrow of the White Race or American Imperialism, whatever. By the way, like the cunning Fu, Osama did it all without emails or cell phones and merely used dedicated couriers. Of course, there is an element of The Old Man of the Mountain with his Hash-hashins or assassins to Obama – but then, he is Arab so that for our fears of other ethnic werewolves are canalized in a different racial direction. The narrator in the above quotation is Denis Nayland Smith. He is commissioner in Burma and receives a roving brief to pursue Fu Manchu, wherever he can find him. Whisky-on-the-rocks in hand, he is trying to persuade his old buddy Dr. Dexter Flinders Petrie into joining him on his crusade to save the White Race everywhere. Petrie agrees. Smith anyway is a nephew of Sherlock Holmes and it is soon clear that our duo are Holmes and Watson reborn. However, Denis Smith has the authority to impress anybody into his service if this will help his cause. This might put us in mind of the CIA, who are breathing heavily down Pakistani necks and feel they also have the authority to interfere wherever in what the Agency perceives as the interests of US without the control of Congress. In later books, Nayland Smith moves on to work for Scotland Yard and eventually military intelligence. For Brits, then, the double-barrel name serves as a passport to the upper classes.

The first Fu Manchu movie (there were around forty of them) appeared as a silent movie in the early 1920s. Of the early movies, the most famous (or infamous) was a Boris Karloff thriller from 1932. It was called ‘The Mask of Fu Manchu` and was both racist and offensive. However, it was around the time of the Burning of the Reichstag and the Russian movie, Ivan the Terrible. In the Karloff movie, an Asian villain told a group of Moslems, "kill the white men and take their women." It was too much for a Harvard university group, who petitioned MGM, the film studio in question, not to make any more Fu Manchu movies. 1940 saw the last film in the series, ‘The Drums of Fu Manchu` based on nine novels because the State Department requested the film studio to desist from further movies as China was a US ally against Japan. Sax Romer`s publisher also ceased publication of further books during the War. Fu Manchu made the silver screen in a big way once again in the 1960s in the Christopher Lee movies but tailed off eventually in a Peter Seller`s spoof. Two other radio stars, who spoofed with Fu were Spike Milligan and Kenneth Horn (both Brit). Radio, in the early days, was a very important medium to spread the Fu Manchu message. There were at the time no TV broadcasts so from 1927-`31, the American public were regaled with radio broadcasts of Fu Manchu and during the same period, the British got their broadcasts from the Continent namely from Radio Luxembourg. However, from the early 1950s, when TV came in, the Fu Manchu series became popular. He also inspired other characters such as James Bond`s adversary Dr. No and Wu-Fat in Hawaii Five-O. The Man from UNCLE also featured Fu Manchu as well as The Saint and many others. By this time in 1967, Fu Manchu was around a hundred and fifty years old having been born in 1840. However, he had developed the elixir of life around 1904 so presumably this helped to take away the crow`s feet and other wrinkles. He has, by the way, doctorates from four major European universities including Edinburgh, Scotland, Heidelberg, Germany, and the Sorbonne, Paris, France so he is plainly too clever by far and this engages our contempt for egg-heads. He espouses, snakes, fungi, poison darts etc. as killing methods not to mention all means of knives and this also horrifies us given John Wayne would only use an honest six-gun (to shoot interminable bullets). We also feel that it is intrinsically unfair to blow yourself up thereby taking a lot of people with you. Gunning people down is one thing but blowing yourself up as well is an act of cowardice (or perhaps it shows an unbalanced and fanatical mind). Fu Manchu loses all our sympathy with his dastardly schemes and devious weapons. As an Asian, too, he belongs to another race and not to our own. Ironically, in all the forty movies, he has only been played by white people.

Fu Manchu also became a fairly popular comic and comic strip hero e.g. in the Marvel comics. However, complications over copywright hampered his emergence into this field. At the moment, the threat from the Arab world seems too pressing to make up an Arab Fu. However, it seems to me that we have demonized Osama bin Laden over the years. Don`t get me wrong. I`m glad he`s dead. Shot through the head and dumped in the sea. However, many questions remain unanswered. What was his relationship to 9/11? Did he help plan it in detail or just call for an attack on US soil? How far was he involved with other terrorist attacks the CIA claims to have evidence of? How far, too, is Al-Qaida an integrated movement and how far is it just a loose and uncoordinated series of cells operating separately? We all know you can learn to make bombs on the Internet. Fanatics recruit themselves and Osama bin Laden simply became a figurehead. On the whole, I agree with a State Department official, who said that if you cut off one head of the hydra, two would grow in its place. Fu Manchu, however, stood at the head of countless numbers namely the Yellow Peril but fortunately in book after book Denis Nayland Smith was able to foil the unleashing of a mighty horde and save "the entire white race." Let us hope then that the CIA will rout the terrorists and not just be content with heaping all the blame for terror on one man. The SEALS did a good job in shooting him but the fight goes on. Life, too, is harder to manipulate than fictitious characters in pulp fiction.

Geoff Jackson
=


Geoff Jackson:
A Cheery Cheerio

1. Sunset

A broken arrow
An unstrung bow
The warriors are starving, they say
The village at Wounded Knee is dying

2. Blood beat

Blood beats in my ears
Like a drum
War planes fade in the distance
The reverberations of bombs
For God and motherland

3. Falling

Bravery is a frame
Of mind
To step onto water
And sink into death
The world of the soul


4. For country

To die
But one death
Without fear
To sacrifice all
For love of country

5. Like the Greeks Chose

To choose long life
Or short life with honor
To live on
On men`s lips
With the flag
Fluttering one`s memory
On the breeze

David Lawrence:


OBAMA: MR. KINETIC

Why does Obama call an act of war against Libya a "kinetic military action?" Is it perhaps because he feels that the American people are children and that he can tell them anything he wants and that they will listen, applaud him and feel tingles down their legs? I have to admit, I feel really insulted when Obama calls a military attack a "kinetic military action." Does he think that I will say, "Oh, this is not a war. He doesn`t have to consult with Congress. Nothing to worry about." Am I such a fool?

Obama is supposed to be a master of rhetoric and language. Such a cheap linguistic trick shows disdain for his public. The implication of Obama`s verbal cover-up behind "kinetic military action" is that we are not getting into an open-ended war. How does he know that? Wars are not telegraphed. They evolve. Maybe Al-Qaeda is Gadhafi`s replacement at the end of this supposedly harmless action.

Let`s not forget that Obama brought us the totally obfuscating phrase for terrorism—"man-caused disasters." It is reminiscent of the Vietnam verbiage—"collateral damage" and "incursion." Not to mention the butchery in villages—"pacification." Obama follows in a line of government language perverts. He just happens to be more adept at obfuscation than his predecessors. He currently has us involved in three wars. Like all pacifists and cowards he announces love and peace while he backs into catastrophes.


GET OVER THE TRIANGLE SHIRTWAIST FACTORY FIRE

Everybody`s going down to visit the spot where the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory stood before the fire a100 years ago. They are there celebrating the beginning of the American Labor movement, using the death of 146 workers as an impetus to push for larger salaries taken from the middle class in taxes on the public union side. The demonstrators applaud their own thuggery and their assault on capitalism by using the power of angry cohesion to extort from the financiers who give them their jobs and their opportunities. The group of socialist leaning union fans should be applauding the fact that the Triangle fire led to improvements in fire safety laws rather than giving workers the excuse to extort more concessions from management, making America less competitive against other nations and stealing from the nonunion taxpayers. Unions may have been important to kick start human rights a hundred years ago. Now the unions have become impediments to competition and excuses to steal from the nonmember general public under the no longer appropriate rubric of human rights. The dead at the Triangle fire are long dead. Get over it. Quit using their bones to get unearned raises.

THE SELF-PROMOTION OF UNIONS

Like socialism unions pretend that they are for the people. They are only for themselves and their own continuance. They bribe the Democratic Party with millions of dollars` worth of their dues in order to get them to support their generous pension plans and early retirements. It`s true that unions help the members of the Democratic Party by putatively bribing them with huge contributions. But the majority of non-public workers are robbed by the politicians overtaxing them in order to featherbed the unions. Obama received more money from unions than any politician in history. No wonder he accuses Scott Walker in Wisconsin of union-busting. He is indebted. He sold the Presidency to the highest bidder when he got into bed with the rich unions. He tricked McKean and dropped out of public financing to latch onto union coffers. The public unions gain more than the private sector. Why? Because they contribute so heavily to the Democratic party that when their politicians get in office they steal from the general populace to fatten their benefits. Public Unions have always had a close connection with violence. Remember Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront getting pushed around by union leader Lee J. Cobb. How have unions managed to fool the public and seem like innocent victims rather than bullies? It`s ironic that union stooges denounce big business and Wall Street as being ruthless when they take over buildings, accuse Republicans of being Nazis and shut down cities. Just look at them on their lines at Wisconsin, screaming at Scott Walker and interfering with other citizens` rights to pass. They are thugs, not reasonable people with grievances. Why don`t they get off their picket lines and prove their worth by showing up at work and doing a good job? They confuse giving death threats with reasonable protest. They should demand to be paid fairly based on their work. They should ask for the wages that the quality of their work demands not the wages that their boisterousness ransoms from fearful industries. America was built on achievement. Unions want to convert excellence into rewards on the basis of who screams the loudest. Ralph Waldo Emerson must be crying in his grave that his concept of self-reliance has morphed into self-promotion. Unions are pups suckling on the nanny state.




UNIONS YELL THEY ARE DEMOCRATIC

The public unions are the bad seed. It is no longer the days of the Triangle fire when innocent sweat shop workers were burned. Since then the unions have taken over. They have destroyed free enterprise and inveigled management into higher wages based on their collective power rather than their merit. Unions are an offshoot of authoritarianism, a branch of fascism or communism. They take rather than give; they demand rather than earn. Unions are counterproductive to capitalism and job growth. Union workers are lowlifes. When you see them whining, screaming, protesting and interfering with the normal course of business you realize how uncivilized they are. They are the type of rowdy people who looted in New Orleans rather than the civilized people who offered to help each other in the wake of the Japanese earthquake-tsunami-meltdown. Union workers eat the body politics of free enterprise like maggots throughout the world. Whether in Greece, France or Wisconsin, they refuse to compromise with the national interest and argue for more benefits in exchange for less actual work time. From the beginning the mafia and strongmen have been involved with pushing unions. They are corrupt internally and dishonest in their intentions of getting something for nothing. Unions yell that they are democratic but they are the opposite. They are bullies like the old conglomerates. They power-grab from corporations and rob the tax payers, getting paid more than the private sector and receiving ludicrously inflated pensions.

~ David Lawrence

BLOOMBERG THE BANNER

Bloomberg doesn`t realize that government is an organization to allow people reasonable choices. It is not a fascist or a communist lobby to direct people`s lives. Government is not in charge of good eating or diet. It merely assures us that our foods are not poison or substandard. Government is not meant to reverse permanent habits. Smoking was always legal. It would be counterproductive to outlaw it now even if new things about its dangers have been discovered. It didn`t work with alcohol in Prohibition. Bloomberg has disallowed trans fats. Big deal. People with bad eating habits will still find ways to eat enough junk food to make themselves obese. There will still be people in the streets bursting out of their trousers.

MacDonalds has existed for decades and I`m not fat. I don`t rush over there every day. I don`t need their calorie chart on the wall to discourage me.

Bloomberg has stuck calorie counts on fast food menus. Who needs that? When I wanted to lose weight as a teenager I wouldn`t have needed Bloomberg to prompt me.

Now Bloomberg has banned smoking in parks, boardwalks, Times Square and beaches.

It scares me. Whenever someone is as interested in my health as Bloomberg is, I think of Hitler eating vegetables and his development of a national health care program to help the people. I think of Stalin dictating menus to the populace. In the sixties my parents visited Moscow and had to brush their teeth at night with lemonade. Stay out of my Big Mac bag Bloomberg. I don`t need you rummaging around in there, telling me what and what not to eat.

And as for passive smoke outdoors. I dare any scientist to prove to me that you can get cancer by passing by some smokers in the fresh air. Bloomberg`s science is pseudo. He has the impulses of a dictator but the power of a mere mayor and the physique of a toad. Bloomberg`s only a few years older than me but I`d love to spot him in a physical fitness contest.


CLUELESS—THE NEED TO PROFILE

Sherlock Holmes used deductive reasoning to predict who the criminal was. If you can`t profile by using clues to discover your enemy then you foolishly play into his hands and let him escape. How has society so reversed itself that law officers are not allowed to use clues because it is considered prejudiced to follow the leads to an outlaw? If you don`t profile; if you don`t use clues—you are clueless. When almost all plane hijackings have been done by Arabs how is airport security not allowed to give them an extra once over? Why is it politically correct to hide your eyes from the perpetrator? Why isn`t profiling a means of capture rather than a name for bigotry? How are we supposed to defeat lawlessness when the clues are considered tainted and profiling is a form of racism? Why can`t progressives realize that profiling is not a condemnation but merely an indication? It is following clues not sentencing. Without it we are condemned to surrender to our enemies. We are clueless.


YOU CAN`T APOLOGIZE FOR PERVERSION

Anthony Weiner is a pervert. Clinton, Edwards, Kennedy, Schwarzenegger and other Lotharios who had affairs were not perverts. They were horny but not sick. They did not flash the raincoats of their internets open to strangers. They did not remotely post their erections on computer screens. They were misguided lovers; not indecent exposers. Weiner`s apology means nothing. He is mentally sick and perverted. There is no cure or excuse for this. It`s not that he cheated on his wife. He cheated on moral decency and was caught in a flagrant act of self-exposure for which he needs psychiatric help or psychotropic drugs. Forgiveness on our part would be a failure to appraise his illness. It is wrong. We do not have the ability to forgive an illness. It is almost 100 per cent incurable. Beware other computer screens. Recidivism is in order.


Daniel O`Brien:
Evening fever

Darkened footpaths, breadfeeders pacing around,
I see a clock inside a store window. The clock reads twelve, time for the white
orb to show it`s pockmarked face to this side of the universe. There it lit the
right corner of the sky, shameless in it`s eternity. How many millions of
generations of man have passed and the sun and the moon find their respective
locations every day. We look as though nature were here for is to marvel. I
think nature has a slight taste of indifference on the matter.

Adrian Astur Alvarez:
The Evolution of Law

Wallers squinted into the sun above the office building. Thirteen hundred hours. He stood behind the open passenger side door of his unmarked squad car – a beige sedan. Military grade binoculars hung heavy around his neck like a yoke. The report was bad: women and children inside. How many? The report didn`t say. How many of each? No report. The terrorist was male. The report said he was disgruntled, middle class, and Caucasian. It didn`t say why he went into the office building. It didn`t say how, either – only that he created a situation- but even these details stopped being relevant as soon as the situation transformed into an event. When Wallers and Tango outfit arrived, the event became an "as yet unnamed operation," according to the report. This was the natural course of evolution and subsequent reclassification of activity familiar to those upholding the law. Ultimately what mattered was the report, and what mattered to the report was not Wallers, Tango outfit, or the disgruntled white terrorist inside the office building, only that this was an "as yet unnamed operation." All actions would be judged according to this protocol.

"Tango, I need status for report. Over," he said into the microphone perched over his right shoulder. Its thick, plastic-coated wire coiled around his torso, taped against his chest, which was shaved in sections, and ended, finally, at a receiver box pressed into the small of his back.

"Tango One, clear. Over."
"Tango Two, clear. Over."
"Tango Three, report. Over," Wallers said. "Tango Three, report, please. Over."
"Tango Three, clear."

Wallers located the team using the binoculars. Tango One sat on the rooftop across the street overlooking the south side of the building. Tango Two monitored the opposite side from a window on the third floor of another building. Tango Three existed somewhere to the east, behind the building and out of Wallers` sight. Coleman pulled up behind Wallers in a black and white. He took his time getting out of the car and peeled back the white plastic tab covering his Styrofoam cup of coffee before he approached.

"Goddamnit," he said. Coffee sprayed over his uniform front. "Wallers, what`s the status?"
"All clear, sir. Operation status under control."
"Good work, Wallers. They put sugar in this, goddamnit." Coleman spat on the ground and shook his head. "If I had a wife, she`d be on me for too much sugar," he said. His uniform stretched tight across his belly. The tautness emphasized each of his brightly polished brass buttons. They sparkled in the high sun.

"Report was bad, sir."
"They`re all bad, Wallers," Coleman said.

Wallers` radio buzzed and crackled with static.

"Tango One to Alpha, we have activity. Over."

He reached into his car and unlocked the assault rifle mounted behind the driver`s seat and poured his concentration into the scope. The windows of the building were obscured by drawn white shades. He couldn`t see anything.

"Tango, status. Over," he said.
"Tango One, clear. Over."
"Tango Two, clear. Nothing new. No activity here. Over."

Wallers looked back at Coleman, who frowned at his coffee cup between two engrossing sips.

"Tango Three, report. Over," Wallers said. His radio hissed. "Tango Three, report status."

A shadow passed in front of the window shade. Wallers` breath caught.

"Movement at the front of the building. Repeat. Tango Three, report status. Over."

Coleman sighed and leaned back against Wallers` car.

"Tango One, I need eyes on Tango Three. Over," Wallers said.
"Tango Three is holding position, sir. Over."
"Tango Three, do you copy? Over."

Wallers` face tightened and burned.

"Tango Three, clear," a small voice broadcast from Wallers` shoulder. He stared at microphone.
"Tango Three, what`s your status? Over."
"All clear, sir," Tango Three said.
"Did you copy my last requests? Over."
"Yes, sir. Everything`s clear, though. Nothing for the report."

Did he copy the messages before and not answer or did he only copy the last messages? It was impossible to ask. Tango Three didn`t know what he didn`t know. Wallers pondered the reliability of the equipment, but only briefly. The equipment was state of the art. The equipment was flawless. It made more sense that Tango Three`s responses didn`t make sense.

"When I ask you to report status, you do so immediately, Tango Three. Do you copy? Over."
"Yeah, I copy."

Wallers looked at Coleman. Was it impudence? His superior stared at a large cloud, now casting the area in diffused, silver light.

"I`m heading back to the station, Wallers," Coleman said.
"Sir, what did the report say?"
"The report?" Coleman said.
"What`s the situation inside?"
"The situation`s bad inside, Wallers. Real bad report. You`ll read it," he said.
"How should we proceed, sir?"
"Maintain status, Wallers. Maintain the exterior of the building. Leave the rest to brass. We don`t want this operation to turn into an incident."

Wallers watched Coleman drive off. The car left a cloud of dust and silence in its wake.

"Update status initiative: maintain exterior positions, copy? Over."
"Tango One, copy. Over."
"Tango Two, copy. Over."
"Tango Three copies, sir," said Tango One. "I can see him nodding. Over."


A sour taste bubbled up into Wallers` throat from the pit of his stomach. He swallowed it down. He aimed the rifle at the office building window and waited for more movement.

"Tango Three, are we having an equipment malfunction? Over," he said.
"No, sir. All clear."

Wallers let it go. The report was bad. That meant a horror show inside. Or else, this was major emphasis from the department. Major emphasis. The whole operation could be orchestrated to prove a point for an interdepartmental political war. If that were the case, the building would actually be empty. So either there was no one inside, or someone very dangerous – a threat to women and children worthy of protection. Wallers would make sure the perimeter was secure either way. Tango outfit maintained operations. His own reputation within the department was no small matter. Operations like this, regardless of their origin or internal authenticity, decided big things. This was how careers were made and propelled. Hours passed. The sun cast a great, square shadow over Wallers and his lone, unmarked police car. There had been no more movement inside the building but that made no difference. Brass worked internally. Wallers took a deep breath and concentrated on his job. The edges of shadow cut a distinct outline of light around him, boxing him in a shadow while lengthening its reach behind him. The sky ripened and looked like a fresh bruise far overhead, deepening its purple hues and darkening enough to allow one, then two pin pricks of starlight to become visible. The only street lamp in the parking lot blinked on and illuminated an empty circle of pavement between Wallers and the office building. His shoulder ached where he held the butt of the rifle. It was in these moments of an operation, when the world moved on and time collaborated to forget about a wrong doing, that being ready mattered most to Wallers. An ordinary man could belittle his job, lower the rifle, phase out the team, get a hot dog, go home, sleep, and wake up the next day looking forward to choosing an operation fit to meet his personal and arbitrary parameters of a meaningful life. Ordinary men weren`t cut out for the real job, thought Wallers. The real job meant holding the grudge, waiting patiently, and with honorable anger, for the chance to correct a wrong with equal and opposite force. Wait for the other guy – the bad guy – to lose, then strike. That was the real job: the eternal job of law enforcement. Wallers unzipped his fly and pissed on the side of his car. A siren howled somewhere across the distant freeway. Twenty one hundred hours.

"Tango team, status," he said. It was morning.

After a pause and some crackling, "Tango One, clear. Over."
"Tango Two, clear. Over."
Wallers sighed. "Tango Three, status."
"He`s not there, sir. Over," said Tango One, his best man.
"Tango Two, do you have eyes on Tango Three?" Wallers said.
"Negative, sir. Over."

Wallers cursed out loud, though he felt more validated than angry. This truly was no job for ordinary, weak men. Outlasting his own team proved his superiority.

"Tango Two, for Alpha."
"Go for Alpha," Wallers said.
"Sir, there are no windows or exits on my side of the building. I could take over Tango Three`s position without compromising the report. Over."

Wallers thought over the idea. He peered into his scope at the available windows on the front of the building. No activity.

"Affirmative, Tango Two. Maintain the rear of the building."

When nightfall arrived again, Wallers felt his body begin to ache. This was a bad report. The building held still. There was no movement, nor sound, nor proof of any human existence within the interior of the office. Tango Two stopped communicating an hour after sunset but held his position, according to Tango One. Halfway through the fourth evening, Tango One complained of leg cramps and called for back up. There was no one Wallers could send and it wasn`t an emergency so he didn`t respond. His team was failing. The dry, sticky gutter of heat radiating from his mouth foamed at the corners as he breathed. "Maintain status," was all he could say to himself, though he knew his men would not be able to keep up with him. During the afternoons, the sun pressed down on their open positions. Tango One wrapped his shirt over his head, exposing the radio wires taped to his skin. At night, the wild urban sounds of the city kept Wallers guessing and alert. Though a full week passed, no back up arrived from the department.

Enlightened one afternoon, Wallers felt the heavy smears of sweat pull down on the bags under his eyes and he decided to stop checking on his team. The operation was now for each man to face alone. He understood that. This was a challenge no one could be directed to perform. The success or failure, the endurance of the operation, was for each of them to decide on their own. The sky remained clear of any clouds. The sun was hot. The exterior of the building continued to deny any evidence of internal activity. After blinking away a nagging sting of sweat, Wallers peered into the scope of his firearm. White shades continued to obscure the office building windows. None of that mattered to Wallers, however. The operation, in that moment, had evolved.


POET'S PLACE
Susan Marie Davniero:
YANKEE DOODLE DAYS

Yankee Doodle`s lyrical score
A patriotic song of war
The Spirit of ‘76
Our history depicts

Remember a time when
Walked patriot militiamen
It was the Revolutionary War
Our battlefields soared

General George Washington
Rallied every mother`s son
Regiments and privateers
For the war staged here

America`s war burst
This land`s first
Patriots` infantry
Fought for our liberty

Every American`s expense
For War of Independence
With their sacrifice
They paid the price

Because of the ways
Of Yankee Doodle days
We can now say
Happy Independence Day!


Susan Marie Davniero
Geoff Jackson:
Remembrance

10. Passing Flowers

The sadness of
The blown rose
A life offered
For his country
Hugo DeSarro:
Summer Concert in the Park

High school rappers, rock-and-rollers
crowded in a small gazebo,
like heifers in a holding pen,
with shirttails free and ties awry,
playing Gershwin goo and heavy Haydn.

White heads in the privileged row,
listening to the puerile sounds,
with thoughts of another time,
another music more pulsatile,
behind their noble faces,
and teens in pleated skirts
and saddle shoes dancing the jitterbug.

Moms and dads, on edge
from yesterday`s libations,
give measured and polite applause;
impatient, set to flee, guilt free and purified,
in chauffeured cars to concrete swimming holes,
shaded arbors and orange juice and gin.


charles frederickson:
8-word poems

parting glances
nakedness uncovered
veil slipped
vulnerability exposed

flat-footed walking
on mirrors
sliver chards
soles stuck

Clinton Van Inman:
LIGHTLESS

Each year the light is less.
We can barely see it now,
the faint necklace of
the Milky Way.

The old ones were wrong,
you know with their waxed fingers
pointing up like abandoned adobe.

Yet you know better in your cubical gardens
and half moth-eaten moons,
you have arrived in
handcuffs

Geoff Jackson:
SOUTHLAND

17. SOUTH

Once blue skies were
But that was in a different place
Far south
Where smiles and friends
Nonetheless
Light my life

21. SPRING BLUES

The sky is purest blue
The sun is warming
And gentle
Leafless spring trees
Warm their sap
Ready to grow
Reaching for the
Eternal sky
Charles Fredrickson:
DISQUIETED

Things I never quite said
Voiceless thoughts haunt troubled anima
Gnawing at decalcified bone skullduggery
Pleading for mercy too late

Begging forgiveness penitent unanswered Amens
Tarnished silence gilt eaten away
Less is more or less
Said the better almost forgotten

No Holds Bard


Geoff Jackson:
HEMELAND

12. My Land

On the squeal
Of my life
Is a gull
In the tranquility
Of a fishing village

15. A Game of Chess

Life is a game of chess
A defensive game

17. Sea View

Under the sea
Lobsters dance
Octopus wrestle
Mermaids sing
To lure sailors

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