i posted the below somewhere else as someone else before i figured out how to sign in. posting it here now from Parwan Province, Afghanistan. It is Sunday at 11 am here.
greetings from the post-apocalyptic anti-climactic forgotten war zone. the opalescent greylight in this mile-high forgotten outpost of incoming mortars and long-outdated Russian rockets reminds me fondly of the haze over Hamtramck in January after a nine day cocaine and jack bender. like detroit, everything is grey here. the white people are grey, the black people are grey, the indians from kerala province are grey - the only exception seems to be the tin can dumpsters with doors and cheap motel heaters that we live in, which are somewhere between plateau-middleeastern babyshit-brown and rive-gauche-soot meets grey-flannel dockers off-black.
Parwan province and Afghanistan in general claim the world's only supply of lapiz, a blue rock that can be polished into jewelry or hockey pucks. even afghanistan has the blues in its soul - and its soil. the natives like to show their affection by rocketing us - mortars and rockets. they have shown me their affection over 100 times in the six months i have been here. many have died on post from the shrapnel. many more still live, and the macabre allure of instant death at any time by mortars or rockets and the sensual lust that can only be felt by working for blood money keeps us all coming back for more.
we are at 5,000 feet here, yet not the highest point within sight. we are actually in a valley. the Hindu Kush mountains rise 19,000 feet above us obliterating the sky. snow falls clumsily like asymmetrical chevy corvairs - their rear-mid-engines weighting them down. they land awkwardly on my face i gaze upward - the snowflakes seem confused by their existence and even more confused when their existence ends on my etched, worn, ragged face. my only intent was to see the mountain and now i have destroyed the frozen chevy...butterfly effect...the snowflake hitting the ground would have stayed for the winter, now dead. how provincially appropriate. everything dies here.
a long gaze - the stare of ennui over decades of searching - the gaze still searching into the future for that final valhalla where peace reigns, cocaine is legal and abundant, and no one ever wears a top - not cars, not women, not men - and the Patron pours from a fountain in the middle of the city of Hamtramck, the corner of jos campau and caniff transformed into a disney-like utopia of legal drugs, punk rock, free love, poetry, thought and thoughfulness, love for oneself, one's neighbor and a really good f**k with a completely hot stranger wearing nothing but handcuffs and a smile can be had in a well-lit alley with passers-by wishing you well - that long gaze into the doomed and unrelenting future lost - is both enjoyed and reviled by dick monster gone to war - enslaved in the financial penitentiary of the american dream as he does what he does best, killing for money to pay of a quarter million dollars of student loans.
the walkin talkin toxins beckon - hundreds of riffs and jangled phrases of urgently irrelevant, yet immediate and important full contact poetry rage through his incessant mind. doom baby is coming. more songs. more ungained utopia lost, more killing. ah - at work at last. the three minute walk now done, weapon loaded, the matter well in hand...
Post by ColleenCaffeine on Feb 3, 2013 13:09:47 GMT -5
this is why i dye my hair..for you Dick Monster...you are the coke in our cola...when they said turn it up to 11,they were thinking of you...if it wasnt for you ,guitar would have no chainsaw or gas mask...how many grains of sand are in that Afganny wonderland,i do not know but this i do know,you are one powerful force of energetic awesomeness ..the impression that makes a permanent indentation...there is absolutely none that rock harder ,faster and more furious in the most distinct way than you Dick Monster
Post by dickmonster on Feb 4, 2013 12:46:31 GMT -5
THE TRUCKS DRIVE PAST ON THE GRAVEL BETWEEN THE TENTS AND THE CHUS. THE HELOS FLY 2BY2 AS ALWAYS AND THEY SHUDDER THE TIN CAN HEATED SHIPSPACE WITH RHYTHMIC, CALCULATING THUDS OF AIR ESCAPING THE BRUTAL ONSLAUGHT OF THE ROTOR BLADES AS THEY ESCHEW THE UNNEEDED BONDS OF GRAVITY BY DESECRATING THE NITROGEN-FILLED DUST CLOUDS THAT WE BREATHE.
VENGEANCE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD, AND 10 DEGREES BELOW ZERO AT FIVE THOUSAND FEET ABOVE SEA LEVEL SEEMS JUST ABOUT LIKE IT IS TIME TO SERVE THE HORS DOUEVRES...
TO KNOW THAT THE HELICOPTER GUNSHIPS FLYING OVERHEAD ARE MISSIONED TO METE OUT CERTAIN, WELL-PLANNED DEATH to someone other than himself IS COMFORTING AS HE PULLS THE COVERS BACK TO TRY AND SLEEP. AT LEAST those PEOPLE ARENT TRYING TO kill me tonight, HE THOUGHT.
his neck was sore from days of being a computer-bound fobbit - a sort of urchin-like support creature forever doomed to have war stories of watching other people getting killed - although i guess having a story of oneself getting killed would defeat the purpose it would be a hell of a story, though... he mused as he listened one more time to his own album. although he wasnt really his own favorite artist, but at least he was in the top five...
Post by dickmonster on Feb 4, 2013 12:58:55 GMT -5
Her red velvet pumps looked as if they were made of the poinsettias that were sitting on the tables of the lobby of the intercontinental hotel in Amman, Jordan. The Christmas spirit seemed to be woven into the lazy carpets as the slim smoke floats with the lobby winds toward the door. The shadows played softly at the edge of the vast atrium as the lights began to flash in the back of my mind. The sirens blare as the police cars crash into the parking lot in the family apartments at MSU. They are coming for me – I know it – and I stand in comfortable silence awaiting the tempest – the mace; the beating; the end of my life as I know it. As I feel the breeze from the revolving doors whisk past my face I snap back in to the entering darkness as the last light fades and night returns to the city. The high, f**ked up curbs snap at my ankles in silent defiance of me walking past them. It is as if they would have me fall and stay locked next to them, their captive and stoned victim for all time. I am on a mission for nothing, hoping that fate allows me to just walk to the store and get a coke without someone deciding I am a stupid rich American who will be intimidated into giving them money because they ask. I always have to be awake when this happens, brutally polite so as not to show my true Detroit roots. It is as if they alone have cornered the market on suffering and I, coming from the land of milk and honey where the streets are paved with porn stars and the booze flows like a spring in an oasis of self-indulgence and decadent, lazy, sloth and opulence, am the second coming of Christ, who actually came from these parts and, oh, by the way, do I have two dinars that he can have??? Pisses me the f**k off. You have no f**king clue of two things: the misery of my life to date, and just how much rage lies a hair trigger below a tightly wound veneer that would desperately love to be given a legitimate reason to f**k somebody’s shit right up. My pensive thousand yard stare must have been in rare focus, because not only did no one approach me, no one even said as much as hello when I entered the hookah pipe store. “How much for this one?” I asked. There was a hookah pipe that appeared to be made of brass and stood six feet tall. “You don’t want that one.” Yes, actually I do. But okay, I’ll play along. “Really, why not?” “It is only for display.” Hm. An honest shopkeep. “Okay, how much for this one?” A nice four foot tall hookah pipe with one hose – black and silver – stood beckoning in the window. “80 Dinar.” He just sort of walked away. Shopkeep ennuie. Maybe if he acts bored enough I’ll buy something. “Can I add more hoses to it?” He looked at me with a final look of disdain, as if he had just found out I was the man who impregnated and abandoned his mother thirty five years ago. “I guess not.” I started to walk out of the front of the store. There was not an actual door – just a ten foot opening that got closed when the manually operated metal garage door overhead was pulled down. “The heart of the Hookah.” I turned, slowly, to see if he was talking to me. “This – this here is the heart of the hookah. The heart of this hookah is only for one.” He was pointing to the ornately carved middle of the black enameled pipe – it appeared to be sterling silver – with great respect. It was as if he took pity on my ignorance and felt it was his duty to try to have one less western hookah moron running loose in the Middle East. I asked him if he had a box. He said yes, but I knew that I could not take the hookah into the hotel – security would not allow it – so I decided to wait. I may go back. But I really want a large hookah with three pipes. Maybe that’s like cheating on your hookah with another hose. Or perhaps group hookah activities are frowned upon in Jordan. Oddly, the concept of hookah monogamy resonated with me then as mysterious and desirable. It stays with me today in mystery, since I still don’t know what it truly means or what purpose it may serve. Perhaps it will soothe the pain from the beating I did not deserve at the hands of the police. I walk across the street to the Queen Borger and buy a Pepsi for half a dinar. I wanted a Coke, but certain things over here always seem to be just a little f**ked up. You just get used to it or throw yourself off a curb, never to be seen nor heard from again. As I wander back to the hotel I muse about the jet black porcelain hookah with the Sterling Silver heart. Intriguing for no reason, it has captured me. Perhaps I will buy the hookah whose heart is only for one after all, insh’allah – even though my black heart will never truly beat for just one…
Post by dickmonster on Feb 8, 2013 11:58:47 GMT -5
today the melted mud puddles had turned to slivers of five thousand feet high skating rinks. the people from alabama still walked like pregnant penguins on the ice, trying in vain not to fall. guess all the practice i had walking at three in the frozen morning from the gallons of jack and the 8 balls of coke made me better adept at walking on the frozen water than most. i felt sorry for them not at all. the city of stone rises in the dusty winter sky, mocking me and taunting me to join the local tribesmen in this winter valhallah. every time i see a mountain i want to climb it, and every time i see something worth climbing on i want to mount it. such is the yin and yang of the everlasting gobstopper that is life as a slave in the financial penitentiary that was once the american dream become the international nightmare...
Post by dickmonster on Feb 11, 2013 14:51:35 GMT -5
ever there once i am not interesting thought i know that i felt like i was never in virginia once i went to kuwait i know that when i got back to virginia all i wanted to do was come back over here i would go back to iraq given the chance i dont know if i will ever think, wow. glad i dont have to do that anymore something about the immediacy of life closer to death the needle and the spoon or the gun and the tunes up here at 5000 feet halfway between the gutter and the moon somewhere between the gutter and the moon here i have a pulse everything seems very contrived and supposed to be in the land of milk and honey -literally they dont have milk here just some sort of reconstituted powdered white liquid chemical with no vitamin d i do miss a good hot chocolate made with milk may not be enough to get me to stay though may not be enough to get me to leave either
Post by dickmonster on Feb 18, 2013 14:10:56 GMT -5
AMERICAN MARTYR dick monster goes to war or sloth and disillusionment in the garden of the apocalypse dont know if this is the appropriate forum for this, but we just got hit with a barrage of incoming mortars while i was playing my guitar and i was reminded of the piece of writing i did on my way over here. sort of the first installment in the series... I could feel the storm clouds building in the late summer of 2009 as LTC S M started telling us her Army life story. The old wood picnic table in the covered area of our Top Secret Trailer Park creaked under the strain of three captains, two lieutenant colonels and one sergeant first class. Awkward is as awkward does, I guess, and this was as awkward as it gets. No one person at the table really fit at the table, so having all of us at the table was just plain weird. I had never heard the word “strack” before. “I was walking down the hallway (at some Florida Law School) and this STRACK Marine says, “…” Strack? What the f**k did she just say? Interesting that the woman was talking to a table full of men at a picnic table and acted like we were all girls as she regaled us with her tale of how she was recruited into the Army JAG Corps by some hot Marine. Princess S then went on to tell us of her fairy tale military career, complete with trips to Japan, Europe and Fort Belvoir, VA. And, oh, by the way, the UCMJ applies to everyone but her – you see, she is married to a retired Sergeant Major. Fraternization much? What a piece of work. For the uninitiated, no officer is allowed to have a business relationship, consistent social relationship and certainly not f**k, marry and/or procreate with the enlisted, subservient help. It is actually a punishable offense. Colonel S got promoted for it. She also managed to squeeze out two puppies of privilege with Sergeant Major no-nuts.
It was no surprise, and was in fact quite a relief, when she said, “Sergeant Thomas, you just aren’t the kind of NCO I want in my section.” That was somewhere after she explained that, even though I (SFC Thomas) have two Master’s Degrees, enlisted persons are ALWAYS SUBSERVIENT to officers. She felt I wasn’t subservient enough. Well, COL Observant, what was your first clue? Was it the fact that I actually assumed responsibility for the areas that I was assigned to, or the fact that each one of my testicles are physically bigger than your head? Nothing escapes her, apparently. “SFC Thomas, I don’t know why extending here for another year is so important to you. It’s not a negative action.” She was referring to a negative personnel action. The joke was on her. I am a soldier. I do soldier shit. And, oh, by the way, I am Dad to Rachel, Brooke and Hannah, and Husband to Mary. I do this for the f**king money, genius. “Ma’am, my family is out $36,000 in cash. That’s a pretty negative consequence.” I had to let her know that her petty bullshit was costing my wife and kids $36K. Surprise! She didn’t give a f**k! In fact, she said, “Sergeant Thomas, you should never do anything for the money. You should do it because you love what you do!” Well said. LTC S&M drives an $80,000 501 HP 2010 Jaguar XFR to work every day. Who wouldn’t love a job where you get to be in charge, flout the very law you get paid to uphold, and never have to pay the price of going to war? I thought about this for a moment. My mother had Crohn’s Disease, Colitis, Ileitis, and died of Lung Cancer at age 48. Her corpse weighed 68 pounds. When she worked, she worked as a cashier and could barely lift the grocery bags. “Ma’am, with all due respect, some of us really don’t have the luxury of getting paid what we need by doing what we love. A lot of people have to work hard all their lives at a job they never like.” Her attention had become diverted to her emails. She literally didn’t respond – she was ignoring me. I took the opportunity to leave the room, secure in the knowledge that the storm that had come was really just the bow echo of the storm that was coming.
“Good news.” MSG M was a pragmatist, a ball buster, a heroine and a fan of the underdog. “I talked them into letting you go. Get to CRC and send in your packet to me.” “Hugs and kisses!” was all I could come up with. I had called M and told her that I wanted to go somewhere where things made sense. Somewhere where reality wasn’t measured by how demure and supplicating one’s demeanor was in relation to the enormous ego and overcompensating bullshit of the green-pajama armchair warriors like Suzy Shithead that hid out their entire lives in the shadows of the JAG Corps sucking enlisted cock while pontificating on the virtues of form over function while perpetuating a long-defunct warrior caste system for the purposes of their own ill-gotten, unearned and illegitimate power. Someplace where the people involved have real problems to deal with, and honor, valor and courage were the minimum tools you needed just to get through the next five minutes. Send me, please, to f**king war. Live ammunition. Mortars. Extremists. At least when someone is firing a mortar round at you, you know where they stand. Perhaps that’s why they call them extremists. I just visited with Brooke and Hannah for three weeks. They came to my house and lived with me in Northern Virginia like I was the Dad and they were the kids. We had the time of our lives, and the girls, ages 16 and 11 were just angels. I put them on a plane yesterday. Today I am told I am going to war. I leave in October for a year. Good Times and Land Mines. As I look around the room, the disheveled 10th-story apartment that served as my housing, I think of the moment. How the moment is so bittersweet, in that it is gone as you experience it. I leave for Advanced Non Commissioned Officer Course next Tuesday. A month in Charlottesville, then a year in Mosul. I gotta check with my travel planner. At least I will see the Tigris and Euphrates. Drink from them, I will. After all, I wouldn’t be a Walkin Talkin Toxin if I didn’t…
Post by dickmonster on Jun 16, 2013 20:49:52 GMT -5
greetings from landstuhl, Germany. had pancreatitis and got airlifted from Bagram. been here a couple of weeks. headed back to the stan in a few days. met a Viking Queen. snow white in an alpen Valhalla. walked to the bismarckturm in the fading misty mountain light. the days are 21 hours long as three hours are all we love thee in rem. morphine day and night for weeks. shaman]s walk through goldenrod fields and baby's breath in the devil's flesh. we love ourselves but we're the only ones...the dream shows the caffeine drip flows into tempermill veins in late august and mixes with the toxins on the thin white line of twisted family branches and portends of fates unimaginable spun under the karmic wheel. stare into the face of the blank white snow queen and take her in deep into your blackheart soul. this is the vision. that is all.