It was up less than a day, but for a while the New York Times offered an article about how the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars were ripping army families apart and prompting suicides.
This horrible side-effect has been going on for years, but somehow eluded the big media spotlight. Apparently, the powers that be don’t want the public to hear about brave warriors turning into wife-beaters and Russian roulette psychos.
But Nidal Hasan, a psychiatrist assigned to counsel shell-shocked veterans, went on a bloody rampage at Ft. Hood, mass-murdering his fellow soldiers, and so the issue of mental damage screamed for attention. Hence, an article popped up, albeit briefly. Part of it went as follows:
“Fort Hood is still reeling from last week’s carnage, in which an Army psychiatrist is accused of a massacre that left 13 people dead. But in the town of Killeen and other surrounding communities, the attack, one of the worst mass shootings on a military base in the United States, is also seen by many as another blow in an area that has been beset by crime and violence since the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq began. Reports of domestic abuse have grown by 75 percent since 2001. At the same time, violent crime in Killeen has risen 22 percent while declining 7 percent in towns of similar size in other parts of the country.
(“At Army Base, Some Violence Is Too Familiar,” 11/10/09)
The article goes on to say:
“Since 2003, there have been 76 suicides by personnel assigned to Fort Hood, with 10 this year, according to military officials.”
Fallout from Afghanistan and Iraq destroys the minds of soldiers and threatens those near and dear. The article superbly makes this case. It also demonstrates that the military’s psychological safety net is a pathetic joke, one that effectively tells traumatized soldiers they’re alone and valueless, unless they can still do their job; that is, act like cold obedient killing machines. To hell with what you’re feeling, just be a robot.
What the article doesn’t do is point out WHY the soldiers are coming home mentally crippled. Part of the answer is the obvious horror embedded in the act of pulling the trigger, or just seeing the mangled dead, some of them buddies, some of them just innocent. Who wants to see a five-year-old’s splattered guts?
But there is another factor motivating the soldiers’ PTSD. It might even be the most important. Simply this: The soldiers are realizing that they have sold out their young and innocent hearts. They are dawning to the belief that these wars are unethical--alloyed with oil, ignorance, and political aims; and administered by a callous bureaucracy, which counts dead bodies as if stacking coins.
Imagine: You’re 18 years old and embrace the goals of Freedom, Democracy, and Truth. You’re sent off to fight Evil. But when you get there, and wet your hands with blood, and stain your mind with guilty nightmares, it becomes clear that you have been tricked. Used like a pawn by your government. You’re an expendable chunk of muscle in a power struggle that has little to do with ultimate ideals, and a lot to do with dirty politics and jaded old men sitting in plush chairs under tarnished capital domes.
You realize that you’ve sold your soul. You can’t just go back to being naïve or even hopeful. You’ve obediently done what the Lord of War ordered. But the Lord of War is not the God you thought. He is the collective will of an old boy club, politicians and generals who seem dark, bloody, and uncaring. except for their power lust.
You’re broken. You feel it inside. A real weight. Broken heart, broken spirit, broken trust. You can’t go back. Your spirit is gone. Stolen by a Force that seized what it wanted from you.
What you get in return is some money. Not much. The equivalent of the thirty pieces of silver tossed to Judas. The rest of your life will be the life of a shell. You traded the goodness inside you for a lie and some cash. Your virtue has been ripped out of you. The conscience that cradled it is in tatters.
That is why soldiers are killing lovers and committing suicide. They were swindled in the sanctum of their hearts. They might not consciously realize this; but down inside they know. It manifests in their torn dreams and blasts of rage.
They’ve sold their souls to someone, or some entity, who seems now to be an agent of the Devil.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Mark Pawlak's Lubec Poems
I recently learned something fantastic.
Mark Pawlak has been coming to my home town of Lubec Maine for years and writing poems about the area. Pawlak is co-editor of Hanging Loose Press, a poetry journal and book publisher that recently celebrated its 40th anniversary! HL is an extraordinarily rare standout. A non-academic venue that has persevered well beyond the stage of greatness into something ineffably more amazing. In both contemporary and historical terms it is masterful and vigorous.
From the website:
“The first issue of HL contained work by Denise Levertov, John Gill, Jack Anderson, Victor Contoski and other poets who would remain close to the magazine. The editors were in agreement that they were not interested in begging poems from famous writers but that they wanted to stress work by new writers and by older writers whose work deserved a larger audience. In 1968, the magazine introduced a feature which has become celebrated over the years, a regular section devoted to writing by talented high school writers. This section printed early work by such writers as Evelyn Lau and Sam Kashner and has produced three highly praised anthologies.”
(http://www.hangingloosepress.com/index.html)
I discovered Pawlak’s interest in Lubec accidentally, while checking out a call for submissions by Breakwater Review. BR is a brand new journal run out of the University of Boston, Massachusetts. Guess whose poem is the very first one featured in their very first issue? And guess what that poem is about?
Without further ado, here it is, reprinted by permission of the author:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Mark Pawlak
From Quoddy Journal 2007, Lubec Maine
(for a life of Sensations rather than Thoughts— Keats)
23:VII:07
Today my preoccupation
is this cracked, seamed,
frost-heaved tarmac road
along whose crumbling
shoulders edged with gravel
squadrons of bees patrol
hydra-headed Chamomile
just coming into flower,
yellow clover
already gone to seed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Isn’t that a beautiful vignette? The poem captures one of the essential feels when you travel that last mile or two in Lubec, toward the Quoddy Lighthouse, which sits on the easternmost point in the United States. Yes, I know this seasoned tarmac well. It is tremendously powerful to walk its last furlong to a hard-bitten angular cliff overlooking the vast Atlantic and the Grand Manan Island of Canada. One of the last spots you pass on the way is Carrying Place Cove, where the Passamaquoddy carried their canoes from one side of the neck to the other.
This is a journey beyond the last vestiges of society to a rugged and magical realm--one that is, as Pawlak says, “cracked,” “seamed,” “frost-heaved,” and “crumbling”--and in which "hydra-headed" flowers and golden bees are lovely yet fierce treasures.
Pawlak is a poet of intense immersions, and reminds me of the sense-addicted writers who are “On the Road” in the style of Kerouac. For them, each moment unveils a new miracle that begs for a swooning scrawl of the enamored pen.
You might have noticed that Pawlak keeps a journal of his visits to Lubec, which include a good number of poems. You can read more of the Lubec poems from his Quoddy journal here:
http://www.shampoopoetry.com/ShampooThirtythree/pawlak.html
What an honor to my town that Pawlak has chosen it as a Muse for his rich and energetic mind. And what a great discovery for me to find his words. Poetry in Lubec just took a quantum leap up!
Mark Pawlak has been coming to my home town of Lubec Maine for years and writing poems about the area. Pawlak is co-editor of Hanging Loose Press, a poetry journal and book publisher that recently celebrated its 40th anniversary! HL is an extraordinarily rare standout. A non-academic venue that has persevered well beyond the stage of greatness into something ineffably more amazing. In both contemporary and historical terms it is masterful and vigorous.
From the website:
“The first issue of HL contained work by Denise Levertov, John Gill, Jack Anderson, Victor Contoski and other poets who would remain close to the magazine. The editors were in agreement that they were not interested in begging poems from famous writers but that they wanted to stress work by new writers and by older writers whose work deserved a larger audience. In 1968, the magazine introduced a feature which has become celebrated over the years, a regular section devoted to writing by talented high school writers. This section printed early work by such writers as Evelyn Lau and Sam Kashner and has produced three highly praised anthologies.”
(http://www.hangingloosepress.com/index.html)
I discovered Pawlak’s interest in Lubec accidentally, while checking out a call for submissions by Breakwater Review. BR is a brand new journal run out of the University of Boston, Massachusetts. Guess whose poem is the very first one featured in their very first issue? And guess what that poem is about?
Without further ado, here it is, reprinted by permission of the author:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Mark Pawlak
From Quoddy Journal 2007, Lubec Maine
(for a life of Sensations rather than Thoughts— Keats)
23:VII:07
Today my preoccupation
is this cracked, seamed,
frost-heaved tarmac road
along whose crumbling
shoulders edged with gravel
squadrons of bees patrol
hydra-headed Chamomile
just coming into flower,
yellow clover
already gone to seed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Isn’t that a beautiful vignette? The poem captures one of the essential feels when you travel that last mile or two in Lubec, toward the Quoddy Lighthouse, which sits on the easternmost point in the United States. Yes, I know this seasoned tarmac well. It is tremendously powerful to walk its last furlong to a hard-bitten angular cliff overlooking the vast Atlantic and the Grand Manan Island of Canada. One of the last spots you pass on the way is Carrying Place Cove, where the Passamaquoddy carried their canoes from one side of the neck to the other.
This is a journey beyond the last vestiges of society to a rugged and magical realm--one that is, as Pawlak says, “cracked,” “seamed,” “frost-heaved,” and “crumbling”--and in which "hydra-headed" flowers and golden bees are lovely yet fierce treasures.
Pawlak is a poet of intense immersions, and reminds me of the sense-addicted writers who are “On the Road” in the style of Kerouac. For them, each moment unveils a new miracle that begs for a swooning scrawl of the enamored pen.
You might have noticed that Pawlak keeps a journal of his visits to Lubec, which include a good number of poems. You can read more of the Lubec poems from his Quoddy journal here:
http://www.shampoopoetry.com/ShampooThirtythree/pawlak.html
What an honor to my town that Pawlak has chosen it as a Muse for his rich and energetic mind. And what a great discovery for me to find his words. Poetry in Lubec just took a quantum leap up!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
O Healthy Happy Day!
The House just passed a groundbreaking health plan that effectively rebukes the fat cat insurance companies and affords ordinary folks relief from their tyranny. No more the sick to be dropped from indemnity with a callous flourish of the corporate quill. No more the needy to be denied coverage based on pre-existing conditions, which have grown to include absurdities like acne and being beaten by your spouse.
Now if only the Senate would get on board, and the President signs the bill into law.
Yes, the mega-monster insurers, squinting through piggish eyes, can turn away anyone who is a bad gamble, or jack up the price of premiums. They fart at the thought of decency or virtue. Profit is their standard and they seem happy to ignore fear, misery and death to batten their golden guts.
CEO to dying cancer patient: “Us, pay for your costly treatment? It’s only 30% effective and you’re too old to be worth the risk.”
CEO to dying child: “Sorry, that cure is experimental, and those drugs you want would only extend your life by a year at most.”
CEO to person who was a victim of spousal abuse: “Sorry, since you let your husband beat you, you are statistically likely to cost us money, thus we are doubling your premiums.”
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Enter the whiny attack dogs of the insurance companies, their loyal servitors: the Republicans. They mewl, bark, slaver, and snarl--whatever might please and promote their corporate masters.
Rep. Candice Miller, R-Michigan on the new health plan:
“We are going to have a complete government takeover of our health care system faster than you can say, `this is making me sick.”
Rep. Jack Kingston, R-Georgia: “This bill is a wrecking ball to the entire economy.”
Notice that infamous trademark of manipulative rhetoric: hyperbole without argument. The Republicans are experts at hyperbole without argument because they count on non-rational factors like fear and hate to trick the hoi polloi.
And of course the hoi polloi are primarily uneducated and so don’t know their history 101; and hence have not learned that hyperbole without argument has been used to manipulate large masses of dullards since the dawn of civilization.
Hitler on this subject: “The great masses of the people will more easily fall victim to a big lie than a small one.”
Anyway, the whiny Republican attack dogs, held loosely on their choke leash by the insurance companies, voted unanimously against this milestone health bill, with one exception, a greenhorn from New Orleans named Joseph Cao. Callow Cao has come through. Maybe he just hasn't been indoctrinated yet.
The Republicans bluster about the expense of the new plan; but first of all, what about those costly wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, you know, the ones we were led into my Mr. “mission accomplished”?
Without the drain of these corrupt and incompetent debacles, which were immorally thrust upon the public through deceit, universal healthcare would be a breeze to fund.
Secondly, the expense of the new plan will be largely mitigated by the fact that people are healthier, less stressed, and won’t be crawling into the emergency room during the last hour of life.
My granny always used to say: An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
Thirdly, money will still reach the mouths of the guzzling insurance giants, but they will be put on a diet. Too long their obesity has crowded the rest of us with an asphyxiating odor of greed. It is time for reform, yes, but even more it is time for true equality in terms of who gets to see a doctor at what point in their personal struggle with illness.
The new healthcare plan is funded in part by taxing millionaires and billionaires. Um ... so? If we don’t tax them, what will they do with the extra money? The Cayman Islands look good for a little vacation, or how about Bermuda, or Rio? Nothing like betting a couple million on the roulette wheel in a Brazilian casino. Heck, ain’t that what freedom is all about?
One thing’s for sure: if we don’t tax the rich for the general good, they won’t offer to pay for your child’s broken leg, or your hospital bed when you get H1N1.
Now if only the Senate would get on board, and the President signs the bill into law.
Yes, the mega-monster insurers, squinting through piggish eyes, can turn away anyone who is a bad gamble, or jack up the price of premiums. They fart at the thought of decency or virtue. Profit is their standard and they seem happy to ignore fear, misery and death to batten their golden guts.
CEO to dying cancer patient: “Us, pay for your costly treatment? It’s only 30% effective and you’re too old to be worth the risk.”
CEO to dying child: “Sorry, that cure is experimental, and those drugs you want would only extend your life by a year at most.”
CEO to person who was a victim of spousal abuse: “Sorry, since you let your husband beat you, you are statistically likely to cost us money, thus we are doubling your premiums.”
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Enter the whiny attack dogs of the insurance companies, their loyal servitors: the Republicans. They mewl, bark, slaver, and snarl--whatever might please and promote their corporate masters.
Rep. Candice Miller, R-Michigan on the new health plan:
“We are going to have a complete government takeover of our health care system faster than you can say, `this is making me sick.”
Rep. Jack Kingston, R-Georgia: “This bill is a wrecking ball to the entire economy.”
Notice that infamous trademark of manipulative rhetoric: hyperbole without argument. The Republicans are experts at hyperbole without argument because they count on non-rational factors like fear and hate to trick the hoi polloi.
And of course the hoi polloi are primarily uneducated and so don’t know their history 101; and hence have not learned that hyperbole without argument has been used to manipulate large masses of dullards since the dawn of civilization.
Hitler on this subject: “The great masses of the people will more easily fall victim to a big lie than a small one.”
Anyway, the whiny Republican attack dogs, held loosely on their choke leash by the insurance companies, voted unanimously against this milestone health bill, with one exception, a greenhorn from New Orleans named Joseph Cao. Callow Cao has come through. Maybe he just hasn't been indoctrinated yet.
The Republicans bluster about the expense of the new plan; but first of all, what about those costly wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, you know, the ones we were led into my Mr. “mission accomplished”?
Without the drain of these corrupt and incompetent debacles, which were immorally thrust upon the public through deceit, universal healthcare would be a breeze to fund.
Secondly, the expense of the new plan will be largely mitigated by the fact that people are healthier, less stressed, and won’t be crawling into the emergency room during the last hour of life.
My granny always used to say: An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
Thirdly, money will still reach the mouths of the guzzling insurance giants, but they will be put on a diet. Too long their obesity has crowded the rest of us with an asphyxiating odor of greed. It is time for reform, yes, but even more it is time for true equality in terms of who gets to see a doctor at what point in their personal struggle with illness.
The new healthcare plan is funded in part by taxing millionaires and billionaires. Um ... so? If we don’t tax them, what will they do with the extra money? The Cayman Islands look good for a little vacation, or how about Bermuda, or Rio? Nothing like betting a couple million on the roulette wheel in a Brazilian casino. Heck, ain’t that what freedom is all about?
One thing’s for sure: if we don’t tax the rich for the general good, they won’t offer to pay for your child’s broken leg, or your hospital bed when you get H1N1.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
An Ill Empire
The horrific shooting at Fort Hood by Nidal Malik Hasan is yet another snap in the nervous system of a frazzled and bullet-drunk USA. Awash in wealth and power since the end of WWII, America North has become corpulent from frauds and bombs. Sick to the point of toppling off the pedestal of world envy.
Yes, gold and guns have made us morally decrepit. The rash of unthinkable shootings at schools, offices and now military bases could not be a clearer sign. Like empires past, the US is doomed by its success at bullying. We have guzzled from the chalice of stolen loot; and we have been poisoned by our filthy swill. The euphemism for this was Manifest Destiny, then United Fruit Company, and most recently Halliburton.
Rome, Portugal, Spain, Britain, all dominated and expropriated from the weak in their heydays. Like us, they were military monsters of their time, yet grew sclerotic from greed and dissolution. Perhaps the most disgusting was Isabella’s Spain, which invaded the “New World,” grabbed the gold, and proceeded to tear itself apart with inflation, backstabbing, usury, peripheral wars, and so on.
You shouldn’t trust me on this. But then, I’m taking my information from Kevin Phillips, a mainstream exemplar of careful scholarship. Check out his book, American Theocracy. Go to the section starting on page 220, which reads:
Exceptionalism: The Delusion That the United States Is Different.
According to Phillips, we are crashing--just like Rome, Portugal, Spain and Britain. Greed tanks empires. Fuels addiction, denial, sophistry and spite. Drags the empire in question into a sordid cesspit. Every time.
Back to the US. In a shallow culture of fluff, war worship and gun-lovin’ video games, kids and army officers are mass murdering their fellow citizens.
And yet our leaders, who know how to make their neck veins bulge with oratorical pride, trumpet how wonderful and brave our nation is. How perfect and stalwart and righteous our elephantine military, a vanguard of light in a world of darkness.
This pitiable denial spells doom. Truth is, blinkered rhetoric lays like camouflage over an ill king and is snuffing out whatever torch we wielded in the past, and with it any hope of contrition or cure.
Let me end with the words of Edward Said, quoted in American Theocracy:
“Every single empire, in its official discourse, has said that it is not like all the others, that its circumstances are special, that it has a mission to enlighten, civilize, bring order and democracy, and that it uses force only as a last resort.” (p.74).
Yes, gold and guns have made us morally decrepit. The rash of unthinkable shootings at schools, offices and now military bases could not be a clearer sign. Like empires past, the US is doomed by its success at bullying. We have guzzled from the chalice of stolen loot; and we have been poisoned by our filthy swill. The euphemism for this was Manifest Destiny, then United Fruit Company, and most recently Halliburton.
Rome, Portugal, Spain, Britain, all dominated and expropriated from the weak in their heydays. Like us, they were military monsters of their time, yet grew sclerotic from greed and dissolution. Perhaps the most disgusting was Isabella’s Spain, which invaded the “New World,” grabbed the gold, and proceeded to tear itself apart with inflation, backstabbing, usury, peripheral wars, and so on.
You shouldn’t trust me on this. But then, I’m taking my information from Kevin Phillips, a mainstream exemplar of careful scholarship. Check out his book, American Theocracy. Go to the section starting on page 220, which reads:
Exceptionalism: The Delusion That the United States Is Different.
According to Phillips, we are crashing--just like Rome, Portugal, Spain and Britain. Greed tanks empires. Fuels addiction, denial, sophistry and spite. Drags the empire in question into a sordid cesspit. Every time.
Back to the US. In a shallow culture of fluff, war worship and gun-lovin’ video games, kids and army officers are mass murdering their fellow citizens.
And yet our leaders, who know how to make their neck veins bulge with oratorical pride, trumpet how wonderful and brave our nation is. How perfect and stalwart and righteous our elephantine military, a vanguard of light in a world of darkness.
This pitiable denial spells doom. Truth is, blinkered rhetoric lays like camouflage over an ill king and is snuffing out whatever torch we wielded in the past, and with it any hope of contrition or cure.
Let me end with the words of Edward Said, quoted in American Theocracy:
“Every single empire, in its official discourse, has said that it is not like all the others, that its circumstances are special, that it has a mission to enlighten, civilize, bring order and democracy, and that it uses force only as a last resort.” (p.74).
Friday, November 6, 2009
Corporate King George And Government Paul Revere
The Bangor Daily News obviously isn't going to publish my latest Oped submission, so I might as well post it here.
------------------------------------------------
Healthcare: Government or Corporation
A vocal faction in the healthcare debate has targeted the dangers of a muscular government, brandishing placards that stoke fear of tyranny and extol freedom. Tinged with a warning of King George’s vise grip on the Colonies, these pleas insinuate a revolutionary heritage. The current craze of political tea parties revels in this assumed link.
But it is no longer 1776. There are new bullies on the block besides imperious kings, ones that didn’t exist in the heyday of monarchy. They are called corporations. And our choice in healthcare management is not between government or freedom. It is, importantly, a choice between accountable public offices, or secretive financial giants pursing their own megalomaniac interests.
Freedom for big corporations, of course, is very different from freedom for the people to seek fair and inexpensive treatment. No longer is medical care a simple deal between a family and their desired practitioner. Insurance companies, once small players, have become juggernauts locked in combat with doctors and hospitals, which have massed together into their own conglomerates. The individual citizen stands next to this battle of behemoths like a powerless ant, shoved by economic necessity and bewildered by mazes of duplicitous paperwork and bureaucratese.
This is just one of many reasons why America should go with a forceful G for government over a bloated C for corporation. When standards such as lifespan and child mortality relegate our wheezy nation to a dismally low rank in comparison to other developed countries; when the corporate sector is selfishly bogged in struggles to reap profit at the expense of dignity, health, and kindness, it is time for the true revolutionary spirit, embedded in the canons of liberty, to take charge.
Not only must we side with policing over profiteering, it must be done decisively to invoke an ethical metamorphosis. As we flounder in this Great Recession, it is more obvious than usual that unfettered corporations are akin to callous money machines. They co-opt or kill competitors, prioritize numbers and spur the market into gluttonous binges.
As many a child’s parable relates, such voracity entails disaster and the immiseration of the populace. Given the ridiculous avarice of today’s business impulse, not only its indictable excesses but also its daily meanness and hunger, the choice for a strong government becomes a straight-up denunciation of fiscal incontinence, and an embrace of human dignity.
Cash obsession leads insurance companies to deplorable acts, obstructing or denying treatment that could save lives of adults and children. It is why they refuse or drop policies of hard-working folks, who are coldly labeled as bad gambles. With a frightening tendency worthy of Gattacca, the list of physical traits earning someone the status of inferior keeps growing. In several states, being beaten by your spouse is considered a pre-existing condition, a blatant money grab that constitutes a sexist and absurd leap.
To emphasize, we have the following choice before us: either C-powers that exist for money and by money, or G-powers that exist for the people and by the people. It is often argued that the government is more corrupt; but elected officials are subject to centuries of legal precedent in Constitutional law, with all the transparency that entails. G-officials have relatively modest salaries, unlike executives who can ride a golden parachute into filthy rich retirement. Ask yourself this question: If you had a chance to jump ship and lounge in a wonderful mansion in the Bahamas, would you focus on the well-being of your fellow citizens, or even the company you worked for?
When defending G over C, legislators often overlook a crucial argument, perhaps because it calls for stricter examination of their own conduct: Corporations and their political pals are always trying to undermine Washington oversight. As a result, private sector corruption tends to infect public realms. But this isn’t a problem endemic to government; it is, rather, another reason to curb and contain the inevitable manifestations of greed.
Indeed, the basic problem is, prosaically, that vines of greed are strangling our wish to be decent to each other, to be humble and fair. These vines have insidiously wormed and coiled for far too long. The most effective way to prune them is to make our ideals happen—make them law. This has been done before with crucial rights concerning emancipation, suffrage and equality, and it is time to do so with the right to good healthcare. Cut through the parasitic vines with the sword of justice, one that can only be wielded by the elected leadership of a democracy.
As we flounder in stress, terrorized by health bills—how entire life savings are swallowed in a single emergency, how critical drugs cost disgusting sums, how premiums twist tighter around our purses like thumbscrews—it becomes imperative that we chose a strong G over an obese C.
------------------------------------------------
Healthcare: Government or Corporation
A vocal faction in the healthcare debate has targeted the dangers of a muscular government, brandishing placards that stoke fear of tyranny and extol freedom. Tinged with a warning of King George’s vise grip on the Colonies, these pleas insinuate a revolutionary heritage. The current craze of political tea parties revels in this assumed link.
But it is no longer 1776. There are new bullies on the block besides imperious kings, ones that didn’t exist in the heyday of monarchy. They are called corporations. And our choice in healthcare management is not between government or freedom. It is, importantly, a choice between accountable public offices, or secretive financial giants pursing their own megalomaniac interests.
Freedom for big corporations, of course, is very different from freedom for the people to seek fair and inexpensive treatment. No longer is medical care a simple deal between a family and their desired practitioner. Insurance companies, once small players, have become juggernauts locked in combat with doctors and hospitals, which have massed together into their own conglomerates. The individual citizen stands next to this battle of behemoths like a powerless ant, shoved by economic necessity and bewildered by mazes of duplicitous paperwork and bureaucratese.
This is just one of many reasons why America should go with a forceful G for government over a bloated C for corporation. When standards such as lifespan and child mortality relegate our wheezy nation to a dismally low rank in comparison to other developed countries; when the corporate sector is selfishly bogged in struggles to reap profit at the expense of dignity, health, and kindness, it is time for the true revolutionary spirit, embedded in the canons of liberty, to take charge.
Not only must we side with policing over profiteering, it must be done decisively to invoke an ethical metamorphosis. As we flounder in this Great Recession, it is more obvious than usual that unfettered corporations are akin to callous money machines. They co-opt or kill competitors, prioritize numbers and spur the market into gluttonous binges.
As many a child’s parable relates, such voracity entails disaster and the immiseration of the populace. Given the ridiculous avarice of today’s business impulse, not only its indictable excesses but also its daily meanness and hunger, the choice for a strong government becomes a straight-up denunciation of fiscal incontinence, and an embrace of human dignity.
Cash obsession leads insurance companies to deplorable acts, obstructing or denying treatment that could save lives of adults and children. It is why they refuse or drop policies of hard-working folks, who are coldly labeled as bad gambles. With a frightening tendency worthy of Gattacca, the list of physical traits earning someone the status of inferior keeps growing. In several states, being beaten by your spouse is considered a pre-existing condition, a blatant money grab that constitutes a sexist and absurd leap.
To emphasize, we have the following choice before us: either C-powers that exist for money and by money, or G-powers that exist for the people and by the people. It is often argued that the government is more corrupt; but elected officials are subject to centuries of legal precedent in Constitutional law, with all the transparency that entails. G-officials have relatively modest salaries, unlike executives who can ride a golden parachute into filthy rich retirement. Ask yourself this question: If you had a chance to jump ship and lounge in a wonderful mansion in the Bahamas, would you focus on the well-being of your fellow citizens, or even the company you worked for?
When defending G over C, legislators often overlook a crucial argument, perhaps because it calls for stricter examination of their own conduct: Corporations and their political pals are always trying to undermine Washington oversight. As a result, private sector corruption tends to infect public realms. But this isn’t a problem endemic to government; it is, rather, another reason to curb and contain the inevitable manifestations of greed.
Indeed, the basic problem is, prosaically, that vines of greed are strangling our wish to be decent to each other, to be humble and fair. These vines have insidiously wormed and coiled for far too long. The most effective way to prune them is to make our ideals happen—make them law. This has been done before with crucial rights concerning emancipation, suffrage and equality, and it is time to do so with the right to good healthcare. Cut through the parasitic vines with the sword of justice, one that can only be wielded by the elected leadership of a democracy.
As we flounder in stress, terrorized by health bills—how entire life savings are swallowed in a single emergency, how critical drugs cost disgusting sums, how premiums twist tighter around our purses like thumbscrews—it becomes imperative that we chose a strong G over an obese C.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Acceptance in Thieves Jargon
http://www.thievesjargon.com/
Okay, this is a VERY wonderful acceptance for me. Thieves Jargon is a veteran journal, currently on issue #194. Yes, that’s right: #194. It has been publishing monthly, or even half monthly, since 2004. And the content isn’t crap. Editor Dan Scannell only takes about 10% of submitters, according to duotrope.com
However, duotrope is notoriously generous. Poets & Writers gives TJ a 1-5% acceptance rate on submissions. (http://www.pw.org/content/thieves_jargon).
All this adds up to one well-deserved word: Legendary.
The Publisher and Founder of Thieves Jargon is Matt DiGangi, who must be a true outlier in terms of dedication, insane enthusiam and gritty prowess. He is the dark horse Hercules in the world of poetry publication.
Chief Editor Scannell also seems, from my very brief contact, to possess the immersed mind of a fiendish talent--one that sorts through a turbid stream of darkling submissions with the fervor of a gold prospector.
Getting into Thieves Jargon is the kind of event that helps me ward off depression. I can bask in the afterglow even during my gloomiest days. Based on previous experience, this effect lasts up to a year.
(Yes, I’ve been writing poems full-time for eight years now, so I’ve had other memorable moments of joy--but, you know, most of it is a lonely slog, full of mistakes, failures and delusional hopes).
So, I salute Dan Scannell and the godly Matt DiGangi. Or is that a cutpurse’s secret hand signal I'm flashing them? Whatever it is, it’s full of admiration for a very hard working team.
Thank them profusely, if you dare to send in your very best poems for consideration.
Poems accepted: “Unipolar,” “On the Street,” “Ghost In the Machine”
Okay, this is a VERY wonderful acceptance for me. Thieves Jargon is a veteran journal, currently on issue #194. Yes, that’s right: #194. It has been publishing monthly, or even half monthly, since 2004. And the content isn’t crap. Editor Dan Scannell only takes about 10% of submitters, according to duotrope.com
However, duotrope is notoriously generous. Poets & Writers gives TJ a 1-5% acceptance rate on submissions. (http://www.pw.org/content/thieves_jargon).
All this adds up to one well-deserved word: Legendary.
The Publisher and Founder of Thieves Jargon is Matt DiGangi, who must be a true outlier in terms of dedication, insane enthusiam and gritty prowess. He is the dark horse Hercules in the world of poetry publication.
Chief Editor Scannell also seems, from my very brief contact, to possess the immersed mind of a fiendish talent--one that sorts through a turbid stream of darkling submissions with the fervor of a gold prospector.
Getting into Thieves Jargon is the kind of event that helps me ward off depression. I can bask in the afterglow even during my gloomiest days. Based on previous experience, this effect lasts up to a year.
(Yes, I’ve been writing poems full-time for eight years now, so I’ve had other memorable moments of joy--but, you know, most of it is a lonely slog, full of mistakes, failures and delusional hopes).
So, I salute Dan Scannell and the godly Matt DiGangi. Or is that a cutpurse’s secret hand signal I'm flashing them? Whatever it is, it’s full of admiration for a very hard working team.
Thank them profusely, if you dare to send in your very best poems for consideration.
Poems accepted: “Unipolar,” “On the Street,” “Ghost In the Machine”
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Silver Lining in a Dark Wake
Gay marriage has failed here in my home state of Maine, and I grope for a silver lining in the wake of a dark debacle of bigotry. This sad lapse underscores the danger of a group whose minds are straitjacketed by a vulgar version of a narrow interpretation of a single faith.
Somehow, despite all reasonable evidence, the adamant flocks cling to their notion of God as a heterosexual Father who will vengefully burn gays in hellfire--and anyone else who doesn’t believe and obey HIM.
How to engage with people like this? As long as they stay hermetically sealed in their unassailable dogma, thick-headed as burls, they will drag us all down. They are muscle-brained oxen in human form, and just as readily put in a yoke by whip-tongued preachers.
Their blind arrogance, adrift from the solid ground of justification, is perhaps the greatest threat to humanity’s survival. Fanatics, at the heart, are creatures of intense fear, and their fear leads them to hurt, condemn, oppress and make war against anyone who is a threat; that is, anyone who isn’t kneeling next to them in obeisance to illusion.
They even embrace the “triumph” that the entire world will and should incinerate, preferably in their lifetime. Armageddon is good. They kneel down and beg for this horrible ultimate punishment. It means that Jesus is coming to whisk them to their precious heaven, while the rest of us, the heathens--gay, lesbian, bi and straight--Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Daoist, Jainist, Liberal Christian, atheist, agnostic--fry in an eternal oven.
Secretly, I suspect, many of them are happy about the torture of everyone outside the clique. We deserve it, those of us who refuse to lay down our philosophy and join in the irrational reverence of the God of Bronze Age goat herders. Verily, we have earned our reward, those of us who think that partaking of the Tree of Knowledge is a good thing, as opposed to a damning sin.
Yes, they have their victory today, by a 4% margin. But it could be worse. At least we were not voting whether black people should be slaves.
How sad it must have been for antebellum abolitionists, incessantly fighting, always losing to sick denial; and having to look each new day at humans chained up, flogged to ribbons, degraded and branded, stuffed into ships shoulder to shoulder, crammed in like abused chattel.
Yes, it could be worse. But it still needs to get better.
Marc Mutty and the Catholic Diocese of Portland should be particularly ashamed. They embody the anchor of ignorance.
However, the following passage from today's Bangor Daily News is very disturbing, and from the pro-gay-marriage side:
In a defiant speech to several hundred lingering supporters, No on 1 campaign manager Jesse Connolly pledged that his side “will not quit until we know where every single one of these votes lives.” ("Gay Marriage Repealed in Maine")
Connolly, justifiably upset, makes a stupid threat here, or what could be so interpreted. Although I'm liberal through and through, I can't condone this sort of invidious remark. Connolly should apologize to the Yes on 1 Campaign forthwith.
OWL
Somehow, despite all reasonable evidence, the adamant flocks cling to their notion of God as a heterosexual Father who will vengefully burn gays in hellfire--and anyone else who doesn’t believe and obey HIM.
How to engage with people like this? As long as they stay hermetically sealed in their unassailable dogma, thick-headed as burls, they will drag us all down. They are muscle-brained oxen in human form, and just as readily put in a yoke by whip-tongued preachers.
Their blind arrogance, adrift from the solid ground of justification, is perhaps the greatest threat to humanity’s survival. Fanatics, at the heart, are creatures of intense fear, and their fear leads them to hurt, condemn, oppress and make war against anyone who is a threat; that is, anyone who isn’t kneeling next to them in obeisance to illusion.
They even embrace the “triumph” that the entire world will and should incinerate, preferably in their lifetime. Armageddon is good. They kneel down and beg for this horrible ultimate punishment. It means that Jesus is coming to whisk them to their precious heaven, while the rest of us, the heathens--gay, lesbian, bi and straight--Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Daoist, Jainist, Liberal Christian, atheist, agnostic--fry in an eternal oven.
Secretly, I suspect, many of them are happy about the torture of everyone outside the clique. We deserve it, those of us who refuse to lay down our philosophy and join in the irrational reverence of the God of Bronze Age goat herders. Verily, we have earned our reward, those of us who think that partaking of the Tree of Knowledge is a good thing, as opposed to a damning sin.
Yes, they have their victory today, by a 4% margin. But it could be worse. At least we were not voting whether black people should be slaves.
How sad it must have been for antebellum abolitionists, incessantly fighting, always losing to sick denial; and having to look each new day at humans chained up, flogged to ribbons, degraded and branded, stuffed into ships shoulder to shoulder, crammed in like abused chattel.
Yes, it could be worse. But it still needs to get better.
Marc Mutty and the Catholic Diocese of Portland should be particularly ashamed. They embody the anchor of ignorance.
However, the following passage from today's Bangor Daily News is very disturbing, and from the pro-gay-marriage side:
In a defiant speech to several hundred lingering supporters, No on 1 campaign manager Jesse Connolly pledged that his side “will not quit until we know where every single one of these votes lives.” ("Gay Marriage Repealed in Maine")
Connolly, justifiably upset, makes a stupid threat here, or what could be so interpreted. Although I'm liberal through and through, I can't condone this sort of invidious remark. Connolly should apologize to the Yes on 1 Campaign forthwith.
OWL
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Acceptance In Nibble Poetry Mag .... Kinda
Jeff Fleming of Nibble Poetry Magazine has published me! ... Well, sort of. When I clicked on the mag for a gander, a sudden frisson hit me behind the eyes, the one I get when I unexpectedly encounter my name in print.
Yes, there was my name, and above it the cover letter I had sent to Editor Fleming, along with five hopeful poems, which were nowhere to be seen. But he had published my cover letter!
http://nibblepoems.wordpress.com/
And guess what? I’m happy about it. It might not be my poetry, but, hey, it’s my writing, right?
Aside from the substantial needs of my artsy ego, there is another reason I was happy to see my cover letter in print: I think it instructive of how to be respectful of editors. Let me explain, but first, I am proud to present my much honored and PUBLISHED cover letter:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Editor Fleming,
What's this about three novels sitting in a box in your garage? I'm
impressed (or is that aghast?)
The other thing I just have to mention is that poignant two dollar bill someone sent you on the verge of being evicted. Serious? That nearly made me cry.
My brief bio is below, and the vagrant poems showing up at your door.
Editors are the lifeblood of the poetry world, and you seem full of vigor, panache and wit, a great presence! Thank you truly for considering my work.
I bow down to you.
Most Sincerely,
[Owl Who Laughs]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Editors do an awful lot of demanding work behind the scenes. We submitters don’t see their concentration and effort, let alone acknowledge it, nearly enough. In my cover letters, I take the time to show that I’ve done some reading of the journal. I point out some things about the editor’s style that I like, and also a few topics that intrigue me.
Yes, it is true, 99.99% of the time the editors are far more important to the poetry community than the poet submitting. And yet cover letters are often completely insensitive to this.
Never lie in your cover letter, of course. Take the time to read your target journal and give deserved kudos. If you can’t find anything to compliment, well, this isn’t the journal for you, is it?
If you take the time to read, you might realize you’ve found a gem. I think this is true in the case of Nibble. Editor Fleming has incorporated elements of traditional journal and blog feed into his savvy site. He’s published some of the great people’s poets of our day, like A.D. Winans. The format of Nibble feels almost alive, a parade of fresh poems and surprises--like my cover letter suddenly showing up.
Check it out!
Yes, there was my name, and above it the cover letter I had sent to Editor Fleming, along with five hopeful poems, which were nowhere to be seen. But he had published my cover letter!
http://nibblepoems.wordpress.com/
And guess what? I’m happy about it. It might not be my poetry, but, hey, it’s my writing, right?
Aside from the substantial needs of my artsy ego, there is another reason I was happy to see my cover letter in print: I think it instructive of how to be respectful of editors. Let me explain, but first, I am proud to present my much honored and PUBLISHED cover letter:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear Editor Fleming,
What's this about three novels sitting in a box in your garage? I'm
impressed (or is that aghast?)
The other thing I just have to mention is that poignant two dollar bill someone sent you on the verge of being evicted. Serious? That nearly made me cry.
My brief bio is below, and the vagrant poems showing up at your door.
Editors are the lifeblood of the poetry world, and you seem full of vigor, panache and wit, a great presence! Thank you truly for considering my work.
I bow down to you.
Most Sincerely,
[Owl Who Laughs]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Editors do an awful lot of demanding work behind the scenes. We submitters don’t see their concentration and effort, let alone acknowledge it, nearly enough. In my cover letters, I take the time to show that I’ve done some reading of the journal. I point out some things about the editor’s style that I like, and also a few topics that intrigue me.
Yes, it is true, 99.99% of the time the editors are far more important to the poetry community than the poet submitting. And yet cover letters are often completely insensitive to this.
Never lie in your cover letter, of course. Take the time to read your target journal and give deserved kudos. If you can’t find anything to compliment, well, this isn’t the journal for you, is it?
If you take the time to read, you might realize you’ve found a gem. I think this is true in the case of Nibble. Editor Fleming has incorporated elements of traditional journal and blog feed into his savvy site. He’s published some of the great people’s poets of our day, like A.D. Winans. The format of Nibble feels almost alive, a parade of fresh poems and surprises--like my cover letter suddenly showing up.
Check it out!
Monday, November 2, 2009
Why Some People Don't Want Gay Marriage
The reason why some people don’t want gay marriage is the same reason many still don’t want interracial marriage--a longstanding bias built into their culture and reinforced by the brute weight of tradition.
And what is tradition, in this sense, except an excuse to be biased? And what is culture, in this guise, except an insidious software?
Get a clue: the human brain resembles a computer in relevant ways. It can be programmed. And the programs readily transmit from head to head, generation to generation. The process of molding children includes a good old fashioned brainwash. The goal is to habituate thought into a straight line.
Children are born malleable to facilitate the data transfer. This is evolution’s way of rewarding survival. Unfortunately these are not the best strategies, merely attempts; and when they include the baggage of religion--as opposed to, say, techniques for catching fish or cooking poison out of a certain kind of berry--they are particularly prone to inefficiency and obsolescence.
Read: injustice.
Traditional belief systems that started out as means of survival, and then mutated into sacrosanct feedback loops, have built up mountains of wrongness. Not just mistakes. Atrocious wrongness.
Think of the millennia when women went uneducated and were little more than abused servants. Think of the millennia in which gays and lesbians were condemned and destroyed. Think of the broad stretches of time when innovation, whether in art or science, was the enemy.
Think of all the wasted hope, the unheard pain, the punished truth, and the tortured innocence. From the first kingdoms of Sumer and Babylon to the McCarthyism of the US Empire, the norm has been to lock the human mind in a mental dungeon, overseen by despotic social rules.
And yes these rules have a life of their own, far beyond the strength of any one person to change them. They are the machine code of the Subconscious. In this sense, we all live together in a kind of quasi-Matrix, a lá Keanu Reeves and Laurence Fishburne.
Tradition.
Read: despicable injustice that is designed to reproduce and delude as many minds as it can. A cerebral parasite that perhaps, long ago, might have been a tad symbiotic.
Why don’t some people want gay marriage? They are programmed by a willful self-perpetuating mechanism.
Wake up, please. Become more than numb iterations.
And what is tradition, in this sense, except an excuse to be biased? And what is culture, in this guise, except an insidious software?
Get a clue: the human brain resembles a computer in relevant ways. It can be programmed. And the programs readily transmit from head to head, generation to generation. The process of molding children includes a good old fashioned brainwash. The goal is to habituate thought into a straight line.
Children are born malleable to facilitate the data transfer. This is evolution’s way of rewarding survival. Unfortunately these are not the best strategies, merely attempts; and when they include the baggage of religion--as opposed to, say, techniques for catching fish or cooking poison out of a certain kind of berry--they are particularly prone to inefficiency and obsolescence.
Read: injustice.
Traditional belief systems that started out as means of survival, and then mutated into sacrosanct feedback loops, have built up mountains of wrongness. Not just mistakes. Atrocious wrongness.
Think of the millennia when women went uneducated and were little more than abused servants. Think of the millennia in which gays and lesbians were condemned and destroyed. Think of the broad stretches of time when innovation, whether in art or science, was the enemy.
Think of all the wasted hope, the unheard pain, the punished truth, and the tortured innocence. From the first kingdoms of Sumer and Babylon to the McCarthyism of the US Empire, the norm has been to lock the human mind in a mental dungeon, overseen by despotic social rules.
And yes these rules have a life of their own, far beyond the strength of any one person to change them. They are the machine code of the Subconscious. In this sense, we all live together in a kind of quasi-Matrix, a lá Keanu Reeves and Laurence Fishburne.
Tradition.
Read: despicable injustice that is designed to reproduce and delude as many minds as it can. A cerebral parasite that perhaps, long ago, might have been a tad symbiotic.
Why don’t some people want gay marriage? They are programmed by a willful self-perpetuating mechanism.
Wake up, please. Become more than numb iterations.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Praise for Poet PJ Nights
Maine poets and journals are particularly dear to me, for that is where I dwell, in a secluded corner, no less, fifty miles from the nearest traffic light. One of the most impressive poets and editors in the entire state is PJ Nights. She has done about as much for poetry as anyone here.
For the last six years, PJ has run an outstanding journal: From East to West: Bicoastal Verse. You can find it on the web:
http://fromeasttowestbv.com/
It not only features Maine poets, but provides a bridge across the nation. Not an insular zine, content to focus on local color and parochial pride, From East To West is consistently vanguard in terms of daring work that flouts the norm, questing after a fresh lens on everything from hooved wilderness to global imbroglios and brow-knitting angst.
PJ has bolstered the value and importance of her journal through a longstanding practice: inviting writers in Maine and elsewhere to present a featured selection of their work, alongside a detailed biography. East To West is, in toto, an historically important document, where Mainers can learn about veteran poets in detail.
Her outreach has another benefit: a self-esteem boost, much needed in the rejection-fraught realm of writing. I can speak from personal experience here. PJ contacted me a few years ago, out of the blue. I was suffering through depression, pining away, and her sudden reinforcement gave me confidence and strength. She has done this for many dedicated eccentrics over the years, and deserves more kudos than she will ever get. Such is the fate of all editors, but especially the good ones.
So, in my own little way, I would like to offer a great big THANK YOU to PJ Nights for years of enriching the literary world and upping the morale of those of us who curse over a scribble-filled sheet of tormented paper.
Last but not least, PJ is a world class poet. Below is a sample. You can see her mastery of language and nuance, her ability to artistically navigate the complexities of life, exemplified in the poem below by a tortuous relationship.
You’ll also see that her writing is brilliantly triadic, joining the psychological, the scientific, and the occult. She teaches physics and has aptly employed the insights of that esoteric discipline, adding a layer of meaning to her literary canvas. The reader gets wowed by a fusion of aesthetic wordplay, existential inference, and the relativistic shape of reality itself.
Brava, PJ! A big Horned Hoot of Approval!
Owl out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
POEM BY PJ NIGHTS
towards a unified theory
what we are comes of chance collisions,
encounters with flotsam — offal and plums
floating in a flood of language we choose
what remains — the fantastic: your coat a sail
on the icy pond, you whooping and flying
on your skates as if caught in a griffin’s claws
the everyday: gossiping as we hang our wet jeans
on the line when we can’t afford the dryer
mornings are a salvo of love promises,
afternoons we come undone, spiraling apart
in our bubble chamber, evenings we calm
ourselves doing mathematics on the fingers
of clocks each day’s unspoken words
become our fluttered history, orbiting us
like the gold planets of an orrery (though much
less neatly as if gravity threatens to let go)
in night’s hallucinations we find ourselves
lassoed, one to the other
copyright PJ NIGHTS
For the last six years, PJ has run an outstanding journal: From East to West: Bicoastal Verse. You can find it on the web:
http://fromeasttowestbv.com/
It not only features Maine poets, but provides a bridge across the nation. Not an insular zine, content to focus on local color and parochial pride, From East To West is consistently vanguard in terms of daring work that flouts the norm, questing after a fresh lens on everything from hooved wilderness to global imbroglios and brow-knitting angst.
PJ has bolstered the value and importance of her journal through a longstanding practice: inviting writers in Maine and elsewhere to present a featured selection of their work, alongside a detailed biography. East To West is, in toto, an historically important document, where Mainers can learn about veteran poets in detail.
Her outreach has another benefit: a self-esteem boost, much needed in the rejection-fraught realm of writing. I can speak from personal experience here. PJ contacted me a few years ago, out of the blue. I was suffering through depression, pining away, and her sudden reinforcement gave me confidence and strength. She has done this for many dedicated eccentrics over the years, and deserves more kudos than she will ever get. Such is the fate of all editors, but especially the good ones.
So, in my own little way, I would like to offer a great big THANK YOU to PJ Nights for years of enriching the literary world and upping the morale of those of us who curse over a scribble-filled sheet of tormented paper.
Last but not least, PJ is a world class poet. Below is a sample. You can see her mastery of language and nuance, her ability to artistically navigate the complexities of life, exemplified in the poem below by a tortuous relationship.
You’ll also see that her writing is brilliantly triadic, joining the psychological, the scientific, and the occult. She teaches physics and has aptly employed the insights of that esoteric discipline, adding a layer of meaning to her literary canvas. The reader gets wowed by a fusion of aesthetic wordplay, existential inference, and the relativistic shape of reality itself.
Brava, PJ! A big Horned Hoot of Approval!
Owl out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
POEM BY PJ NIGHTS
towards a unified theory
what we are comes of chance collisions,
encounters with flotsam — offal and plums
floating in a flood of language we choose
what remains — the fantastic: your coat a sail
on the icy pond, you whooping and flying
on your skates as if caught in a griffin’s claws
the everyday: gossiping as we hang our wet jeans
on the line when we can’t afford the dryer
mornings are a salvo of love promises,
afternoons we come undone, spiraling apart
in our bubble chamber, evenings we calm
ourselves doing mathematics on the fingers
of clocks each day’s unspoken words
become our fluttered history, orbiting us
like the gold planets of an orrery (though much
less neatly as if gravity threatens to let go)
in night’s hallucinations we find ourselves
lassoed, one to the other
copyright PJ NIGHTS
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