Tag Archives: law

indicted again and again

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4th indictment:

https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/read-the-full-georgia-indictment-against-trump-and-18-allies

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Run, Duty, Run!

by

Sp4 Clyde Collins

Caducean Newspaper

Tripler Army Medical Center

early 1980’s

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     It was April 27, 1981, the first day of the 5-day Army Physical Readiness Test (APRT) at Tripler Army Medical Center on the outskirts of Honolulu.  Pvt. 2 Donald Duty, inspiration specialist, Poetics Lab, was one of many Tripler personnel between the ages of 17 and 25 attempting to run two miles under 17 minutes and 55 seconds ~ to continue being a soldier.

     Run, Duty, run like a rabbit, like a deer!

     The young feller’s self-imposed training routine had petered out.  Lately his most rigorous exercise consisted of cutting his meat or waiting for an elevator.  Now he was sorry as his legs grew as heavy as a dead-end romance ~ and as his aching lungs burst into flames upon an endless road of lonely pain.

     Run, Duty, run like a sad musical note!

     The private still had a looooooong way to go when PFC Denise Daisy, ward clerk on Ward Pluto (where all the patients are always happy), passed him by.  Being a 19-year-old female, Daisy had to run two miles in 22 minutes and 14 seconds to continue being a soldier.  Duty’s ears burned to a crisp with shame.

     Run, Duty, run like a ~ oops!

     Duty tripped and fell and rolled in the dirt.  A good soldier, passing by, yanked up Duty by the hair and set him on his feet again.  “Thanks,” foamed Duty at the mouth, as this fellow and three more left him floundering in their dust.  He who was totally out of shape, was still running, but a lot slower than most people walk.

     Come on, Duty!

     Pretty soon his head was bumping along the ground in front of his slowly trudging feet, he was that bent over with exhaustion.  He realized how pathetic he was when he could not even catch up to a red Hawaiian centipede that was crawling in front of him.  A trade wind finally happened along ~ and this warm breeze from across the Pacific knocked Duty over.  He lie there and melted into the ground like a cube of butter under the sun.

     Two sergeants strolled up and peered down at what was left of the private who had neglected to stay in good physical condition.

     “We need a shovel to pick this guy up,” said one sergeant.

     The other sergeant slowly nodded.  “And a wheel-barrel.”

~

DUTY WORLD

1980-1984

~

always looking like he’s got the blues II

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3rd indictment:

Click to access trump-indictment.pdf

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Dreaming

About

The

Infantry

~

by

Sp4 Clyde Collins

Caducean Newspaper

Tripler Army Medical Center

early 1980’s

~

     PFC Donald Duty, inspiration specialist, was sliding along a pink-painted wall of a hall of Tripler Army Medical Center on his way back to the Poetics Lab, after having accomplished another mission, when he became engulfed in ~ the blues.

     He was tired of having to tiptoe around pregnant women racked with the pain of Eve, the teeter-tottering elderly, and wheelchair victims involuntarily acquainting themselves with the slow lane (after having broken their bones in the fast lane).

     He was oh sooooooo tired of working indoors day after day and the “soothing” color of pink.

     Duty was duty-ed out.

     So the mind of Duty faded from the scene and disappeared into a dream ~ the kind of dream a person dreams with eyes open ~ lasts maybe two minutes ~ ends when maybe soomebody waves a hand in front of the dreamer’s face and says, “Wake up!”  In this moment, the young inspiration specialist, as he walked along the TAMC hallway, dreamed about being in the infantry ~ the mighty, mighty infantry!

     He dreamed about singing cadence in harmony with a platoon of “real” soldiers bursting at the seams with espirit de corps while marching through a country villa; the physical exhilaration of digging a fox hole or erecting a tent; and sleeping in the woods with the best music on earth ~ nature’s…

     Duty dreamed of working up a true sweat, crawling in the mud, getting good n’ dirty and spitting chewing-tobacco juice while learning what every red-blooded American male ought to know ~ combat/survival skills ~ and learning to know them like the back of his hand.

     And while beating the bush, living a life that’s real fun because its real tough, oh boy, wouldn’t Duty shout some wildly colorful curses.  With a burr in his pants and a mosquito bite on his nose, Duty would truly be walking poetry ~ in the infantry!

     Back in the labyrinthine halls of Tripler, Duty’s floating feet came to an abrupt halt.  He blinked and turned around.  That girl he had just passed ~ a patient ~ she had her bathrobe all tangled up in her portable IV pole.  Standing alone, she was trying to put the robe over her pajamas ~ not faring too well, seeing as she had an IV tube attached to her wrist.

     Duty retraced his steps and said to her, “Uh, want some help?”

     The girl ceased her trembling efforts and, like a neon light, blushed with a sudden smile.  Duty helped her out.

     “Thank you so very much!” she said.

     “No sweat,” said Duty ~ and he continued on his way to the Poetics Lab, committed to the job that awaited him there.

~~~

DUTY WORLD

1980-1984

~~~

always looking like he’s got the blues

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~ OLD TIMER CHRONICLE ~
What About The Oil?
reported by Cloyd Campfire
Febuary 2008
  
I got a message from Martha Morningstarofthevalley a few hours after dawn. She couldn’t get Davy Crockett Reincarnated out of bed. He had one last thing to do for the January issue of the Old Timer Chronicle ~ he had to write an editorial about oil. What about oil? Beats me. He was supposed to be writing it ~ not me.
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Martha had tried a bucket of water in the face ~ a kick in the ribs ~ everything. But Davy wouldn’t wake up. So I hopped on my donkey & clippity-clopped over there to see if I could do anything. I tried a hammer to the skull but the hammer shattered. I grimaced with exasperation. “Hell, I don’t know what’s going on here, Martha.”
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“We have to do something.” She pouted in her provacative captivating every-day manner. “The Old Timer is due at the printers today!”
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Then, suddenly, our illustrious editor began talking and, at the same time, levitating above the bed. He seemed to be, with his eyes closed, in some kind of trance.
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Davy said to God knows who, “Why do we allow the cruel privatization of the commons by greedy capitalists, you ask? Because we’re damned fools! What this nation must maintain is a strong socialist net to impede the falling of poor folks through the underlying cracks of cannabilistic capitalism. If those ass-holes in the White House & their money grubbing & brainless backers want merciless class-warfare, they got it, by gum! They got it!”
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“Oh no, Cloyd!” Tears welled up in Martha’s eyes. “Davy’s talking to space aliens again.”
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“But what about the oil?” said I.
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“Fuck the oil,” said Martha…
.

indicted

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Read the full 2nd indictment here.

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And Another Child Is Born

by

Sp4 Clyde Collins

Caducean Newspaper

Tripler Army Medical Center

early 1980’s

~

     Old Tyrone’s wife wanted him to have the operation.  The operation might prolong his life another year or two or three ~ or it might not.

     Pvt. Donald Duty, inspiration specialist, Poetics Lab, had even stood at the foot of Tyrone’s bed at TAMC and sung him an original lyric to encourage the aged feller to have a go at it.

     And the doctors were ready.

     But the brittle bones and shrinking belly of 101 year old Tyrone were playing another kind of tune on his interior banjo.  Also in one of his recent dreams an angel had winked at Tyrone.

     So he refused the operation, checked out of the hospital.

     Without informing a soul, the antiquated patriot managed to grip his walking cane and hobble fragilely onto a jet airliner headed for the mainland.

     In Los Angeles, assisted by two younger passengers, Tyrone boarded a bus.  Helped by the driver, Tyrone disembarked the bus in the middle of the desert and in the midst of a flagrant sunrise.

     Pale as a communion host, the waning veteran plodded into the desolate scenery that reminded him of a picture post card.

     Two miles later he collapsed.  Tyrone stretched his spindly legs across the sandy earth, leaned back against a boulder, took a long look at the sky and bowed his head.  “All I ask of dying is to go naturally,” he muttered.

     A ragged vulture, perched atop a tall cactus plant nearby, turned his head.

     And at the same moment that Tyrone’s last breath of life dissipated in the desert heat, back on Oahu at Tripler’s Labor and Delievery another child was born.

~

DUTY WORLD

1980-1984

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