Dear Followers, Friends, fellow Workers:

I have just begun a new blog/zine called
Chirot Zero Zine A Heap of Rubble--
Anarkeyology of hand eye ear notations
the blog is more exusively concerned than this one with presenting essays, reviews (inc. "bad reviews") , Visual Poetry, Sound Poetry, Event Scores, Manifestos, Manifotofestos, rantin' & raving, rock'roll, music all sorts--by myself and others--if you are interested in being a contributor, please feel free to contact me at
as with this blog, the arts are investigated as a part of rather than apart from the historical, economic, political actualities of yesterday, today, & tomorrow
as with al my blogs--
contributions in any language are welcome

Free Leonard Peltier

Free Leonard Peltier
The government under pretext of security and progress, liberated us from our land, resources, culture, dignity and future. They violated every treaty they ever made with us. I use the word “liberated” loosely and sarcastically, in the same vein that I view the use of the words “collateral damage” when they kill innocent men, women and children. They describe people defending their homelands as terrorists, savages and hostiles . . . My words reach out to the non-Indian: Look now before it is too late—see what is being done to others in your name and see what destruction you sanction when you say nothing. --Leonard Peltier, Annual Message January 2004 (Leonard Peltier is now serving 31st year as an internationally recognized Political Prisoner of the United States Government)

Injustice Continues: Leonard Peltier Again Denied Parole

# Injustice continues: Leonard Peltier denied parole‎ - By Mahtowin A wave of outrage swept the progressive community worldwide at the news that Native political prisoner Leonard Peltier was denied parole on Aug. ... Workers World - 2 related articles » US denies parole to American Indian activist Leonard Peltier‎ - AFP - 312 related articles » # Free Leonard Peltier 2009 PRISON WRITINGS...My Life Is My Sun Dance Leonard Peltier © 1999. # Prison Writings: My Life Is My Sun Dance - by Leonard Peltier, Harvey Arden - 2000 - Biography & Autobiography - 272 pages Edited by Harvey Arden, with an Introduction by Chief Arvol Looking Horse, and a Preface by former Attorney General Ramsey Clark. In 1977, Leonard Peltier... - # Leonard Peltier, American Indian Activist, Denied Parole And Won't ... Aug 21, 2009 ... BISMARCK, ND — American Indian activist Leonard Peltier, imprisoned since 1977 for the deaths of two FBI agents, has been denied parole ... - Cached - Similar - #

Gaza--War Crime: Collective Punishment of 1.5 Million Persons--Recognized as "The World's Largest Concentration Camp"

Number of Iraquis Killed Since USA 2003 Invasion began

Just Foreign Policy Iraqi Death Estimator

US & International Personnel losses in Iraq &Afghanistan; Costs of the 2 Wars to US

Number of U.S. Military Personnel Sacrificed (Officially acknowledged) In America's War On Iraq: 4,667

Number Of International Occupation Force Troops Slaughtered In Afghanistan : 1,453


Cost of War in Iraq


Cost of War in Afghanistan

The cost in your community

flickr: DEATH FROM THIS WINDOW/DOORS OF GUANTANAMO--Essays, Links, Video-- US use of Torture

VISUAL POETRY/MAIL ART CALL Cracking World’s Walls & Codes Concrete & Virtual

Cracking World’s Walls & Codes Concrete & Virtual

No Sieges, Tortures, Starvation & Surveillance
Deadline/Fecha Limite: SinsLimite/ongoing
Size: No limit/Sin Limite
No Limit on Number of Works sent
No Limit on Number of Times New Works Are Sent
Documentation: on my blog
David Baptiste Chirot
740 N 29 #108
Milwaukee, WI 53208

Miss Universe Visits Guantanamo: 'A Loooot Of Fun!'

Miss Universe Visits Guantanamo: 'A Loooot Of Fun!'

The current 'Miss Universe' Dayana Mendoza (formerly Miss Venezuela) and 'Miss America' Crystal Stewart visited US troops stationed in Guantanamo Bay on March 20th, the New York Times reports. Here's Mendoza's account of the visit from her pageant blog last Friday. She says the trip "was a loooot of fun!"

This week, Guantánamo!!! It was an incredible experience...All the guys from the Army were amazing with us. We visited the Detainees camps and we saw the jails, where they shower, how the recreate themselves with movies, classes of art, books. It was very interesting. We took a ride with the Marines around the land to see the division of Gitmo and Cuba while they were informed us with a little bit of history.

The water in Guantánamo Bay is soooo beautiful! It was unbelievable, we were able to enjoy it for at least an hour. We went to the glass beach, and realized the name of it comes from the little pieces of broken glass from hundred of years ago. It is pretty to see all the colors shining with the sun. That day we met a beautiful lady named Rebeca who does wonders with the glasses from the beach. She creates jewelry with it and of course I bought a necklace from her that will remind me of Guantánamo Bay :)

I didn't want to leave, it was such a relaxing place, so calm and beautiful.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Iranian Street Art///Let's Spray Paint, Not Bullets!

At this blog i have a link for Iranian Street Art that cover zines, galleries, grafitti, stickers, news from international scenes and tons more links.
Iranian Underground and Basement>

Since all Americans ever hear about Iran is that is evil and needs to be attacked the day before yesterday--
a reminder that all people bleed red and spray paint!!!

Make Art Not War!! Spray Paint Not Bullets!!!

So here are some examples from the "Street Art" section link , a blog of reports--

Fresh Stuff From APC POOL. works by Ck1 and also other friends

Fresh Stuff from Tabriz> Icepunkz

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Setembro 29, 2007

Shots taken from Spray 2007 sent by Friendz

نمایشگاه آثار هنرمندان هنر شهری و گرتفیتی در تهران بر پا شد . در این نمایشگاه پانزده هنر مند از ده کشور جهان شرکت کرده اند متن مطلب درج شده در همشهری: اینجا

First Week at Mehrin Gallery

Second ,Third and fourth Weeks at Eskis Cafe

More shoots and details on Exhibition Multimedia CD (limited Edition) Still we have 20. and Brainstorm # 8 (will be published by November 2007).

A Video Preview of Kolahstudio Spray 2007 Show in Mehrin Gallery space is available in

And all things will continue ... See Spray 2007 page for more Details:

Thanks to all participated artists:
A1one+ (IRAN)
Cilt (IRAN)
Hansel Pansel(Finland)
Pure Evil+(UK)
Sint (Finland)
Sztuka-Fabryka +(Belgium)

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Setembro 26, 2007

BaTEN Crew / Tehran

New Works by Old Baten Crew in Tehran

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Setembro 25, 2007

ABS from Isfahan

Works By ABS in Isfahan / IRAN

ABS in Sete / France . MIAM

Agosto 21, 2007

A1one and Rash

some quick works by A1one and some stencil pattern trees by Rash...

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Agosto 07, 2007


These works are some of Elfs Works from last months.We forgot to publish these nice and new experiences. and 2 images are picked up from Elf Blog...

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Julho 20, 2007

R-Ash and A1one




Julho 13, 2007

Ponic !?!

Some news From Imam Memorial Exp.way , Tehran . Ponic may be the writer or Crew Tag.

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Junho 23, 2007

A1one's Peace Pack PDF issue 3 For Downlaod

The PDF issue "Peace Pack" is just online with th 3th issue .This issue is just showing A1one 's Art.... Let's see some 25 pages alone.downlosd from A1one's home page... Download's Column

Click Her to See A1one's Web Album with Some samples of Street Works and ... [A1one's Web Album]

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Altar de Muertos

El Centro de Cultura Casa Lamm se complace en invitarle al Altar de Muertos  Imágenes de los suspiros con el canto de la tierra -------------------------- José Luis García y Carlomagno   Que se llevará a cabo el próximo martes 30 de Octubre de 2007 a las 19:30 hrs. Clausura: domingo 4 de Noviembre de 2007  Galería Planta Alta Álvaro Obregón 99 Col. Roma México DF, 06700 Teléfonos: (55) 5525-1332 y (55) 5511-0899  INFORMACIÓN Y VENTAS  Galería Casa Lamm is pleased to invite you to the opening of the exhibition: Imágenes de los suspiros con el canto de la tierra - José Luis García y Carlo Magno next October, Tuesday 30th, 19:30 hrs. in Av. Álvaro Obregón 99

Emily Jacir: "Material for a Film"

Arts, Music & Culture
Artist Emily Jacir awarded prestigious Golden Lion
Report, The Electronic Intifada, Oct 22, 2007

Emily Jacir accepting the Golden Lion award. (La Biennale di Venezia)
Emily Jacir, who participated in the 52nd La Biennale di Venezia international art exhibition, was awarded last week with the prestigious Golden Lion award. Jacir, whose ongoing installation work "Material for a film" was featured in the 2007 Biennale themed Think with the senses - Feel with the mind, was given the Golden Lion award for an artist under the age of 40.

"The award for an artist under 40 is given for a practice that takes as its subject exile in general and the Palestinian issue in particular. Without recourse to exoticism, the work on display in the central Pavilion at the Giardini establishes and expands a crossover between cinema, archival documentation, narrative and sound," stated the Bieannale's International Jury.

Jacir's "Material for a film" retraces Palestinian cultural figure Wael Zuaiter, who was the first of a series of Palestinian intellectuals and artists who were assassinated by Israeli agents in Europe. Zuaiter was murdered outside of his Rome apartment in 1972.

Jacir has written on her work, "In 1979, Zuaiter's companion of eight years, Sydney-born artist Janet Venn-Brown published For a Palestinian: A Memorial to Wael Zuaiter. One chapter, titled 'Material for a film' by Elio Petri and Ugo Pirro, is comprised of a series of interviews conducted with the people who were part of Zuaiter's life in Italy, including Venn-Brown herself. They were going to make a film, but Petri died shortly afterwards and the film was never realized. This chapter was the point of departure for my project."

Jacir employs a variety of media including film, photography, installation, performance, video, writing and sound in her work and has shown extensively throughout Europe, the Americas and the Middle East since 1994. Her 2007 solo exhibitions include: Kunstmuseum, St. Gallen, Switzerland and Villa Merkel, Esslingen, Germany 2007/08 and Alberto Peola Arte Contemporanea, Torino, Italy. She conceived of and co-curated the first Palestine International Video Festival in Ramallah in 2002. Recently she curated a selection of shorts, Palestinian Revolution Cinema (1968-1982) which is currently on tour in the United States. She is the recipient of numerous awards including a 2007 Prince Klaus Award, 2004 Lambent Foundation Fellowship, and 2005 Alpert/Ucross Residency Prize. In 2003, belongings was published by O.K. Books, a monograph on a selection of Jacir's work from 1998 to 2003. She resides between Ramallah and New York and is currently working on a narrative film.

Related Links

Poet & Solider Brian Turner:

For anyone out there who might hear the word “poetry” and cringe, or having just read the word here, immediately look to click to some other article, silently cursing this guy Turner for not sticking with the Home Fires mission — don’t worry: I am going to be writing about my time in Iraq, where I served as an infantry team leader. But Iraq is also the place where I wrote my first book of poetry — “Here, Bullet” — during my unit’s deployment there. (It was published by Alice James Books.) So today I want to look back and talk about some of the things that went on in my head then, not only fighting, but observing, witnessing and writing. Poetry.

I believe in the saying, Poetry finishes in the reader. I can (and will) tell you about some of the things I wrote in-country, there in the sand, or what was going on in my head at the time (I use my journals from back then to help refresh my memory). But in the end, I truly believe you’ll take it with a grain of salt and decide for yourself what the poem itself is all about.

Night in Blue

At seven thousand feet and looking back, running lights
blacked out under the wings and America waiting,
a year of my life disappears at midnight,
the sky a deep viridian, the houselights below
small as match heads burned down to embers.

Has this year made me a better lover?
Will I understand something of hardship,
of loss, will a lover sense this
in my kiss or touch? What do I know
of redemption or sacrifice, what will I have
to say of the dead—that it was worth it,
that any of it made sense?
I have no words to speak of war.
I never dug the graves in Talafar.
I never held the mother crying in Ramadi.
I never lifted my friend’s body
when they carried him home.

I have only the shadows under the leaves
to take with me, the quiet of the desert,
the low fog of Balad, orange groves
with ice forming on the rinds of fruit.
I have a woman crying in my ear
late at night when the stars go dim
moonlight and sand as a resonance
of the dust of bones, and nothing more.

This might read like I wrote it on a plane headed home, or even from home (Fort Lewis, Wash.), but I actually wrote it sitting in a sand-bagged bunker on an air base southeast of Mosul. My unit had already signed over our Stryker vehicles to the incoming replacement unit. We’d even signed over our bullets. I didn’t have one round left to defend myself. Of course, I didn’t really need one — the base is well-protected and we just hunkered down in those bunkers and waited and waited and waited for our plane to take us to Kuwait, home our eventual destination.

A lot of the guys sat around playing card games, dreaming out loud about what they’d do once we made it home, or they “racked-out” (falling asleep, usually on the floor, using their assault pack as a pillow). There were occasional mortar attacks — the enemy knew we were in a “target rich” environment — but as long as we were inside, the possible threat felt very remote. We were simply bored, tired, and eager to get home.

The woman mentioned near the poem’s end is not fictional: she was the wife of a man we apprehended in Balad, near the very beginning of our deployment. I saw her crying as we put him in a truck to be taken away (R.P.G.s had been confiscated from the home, along with other military equipment). An elderly woman stood beside her, cursing us, waving the bottoms of her sandals at us (a huge insult in that part of the world), and spitting at us. As I wrote this poem inside that bunker, I already knew that specific moments would revisit me over the years, and vice versa.

Not only was I involved in capturing people at times, I often helped prepare the paperwork that might one day aid the Iraqi judicial system in putting them away in prison. When I spoke of “culpability” in my last posting, this is part of what I was talking about. That is, there must be family members who curse what I’ve done, people whose lives have been deeply impacted by what I’ve been a part of.

* * *


Nathere loads the brush with river-blue oil,
mixes it with yellow cadmium and stone
to paint a sky made of light and dust,
where ravens fly and date palms open
in a burst of green, with no trunks
painted in to hold them, the shiny fronds
drifting like epiphytes on the wind.

Nathere pauses, unsure.
There is too much heat. Figures of people
fade into a canvas blur, mere phantasms
of paint, their features unrecoverable, their legs
disappearing beneath them as Nathere realizes—
there are no shadows to hold them down,
no slant and fall of shadow,
light’s counterpoint, the dark processing
of thought. All burns in light here,
all rises in heat as colored tongues
lift in flame, brushstroke by brushstroke,
an erasure the sky washes out in blue.

Not all of the poems I wrote were about the fighting taking place, or the even clearly about the wartime experience itself.

For example, I wrote “Easel” in late spring of 2004, when we were part of a task force stationed north and south of Baghdad. Our job at the time was to escort and protect huge supply convoys through Baghdad. While staying at the southern fire base, I bought a painting made by a Baghdad artist. It’s now framed and hung above the desk in my office.

I come from California’s San Joaquin valley, a place that gets fairly hot in the summertime. June through August, you can drive out on any country road and often see heat waves rising off the asphalt in the distance. This painting is ironic in the sense that, in a country that is incredibly grounded in its connections to place and history, the summer heat visually lifts distant colors and shapes in a way that seems to erase those connections.

Many of the poems I wrote in Iraq, like this one, were attempts to learn about this historically and culturally rich country, as I was experiencing it.

* * *

Katyusha Rockets

The 107s have a crackling sound
of fire and electricity, of air-ruckled heat,
and when they pinwheel over the rooftops
of Hamman al Alil
they just keep going,
traveling for years over the horizon
to land in the meridians of Divisadero Street
where I’m standing early one morning
on a Memorial Day in Fresno, California,
the veteran’s parade scattering at the impact,
mothers shielding their children by instinct,
old war vets crouching behind automobiles
as police set up an outer cordon
for the unexploded ordnance.
Rockets often fall
in the night sky of the skull, down long avenues
of the brain’s myelin sheathing, over synapses
and the rough structures of thought, they fall
into the hippocampus, into the seat of memory—
where lovers and strangers and old friends
entertain themselves, unaware of the dangers
headed their way, or that I will need to search
among them
the way the bomb disposal tech
walks tethered and alone down Divisadero Street,
suited-up as if walking on the moon’s surface
as the crowd watches just how determined he is
to dismantle death, to take it apart
piece by piece—the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.

In late summer, 2004, my unit was called out to provide a large security cordon around a reported I.E.D. in the suburbs of Mosul. It was a hot day, mid-afternoon, with a helicopter circling overhead, our snipers up on the rooftops, vehicles in defensive positions, our platoon spreading out to block off roads and access to the reported bomb site. An American soldier, one of the bravest people I’ve ever seen (and part of an Explosive Ordnance unit) walked out with a white cord tied to his bomb suit, the cord unspooling behind him, as he walked out to defuse the bomb placed in an Iraqi neighborhood, there on a wide boulevard.

That image stayed with me. Later, when my platoon was stationed briefly in a small firebase southeast of Mosul, we had a Katyusha rocket fire overhead one night, missing us but producing a very loud and distinctive sound. I fused these two moments together because I knew, even while I was still there, that the bombs exploding in Iraq would follow us home. In a psychological sense, many soldiers are returning with these bombs. Many vets will need to be defused. Many will need to find what they carry inside. This poem tries to consider PTSD (what was once called Soldier’s Heart, back in the days of the American Civil War), as well as the effects it has for all of us here at home, when the warriors return.

* * *

To Sand

To sand go tracers and ball ammunition.
To sand the green smoke goes.
Each finned mortar, spinning in light.
Each star cluster, bursting above.
To sand go the skeletons of war, year by year.
To sand go the reticles of the brain,
the minarets and steeple bells, brackish
sludge from the open sewers, trashfires,
the silent cowbirds resting
on the shoulders of a yak. To sand
each head of cabbage unravels its leaves
the way dreams burn in the oilfires of night.

I think it’s important to consider the landscape itself when experiencing a country. Many of my own preconceptions of Iraq were dismantled once I arrived in-country and conducting missions there. We saw most of the interior central corridor of Iraq, from north to south. Of course, the dry and dusty and flat image of Iraq is definitely easy enough to come by. However, I was shocked to find elephant grass and water buffalo and dense vegetation—the river valleys are lush, brimming over with life, and very beautiful.

“To Sand” is the final poem in “Here, Bullet.” When I wrote this, I felt an overwhelming sense that we, as a nation, will not learn from what is happening in Iraq. The sand itself is a process of memory in this poem, washing over and burying the specific, the historic. As the old saying goes — those who do not know their history may be doomed to repeat it.

All of these poems were written in my journals. They were an attempt to remember and to record the personal and the historical I was experiencing while in Iraq. So, even though I often wrote poems of pessimism and poems which investigate pain and loss, I share them because I’m hoping to be a small part of our country’s larger meditation on war.

Maybe we can learn. Maybe, just maybe, when the next possible conflict begins to stir somewhere in the world — maybe we’ll be a great deal more reluctant to jump the gun. Maybe, like in our own homes, we won’t reach for the gun unless we know — without the shadow of a doubt — that there simply is no other alternative for our self-protection, or for the protection of our good friends abroad.

Torture House as Studio:

Out From Behind a Camera at a Khmer Torture House

Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide

Inmates at the notorious Tuol Sleng prison, where at least 14,000 people were tortured to death or sent to killing fields.

Published: October 26, 2007

PHNOM PENH, Cambodia, Oct. 25 — He had a job to do, and he did it supremely well, under threat of death, within earshot of screams of torture: methodically photographing Khmer Rouge prisoners and producing a haunting collection of mug shots that has become the visual symbol of Cambodia’s mass killings.


View the Khmer Rouge photographs (

Back Story With Seth Mydans and Graham Bowley (mp3)
Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide

Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide

Before killing the prisoners, the Khmer Rouge photographed, tortured and extracted written confessions from their victims.

“I’m just a photographer; I don’t know anything,” he said he told the newly arrived prisoners as he removed their blindfolds and adjusted the angles of their heads. But he knew, as they did not, that every one of them would be killed.

“I had my job, and I had to take care of my job,” he said in a recent interview. “Each of us had our own responsibilities. I wasn’t allowed to speak with prisoners.”

That was three decades ago, when the photographer, Nhem En, now 47, was on the staff of Tuol Sleng prison, the most notorious torture house of the Khmer Rouge regime, which caused the deaths of 1.7 million people from 1975 to 1979.

This week he was called to be a witness at a coming trial of Khmer Rouge leaders, including his commandant at the prison, Kaing Geuk Eav, known as Duch, who has been arrested and charged with crimes against humanity.

The trial is still months away, but prosecutors are interviewing witnesses, reviewing tens of thousands of pages of documents and making arrests.

As a lower-ranking cadre at the time, Mr. Nhem En is not in jeopardy of arrest. But he is in a position to offer some of the most personal testimony at the trial about the man he worked under for three years.

In the interview, Mr. Nhem En spoke with pride of living up to the exacting standards of a boss who was a master of negative reinforcement.

“It was really hard, my job,” he said. “I had to clean, develop and dry the pictures on my own and take them to Duch by my own hand. I couldn’t make a mistake. If one of the pictures was lost I would be killed.”

But he said: “Duch liked me because I’m clean and I’m organized. He gave me a Rolex watch.”

Fleeing with other Khmer Rouge cadres when the government was ousted by a Vietnamese invasion in 1979, Mr. Nhem En said he traded that watch for 20 tins of milled rice.

Since then he has adapted and prospered and is now a deputy mayor of the former Khmer Rouge stronghold Anlong Veng. He has switched from an opposition party to the party of Prime Minister Hun Sen, and today he wears a wristwatch that bears twin portraits of the prime minister and his wife, Bun Rany.

Last month an international tribunal arrested and charged a second Khmer Rouge figure, who is now being held with Duch in a detention center. He is Nuon Chea, 82, the movement’s chief ideologue and a right-hand man to the Khmer Rouge leader, Pol Pot, who died in 1998.

Three more leaders were expected to be arrested in the coming weeks: the urbane former Khmer Rouge head of state, Khieu Samphan, along with the former foreign minister, Ieng Sary, and his wife and fellow central committee member, Ieng Thirith.

All will benefit from the caprice of Mr. Nuon Chea, who complained that the squat toilet in his cell was hurting his ailing knees and was given a sit-down toilet.

Similar toilets are being installed in the other cells, said a tribunal spokesman, Reach Sambath, “So they will all enjoy high-standard toilets when they come.”

It is not clear whether any of the cases will be combined. But even if the defendants do not see one another, their testimony, harmonious or discordant, will put on display the relationships of some of the people who once ran the country’s killing machine.

In a 1999 interview, Duch implicated his fellow prisoner, Mr. Nuon Chea, in the killings, citing among other things a directive that said, “Kill them all.”

Mr. Nhem En’s career in the Khmer Rouge began in 1970 at age 9 when he was recruited as a village boy to be a drummer in a touring revolutionary band. When he was 16, he said, he was sent to China for a seven-month course in photography.

He became the chief of six photographers at Tuol Sleng, where at least 14,000 people were tortured to death or sent to killing fields. Only a half dozen inmates were known to have survived.

He was a craftsman, and some of his portraits, carefully posed and lighted, have found their way into art galleries in the United States.

Hundreds of them hang in rows on the walls of Tuol Sleng, which is now a museum, their fixed stares tempting a visitor to search for meaning here on the cusp of death. In fact, they are staring at Mr. Nhem En.

The job was a daily grind, he said: up at 6:30 a.m., a quick communal meal of bread or rice and something sweet, and at his post by 7 a.m. to wait for prisoners to arrive. His telephone would ring to announce them: sometimes one, sometimes a group, sometimes truckloads of them, he said.

“They came in blindfolded, and I had to untie the cloth,” he said.

“I was alone in the room, so I am the one they saw. They would say, ‘Why was I brought here? What am I accused of? What did I do wrong?’”

But Mr. Nhem En ignored them.

“‘Look straight ahead. Don’t lean your head to the left or the right.’ That’s all I said,” he recalled. “I had to say that so the picture would turn out well. Then they were taken to the interrogation center. The duty of the photographer was just to take the picture.”