Mister Lucky

When he was in Nam
got transferred
from Danang to some
dinky dao airport down South
in east jesus on the coast
of nowhere.
He was short, but, pissed,
thinking they needed an
air ground controller there,
like Custer needed more Indians,
and he was stuck all by his
lonesome with a bunch of strange
hand jobs he didn't know from shit.
Two weeks later,
he was sucking in the smoke
of many dreams,
trying hard not to cry, or
be as paranoid as he felt,
trying hard to feel lucky,
being the only guy in his
former unit left alive after
that base at Danang got overrun,
and some serious shit hit the fan,
"Jesus, fuck, Man, shit……"
was all he could think to say since
he heard the news, and he felt as if
he'd been fucked royal up the ass
in the jungle by Sir Charles himself.
Hadn't slept in four days,
'cause every time he shut his eyes
the screams of the dying men he knew
at that base, woke him up into this
place that was so much worse than
bad dreams.
Guys who saw how he was sd.,
"He was a walking Section 8
waiting to happen. As good as dead
as far as the army was concerned."
"He was better off dead.
At least then it would all be over
and he wouldn't have to think about it
anymore.”



Unknown Soldier

He was born on the Fourth of July
beaten at student demonstrations
in Madison
Chicago
Columbia

He was shot at by national guard
troops at Kent State
arrested and confined in solitary
after Jackson State

Bitten by police dogs at civil rights
marches in Alabama
Mississippi
Georgia

He was Vietnam Veteran for Peace
at anti-war marches
well into the 70’s

Was tear gassed
billy clubbed
pepper sprayed

But he never gave up
and he came back
and you can see him marching now

He is your father,
brother
uncle
cousin
on crutches
with prosthetic limbs
riding in a wheelchair

Follow him and
shake his hand
if he has one




Flashback

"I beat the bottle but
     I can't beat the war"
          after an acrylic on canvas
               by Ron Mann

30 years after
the fact a lawnmower
two yards over
backfires and just
like that I'm back
in-country sucking
in lawn chemicals
instead of air,
all that fertilizer
for a mind on a
perpetual edge
recalling an agent
orange dawn that
colors all the jungle
a dark unnatural
light like the hand
of death pressing down
the sharp, bladed
grass next to a
recently roto-tilled
garden plot, that
graveyard for lost
crops, plowed under
plants, dead soldiers
composted a dark, rich
loam thick with earth
worms fattened on
the rotting skins
of the dead