There are few moments when I believe in god.
Not necessarily because of moments of piety.
But right when I hear a remote jet sound of those
Big Ugly Fat *******, eight engines a piece
I realize god’s fury becomes a reality.

The BUFFs finally reach their prey
And I hear someone yell
“Boy today sure is the day!”
As we hide our heads in the bunkers
The ****** ground quivers and shivers

If I had looked up into the mighty blast
I would have seen the scorched red earth
Scarred deeply with the big ***** of fire
But the sounds and trembles are enough for me
Because what needed to be scarred was the ground, not me

The blasting jet thunder and the deadly steel rain
Should be enough to blow away Charlie
The concussions alone would waste them
So we’ve all thought
Only to be proven wrong the next day by the NVA

I sometimes dream of driving my Camaro back home
Because it reminds me of what’s left in my soul
So I tried to talk with my best buddy Jim McCole
But as I glance into his head with a ******* hole
I realize once again this is hell with no parole

His legs are hairless.
He's the strongest man I know.
Inside his mind he's 18 again, trapped in a constant battle against a now aged enemy.
He's a father, grandfather even.
He sits with his back to the exit, making sure he can protect us.
He is haunted but proud.
He came home on ships full of broken toy soldiers, wound tight and released into an unknown land.
They returned him in less than pristine conditions, cracked and frayed from a war they did not ask for.
His fears and dark thoughts settle in the lines in his face and on the thick skin on his fingertips.
Pill after pill, meeting after meeting, he is tired.
He wants to wash away the things he's seen that he cannot repeat out loud to us.
"He stirs in his sleep." She says.
Trouble and reoccurring demons fighting battles behind his restless eyelids.
He fought for my future.
He fought for my freedoms.
He is my troubled soldier.

No, I was in the play.  I didn’t like it.
The plot, setting, and characterization
Were all wrong, and the clumsy denouement  
Was poorly written and acted.
                                                           “Macbeth.”

War profiteers from John Wayne to Ken Burns
Have claimed my illegal war for their own
"Hell hath no fury like a non-combatant"  
Beyond that, the VA is ashamed of me

So, thanks, but no. I'm good.  Bitter, but good
For I was in the play.  I didn’t like it.

Kissinger's in the House today,
trailing choking ****** fumes
kicking aside limbless tiny bodies
too, too innocent by far,
all dripping entrails & shattering
dry bones gladly underfoot
as he lopes horrendously
all death rictus grin & such
as he once again justifies
to St Peter at the gates
the millions crushed, obliterated
blown into tiny misty red fragments
as he played his all-mighty diplomatic
history lessons on a helpless, distant
once green & fertile land.

Forgiveness? Ha!

Thu used to live in Saigon. When the war ended,
she had fallen in love with a boy who lived next door to her.
He was her first love. He would write love poems to her.
Sometimes they would hold hands.
Once they shared a kiss.
They were young and deeply in love.
But as the war finished, they moved on from each other.
The boy went to live with his family in Australia, while she moved to America.
After they broke up, Thu would still think about him.
He was the one who dumped her.
The breakup crushed her heart.
But she didn’t let it mar her dignity.
Time passed, Thu moved to Virginia
and she went to high school in Fairfax County.
The letters started pouring in from the boy.
But she had too much pride and she didn’t respond until one day.
That was the day that John Lennon was murdered
in cold blood.
She was heartbroken like every other person in the world.
Yet, she also thought of the boy and how much he loved John Lennon.
Thu remembers reading the newspaper, seeing John Lennon’s face
on the front page of the paper.
She took a pair of scissors
and cut a square around John’s face.
Then she wrote a letter to the boy.
And then she sealed the newspaper clipping and the letter in an envelope.
Begged her mom over the phone to send the letter to the boy.
Her mom was still in Saigon and somehow she made contact with the boy.
And she gave the letter to him.
A month later, she opened the mail and there was a letter from the boy.
She read the letter, stifled a cry, and then proceeded to write.
The next day she sent the letter.
Thu was happy to read his words.
It was as though she could hear his voice through his sentences.
Like he was there next to her, looking at her,
speaking to her spirit.
Days passed.
Weeks passed.
And then after a month, she realized he wasn’t going to respond back to her letter.
She couldn’t believe that he didn’t give her a response.

“And that’s the end of the story,” Thu said to her son.
“What do you mean that’s the end of the story? That can’t be the end!”
“Well you’re the writer, right? Think of an ending.”

So frightful beautiful harridan
your extended & startling tongue
red rapturous rolling eyes
dark, dark skin,

sword, sickle & trident
already stained,
dripping ...
& lapped by the dogs
at your Divine feet.

Around your neck
glazed eyed
silent,
threaded, beaded
blank faced,
your victims skulls,

surprised no doubt,
at your swiftness,
caught in mid-flight
in activities bold
& terrible.

Lieutenant William Calley,
Captain Ernest Medina,
Lieutenant Frank Barker,
So, so many from Charlie Company
guilty on that fateful day
in My Lai 4
South Vietnam
March 16
1968.

A man from work
Is going to Vietnam.
I’ve been before.
I fell off a scooter.
I warned him:
‘Careful of those bikes.’
He winked.
He misinterpreted my advice.

I reminded him to get his jabs:
‘Yellow fever will get you.’
He winked.
He thought I was being blue.

I recommended a reputable masseuse:
‘Wonderful hands. Ask for Luu.’
He winked.
He misconstrued my review.

He told me:
‘My mission is to tan.’
‘Agent Orange,’ I joked.
He didn’t understand.

Oh yes ...
no its true,
******* & dancin' at Studio 54,
just like a jungle patrol with ever present
chance of immediate death
or dreadful injury
from claymore mines
or ****-smeared
bunji sticks,
or a bullet from nowhere
that shatters your head
and leaves your brains
all over
the man
behind you.

Oh yes ...
no really,
seducing an upcoming starlet
in his luxury pad,
well its just like
coming across
the charred
remains of
napalmed children,
weeping mothers
shell-shocked granmas,
no! ... it is!

Oh yes ...
seriously,
dining on rare steaks,
lobster & caviar
in his effort to
impress and
get a piece,
is just like
cold rations,
wet clothes,
leeches,
& festering
oozing wounds.

Oh yes ...
uh huh fa sure,
Trump's New York days
compare so well
to 58,000 U.S dead
and oh yes,
several million Vietnamese,
bombed,
shot,
obliterated,
incinerated.

Oh yes.
Donald J. Trump,
had it hard,
by God
he did.

A tiny boy races through a village, with
fragile arms carrying books, papers, 
maybe a pencil or two. He's hugging
the world with bright eyes, while
stumbling through the morning light,
traveling aimlessly in a field of 

ash.

Never looking down at animals'
hopeless faces, flesh blown away 
by the bombs of freedom, the
scorching heat smearing morality,
changing what should be,

what shouldn't be.

But here he is still, his shadow in the
haunts from forgotten tears

no older than I.