"apc" poems
Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
I'd love to take this beast home,
I could drive over anything,
knock down trees,
blow like the breeze
through concrete.
In fact,
I could destroy
the whole town
with one of these
& a Ma Deuce.
Think about it,
leaving tracks all over
the rival schoolyard
would be trick,
but really,
what kind of a ********
would bring home an APC?
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
To see just how far I have come from harm
I just look down at the fading scars of my arm
the burn of the flame has cooled
and showed me what in my psche ruled
for now I’ve been schooled
in emotions
fooled
by illusory oceans
I go through the motions
as spirit shows me what’s right
and guides my poor eyes to sight
It is imperative to fight
to live
with authentic shivs
People cry and ask what gives?
Simple thought ships
neurotransmit APC clips
to be played and looped
with these blips, beeps, and boops
Cylab v2.0
this collective insaenity has brought you a show
for those who don’t know
about life and love
the difference between sharing a laugh or a shove
gazing quietly above and be grateful
not hateful
towards both spirit and shameful
This is a plea to understand the thoughts so disdainful
so let these molecules of thought rearrange you
to reconsider a few memories that stain you
tie die the stain
to transmogrify the pain
learn to laugh
learn to cry
hold your friends close
while you fly high
but most of all
never say good bye, until the day you are ready to die
these are the lessons I’ve learned
and the distance I have covered
on my journey to become
the epitome of a lover.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Rain plummeting
like rivets.
Seated in the mud,
soaked beyond notice,
beside a fried APC hulk,
eating cold C-Rations
with my ***** fingers.
Eyes like vacant windows.
This photograph
can never fade.
mce
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
Photos
The larger than life SAS patrol saw the explosions.
They danced and flickered and sang like a drum.
Then silence.
They know we're here.
Later, the SF men came across their enemy.
A thousand angry ragged heads.
All lined up and armed for suicide.
The SAS get captured!
World's best captured by muzzahs.
Lined up themselves, a speech is given.
Muzzah leader goes on about Allah and all.
Trooper Captain has a plan: a mad one.
A roll call will be made.
When Rollbottom's name is called, it's time.
He'll drop his trousers and moon his ****
It'll be cold as they're so high up.
It begins.
Rollbottom?
Here Sir.
He got his chance to shine.
No longer a tour guide for no one but me.
Make us proud, friend.
Moons his **** and dances...
Later. The captured muzzahs, one thousand of them, are stressed.
In an American Gitmo stress position.
There's no escape!
Some do try in a French built Russian 'tank'.
It slides on the ice.
Tumbles off the edge of the mountain.
It's a four mile almost vertical drop to the bottom.
All eyes see the APC fall, becoming smaller.
It bounces a couple of times off cliffs.
Only stopping at the very bottom.
No fire but distant clangs.
No more escapes!
Over the edge with most of their arms.
Later. The SAS mission continues.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 9:54 AM UTC