We rode the endless plains
in supercharged
armored people carriers,
rolling like thunder
wasting not time,
which seemed to stand still
during the firefights.

We baked like sardines
in our metal box.
Some days,
we faced the wind
from the turret,
others away from it,
from the smell of burning flesh,
those dead pakoled-foxes.

We rode the endless plains
in supercharged
armored people carriers,
rolling like thunder
wasting not time,
which seemed to stand still
during the firefights.

When I got to the hospital, the nurses told me he was still recovering from surgery for some internal injuries and this and that, but I could go see him for a bit. So I went up to his room and realized that I didn't really know what he looked like, other than blood and bruises, but I could still tell it was him by the way the bandages were wrapped around his head. "Hey Chief," I said, "howya doin'?" This time I knew he was conscious but he didn't say anything. He just gave me this look like he was saying, "Who are you?" and "How do I get rid of you?" at the same time. So I replied, "I know your name is Mitchell, but I figured the only way you'd remember me is if I called you 'Chief,' like I did before." That got his attention and he threw me this sudden, glowering stare for what seemed like a real long time, like he was trying to make up his mind about something. I thought I had ****** him off with that "Chief" crack, but then he said real soft,  "My name's not Mitchell."

     That suprised me a bit, so all I could say was, "But that's who's room this is, according to the nurses."

     "Maybe so. But that's not my real name . . . It's just a name I made up."

     "What, you on the run or something?"
    
     "Something like that."

     "And you ain't a Marine?"

     "How'd you . . . ?" Another stare, and then, "Nope. Not now. I was though."

     "I don't get it."

     "Mitchell was a name I made up when I joined the Corps . . . "

     "So, why did you make up a name? . . . You got a record?"

     "Nothin' like that . . . My real name is Irniq . . . It's an old Inuit name. When I joined up, I thought I was puttin' those days behind me."

     "Inuit . . . What's that, a kind of Indian?"

     "It means, 'People' . . . but you prob'ly think of us as 'Eskimos.' We don't like that name, so we don't use it."

     He stopped looking in my direction and kinda tilted his head back and rolled his eyes back before closing them. Then he took a few real deep breaths, and said, "I grew up in a village that was mostly hunters and fishermen. It was fun, when I was little, kind of like goin' on an adventure all the time. But as I got older, I realized how dirt poor we were and how we seemed to catch less game every season. And then I learned that our tribe owned land that the oil companies wanted to drill, and that the oil money could end our need to hunt, and get us modern, comfortable lives, but the tribe kept clingin' to their old ways. My father said it was oil that wiped out the herring habitats, and caused the seal population to crash, and was keepin' the ice away. I didn't care and thought he was a fool fightin' a losin' battle. I thought I saw the future and that he was goin' down with the past. We had terrible fights and I believed that the man who had once been this mighty hero of mine had turned into a pathetic has-been, and I didn't want to get dragged down with him. I thought that by leavin', I could somehow be part of the future. I didn't have too many places to go, so I joined the Marines."

     "Then what are you doing here?"

     He dropped his head forward, opened his eyes, locked them right on to mine, and said, "I left the Corps a couple of months ago. When I joined up, my father told me he no longer had a son. I guess I didn't really hear those words until I went back home and he shut the door in my face. My mother came out and tried to welcome me home, and get me to stay, but I knew that my father had been right all along, and that it was me who was pathetic. So I got on a bus and went as far as I could until my money ran out, and here I am."

     "What do you mean, about your father being right?"

     He closed his eyes again, brought both hands up to the sides of his face, and said, "When I was in the Corps, I got sent to Iraq. I was pretty gung ** at first, and thought I was fightin' for freedom and the way of life that I wanted, but then it just seemed to get pointless. Day after day of cat-and-mouse with an enemy hidin' in plain sight and no real purpose other than bein' there and gettin' into firefights. Then one day I was on this mission clearin' some homes of insurgents. I was leadin' a squad goin' door-to-door and not havin' much trouble 'til we went to this one house and there's this woman screamin' and tryin' to get past us. A couple of my guys had to hold her down while the rest of my squad got her family to kneel down beside her. The woman kept on screamin' and we didn't have an interpreter, so I went up to her and tried to calm her down. I told her in as soothin' a voice I could that we weren't goin' to hurt anyone, we were just lookin' for bad guys, when I saw this blur out of the corner of my eye. The woman started screamin' louder, and I turned and yelled, 'Stop!!! Stop!!!' a couple of times, but it kept movin' fast and I just reacted . . . I didn't have any time to think . . . it just kept movin' . . . and I was yellin', 'Stop!!! Stop!!!' . . . but it wouldn't stop . . . it wouldn't stop . . . it just kept movin' . . . . . . and I reacted . . . I just reacted . . . . . . and then there was my muzzle flash and this red mist . . . . . . this red mist that just erupted . . . and kind of hung there . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and then the woman wasn't screamin' . . . and I wasn't yellin' . . . . . . . . . and there was just this little boy . . . . . . . . this little boy, lyin' on the ground . . . . . . with this mush where his face used to be . . . . . . . . . . . and it was quiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . so quiet . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . until I heard this sound like nothin' I ever heard before . . . this kind of moan . . . this deep, hollow, primeval moan that kind of rumbled at first . . . . . . . . and then it grew louder . . . and louder . . . and the pitch got higher and higher . . . . . . until it turned into this ferocious gut-wrenchin' shriek that filled my head and reached way down and ripped my insides out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and every day I try to put that boy back together in my mind . . . . . . I try to see his face . . . but I can't . . . . . . . . . . . . I can't see his face . . . . . . and I can't get that sound out of my head . . . . . . . . . . . . every single day . . . . . . . . . . . . and all I can see is my muzzle flash . . . and that mist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . that godawful red mist."

<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman


******* a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,  
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing  down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released

a one way only sign

time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word  leave just this:

where is the in in
intimate?

are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?

you swear never again

until committing once more,

a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,

and the greater toll taken and paid for,

and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity

happily


<•>

9/17/17 10:55pm

For Sam Cook and Michael Lee*

While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.

When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.

The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches

and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on

Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world
So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination

those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.

I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.

And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know

There’s nothing left where this iron man once stood
At one time beasts roamed the body that’s breaking
Firefights and lacerations fed monsters
Circumstances unavoidable had known it would

Jasper always fought for what he thought should
Be wrestled for. The bruises and bullets.
His thoughts went somewhere one time but it seems
There’s nothing left where this iron man once stood

Liberty spikes, leather coats did what they could
But they couldn’t protect the Wilde man’s mind
The thousand foot stare is setting in now
Circumstances unavoidable had known it would

There’s nothing left where this iron man once stood
The Man broke the punk, Jasper Wilde gave up
Circumstances unavoidable had known he would

Drilled and enforced
You're nothing but
Dependent and controlled
And you like being told

Humanity uncloaked
Firefights stoked
Denial is justice
Denial of malice

You're the children
of hammered satire
Automatons on fire
Automatons and liars

You run around the world
But you're not asunder
You're the atlas too
The weight is on your shoulder

Prententious thoughts
Remembrance is fraught
Denial is justice
Denial of malice

You're the children
of limbless desire
Automatons on fire
Automatons and liars

And thats all you are
All flesh and bone
Only an automaton
Only an automaton

Fire! Thunder! Lightning! Rain!

The Beast is approaching
We’ve come here for fame
Firefights flashing
For victory or shame
Stray bullets roaming
They search for a name
I feel the ground shaking
The snipers take aim
Auditory vibrations
Echoes from the grave
Oh Father who art in Heaven,
Save us this day!
Blasts cascading!
Explosive points made…

IT’S COMING!! FIRE! FIRE AT WILL!!
THE TIME HAS NOW COME TO **** OR BE KILLED!!


Blood seeps from the ground
Dead bodies are floating
Pools of death
The prophets are screaming
The sky goes dark
The wind has stopped blowing
I look at my chest
I see that I’m bleeding


Doctor, DOCTOR! SAVE ME…I’m pleading!!

This wound is too deep
These hills are too steep
We all feared the day
We were slaughtered like sheep

This vessel is broken
This wound sits wide open
Recall to yourselves
The words that were spoken

When will it fall?
Why are we failing?
How is it winning?
God take me!


I'M FADING!!

He had only been home from the war for six days when she knocked on his door. He had been contemplating suicide. Sworn to secrecy by law and strange spooks with dead eyes, he couldn't tell her that. Whatever wounds he had suffered were his to bear alone and would be for many years. Still, his world was so turned upside down by the madness he had just escaped that her unexpected arrival seemed appropriate.

San Francisco, 1972; not the halcyon hippie days, but the lull shortly thereafter. It was a good place to be, safe and cheap. Much better than upland Laos with its piles of dead ***** and terrifying firefights. His apartment at Geary and Van Ness cost $275 dollars a month and felt like a sanctuary.

And there she stood, even more beautiful at nineteen than she had been at fifteen when they first made love on the grass in their hometown cemetery beside the Civil War memorial near the pile of cannon *****. You don't turn down a vision.

Come in, he said, and she didn't so much enter as flutter back into his scarred life. Her traveling companion, a nondescript hippie wannabee, stood beside her. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and he disappeared.

That night, they made love like tigers. All the unspent lust accrued in battle erupted out of him and flowed into her. He wasn't gentle or considerate or skillful. When they ******, he smelled cordite, heard choppers beating and saw bloated corpses. It was like another deadly encounter in the bush, ferocious and abrupt. What she made of it, he couldn't tell, but she was more than game.

He had orders for Germany, but that was weeks away. They spent those weeks mostly in bed, as only the very young can manage, doing it every way they knew or could imagine. That tornado of desire took the edge off his rage and sense of betrayal. It may have saved his life.

Later, when he flew away, she stood and waved, astonishingly lovely in a miniskirt, her long chestnut hair flowing. She had no idea what she had done.

Things changed. It was decades before they really talked again. By then not even her name was the same, if she even really had one. Although their lives had long diverged, the connection remained, name or not. When he saw her, after all that time, all those bodies, all those endless miles, she was exactly the same girl who had knocked on his door those thirty-six years gone and he knew in that instant that nothing true ever really dies.
- mce

Rhythmically reducing time
for you
for I.  
Coagulation increasingly lessens the beat.  

Off-written and wrecked,
We can’t turn home as
Junkies and
Dealers.
This home,
Washed out in familial gossip of relapse and resurge
After our firefights
Against venomous appetites.
Yet here we light this pipe, you and I,
With a reprise of shell-shocked war stories
Reanimating the grind
Of addiction’s battle.

Promise by the world,
A mind’s conviction and a 12-step program
Would naturally manifest in abstinent purity
And after,
Serenity.

Through the itch
Still
We are lumbering on, yet raging.
Violently insisting that these dreams are vouched for and
Stances held
       Should leave our slicked soles immobile.

Smooth winds crinkling past twigs
And I with you, my dealer,
Am a lubricated branch on smooth-weathered granite grade.

In descent I tear at the throat with embarrassed tears.
Cries that only slicken the stone.
So of it, I swallow what will fill,
And beg you to do the same.
As fingernails rip from flesh
In grip of a still frame I can hear the 12-step program bid out again.  
“Let there be sweat till the clouds run red.
Let trailing beads glisten while
I the blossom
Begin budding in the fall.”

I was in 4th grade
when I met A.J.
he had chestnut hair like his father
that swept down to his chin.

He was a golden gloves boxer
with lightning fast fists.

We played tackle football and shot  pool together.

At night we dressed like infantry men
and dashed out there
in the bushes and trees
mixed up in serious battle.

A.J. would borrow his dad's combat gear,
flashlights , blankets, etc...

His father was a short, skinny guy
who served in Vietnam

a constant, intense blaze seemed to burrow way down deep to his core.

I knew he had been through something Ginormous over there.

He killed a lot of people that much I knew, but he had also witness friends die and after seeing that
something inside him must have snapped,

a rainbow bridge falling forever into a cataclysmic darkness.

I never got too close to him
a clear intuition always warned me
to keep my distance.

There was a rumbling warning in his volcanic eyes that told me
He never really left the jungle.
Some vital part of himself was still over there.

His screams slashing through his dreams
still riveting his head into the swollen firefights that made demons
crawl inside his lonely foxhole.

I always had great respect and admiration for A.J.'s Father.
I used to hear those bloodcurdling screams at night when I slept over.
I have never heard screams like that since.

My heart would pour out to him in those long washing mind wanders
you get when you're cocooned in ripe silences
and
the heavy texture of the world seems to vanish
and all you have is the lonely ripples of quiet, secret love
washing to your shore banks.

I loved the man you see.
Even when he lost it.
Even when he beat A.J. to a pulp once.
His foxhole eyes intoxicated with whiskey & war & loss.

It was then and there in that horrible moment that I seemed to really see
how war had come and carved him up, left him still a prisoner in his cramped one bedroom apartment.

I saw him still fighting
a deadly riot within himself.
His demon still trolling jungles for the enemy, or his lost friends, or Rainbow bridge.

Whatever it was I still think of him today sometimes
wanting to understand him more.

Maybe it was that damaged, haunted look he always had in those more than troubled
quaking eyes of his that always made me wonder what he had seen and did.

What cruel monsters were still digging through this poor man's soul
when he had seen the world darkly end?

What red line of unforgiveness kept tugging at the corners of his blasted out heart?

I still lie awake at night wondering, hoping he has found peace.


© 2014 Scott Lee

You sit there with a fixed stare, the thousand yard don't care, but your mind's left behind in the firefights you went through,
and they watch you, tut-tutting, he should be put in a home, someone buts in and says, but he's a general or he might have been if he'd not seen the things that he'd seen.

and you listen there with the fixed stare
and all you hear is fear.

He survived the firefights
and near misses,
so many that his brothers-in-arms
thought he was charmed,
invisible to Death

Came home after
his third and final tour
and died with a gun in his mouth