How Fine It Tasted
On The 4th
Before ever shipping to Nam
I lived in an old haunted trailer just
outside the landing strip at McCord,
in Puyallup, Washington,
where Doc Severnsen's Jonquils grow;
where every day -- every night big
black jets laden with bags
of boys shrilled in over my head
from the place I was coming to ...
to replace one of those men
to be dead at McCord!
'How sad,' they say,
shaking their heads in pity,
'He died so young.'
But I am here to tell you,
surviving friends so young
...is no picnic either!
...and if anybody asks
he was caught in the act
of doing everything
possible to survive,
while doing everything
possible to bring light
to a darkened World!
"Don't lay that crap on me,"
I hear, "He 'GAVE' His Life...
...He made the ultimate Sacrifice!"
No, he probably didn't, you son of a bitch...
In order for it to be a personal GIFT
there must be a decision to GIVE;
in order for a sacrifice to be GIVEN,
one must be consciously aware
of the potential for dying, and CHOOSE,
knowing DEATH is the likely outcome,
Everyone else is KILLED,
or 'SACRIFICED' by Higher Command...
usually seeking promotion...
believing otherwise helps
the Smoks cover their asses
and betrays the dead suckers
and their naive/sucker loved ones
being manipulated by cynical
corporate Pentagon Types!
In the beginning,
after the nothingness,
the muffled sounds,
dim lights, dizzying motion,
straining and yelling,
the stinging slap,
panic, fear, pain, disorientation,
the sudden intake of first breath,
gagging, choking, and screaming,
then startled by
the near-by voice saying,
'It�s a boy.'
In the end,
Death is loss,
the absolute end of Being;
of Self!
Friends worth
more than life disappearing,
replaced by strangers
becoming friends replaced...
Terror of Dying,
like when I fast froze
in my first daylight fire fight
face down in brown-gray water
and ooze eight inches deep, rice and stink,
filling my mind and soul,
is the last thing you feel
before innocence dies,
zapped from existence by the terror
of certain, iminant extinction,
and abruptly,
Death becomes no longer
as frightening as Dishonor;
as Being struggling to survive itself,
thinking nothing worse can happen,
than simply ending life,
but whether you are facing,
or evading your nemesis,
will be recognized,
by your friends and
family when they find your body.
So,
how do you want your Body found?
Now laughing at things
that will terrify my wife
when next we meet...
who loved a different man,
no longer coming home...
...saying nothing,
through eyes
seeing from beyond feeling....
To a dead stranger
she clings more than to life;
we parted,
but won't know this yet
for three more months,
six days,
and a wake up!
We do it to ourselves
you know,
as we do it to them;
granting Miss America's
na�ve, romantic wish for World Peace
...with bayonets,
Freedom
...with bullets
and fire
...teaching
the American way
of rebuilding The World
in our own "civilized" image;
We, The Minions
of the "Good Shepherd"
without want in green pastures,
where the costs of loving increase
is tallied by how high
the bodies are piled bloating; naked
by cold blind rage in the square
the day after an ambush,
calling it 'JUST,�
a 'JUST' act of war;
'JUST' an act of war,
we called it lawful; therefore innnocent,
reveling in our utter meanness,
our merely numb revenge;
grief driven slaughter,
hardly as cold as it felt at all,
if one realizes how
Denial represses consciousness,
but that is how our killing
usually gets done,
that, and because we are petrified.
More's the pity when it isn't...
like when it is a trophy sport,
or as one flushes a toilet,
to rid one's soul of putrescent
unacknowledged guilt,
or when all hope is gone
and only
making a solitary stand
is left to pursue
as Death bears down,
and a weird thing happens,
in the midst of blasting sounds,
light, and revolting smells,
stinging sweat, and
the quiet inner
euphoric calm
of one certain of his final place,
an erection forms,
then against odds, you survive
and there is no way back...!
Last night I heard the "Fuck-You-Frog".
He wasn�t more than a few meters away
taunting, "Fuck you...Fuck you...Fuck you,"
loud as he pleased in a voice
I couldn�t locate in the dark to shoot,
even if I could break silence to shoot,
a frog...out there...
the same mocking voice I think
I heard in the beginning,
"It�s a boy..."
singing, "Greetings,
(CONTINUED NEXT COLUMN)
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See the DMZ, in your APC,
America�s, asking you, to die...."
...after I'm Dead I won't
be able to turn my body around
the way I want it to face,
so I figure I better be facing
the right way the first time....
Lately, it�s been quiet.
Villagers smiling and bowing
over and over and over
as our file approaches their homes,
some may record such pleasantness
as gratitude to their saviors,
but these scribes are idiots
or demon seed of a higher evil!
The villagers� children
at play, thrilled, dancing,
teasing a tethered, frightened monkey
laughing gleefully
at his terror and helplessness,
glee gone suddenly from dead eyes
that do not flinch
only the irises narrow
as suddenly as we appear,
looking more and more
like us each passing day
they run to us happy
begging for chop-chop,
bringing combs, lighters,
sun glasses, big sisters,
bags of dope, Pepsi,
Coke, and flags to sell,
but don't throw those awful
wax filled Tropical Hershey Bars,
cause you're likely to get one zinged
back that'll put out an eye.
Vietnamese kids aren't stupid!
I named my son after him
the next day when I heard
of his birth; the man who saved
me twice, spraying
pink frothy bubbles through the hole
in his chest; crashing face
down into paddy mud
gasping his final breath, 'Shit...!',
before I can catch him,
turning his head,
holding me cold in his sightless...
hand stretched out toward...
Oh, God...!
Reaching out to him,
clasping his warm fingers,
something passes, a shock,
quick,
fleeting; like a
dry heave leaving me
...returning
like a chill,
whispering wind
in my chest, 'Take me Home...
please...',
rasping...abruptly frightened.
Fear,
like when I fast froze
in my first daylight fire fight
face down in water and ooze,
rice and stink filling my mind and soul,
is the last thing you feel
before innocence dies,
zapped from existence by the rush
and euphoria of vengence fufilled;
the abrupt Horror at my
ability to thrill so at the Deed
and Death becomes no longer
as frightening as Dishonor;
as Being struggling to survive itself,
thinking nothing worse can happen.
Startled, I jump up!
All around us ARVN bullets whizzing,
whispering, plopping, zinging
off the water, sunlight bright
through tender waterlogged leaves,
into the water....pflunk....pflunk
ziiinnnggg�ffffftttt�....pflunk!
Glaring rage clenching my fists....
others souls rising
from the rice like zombies,
the Dead and the Walking Dead,
reaching out,
whispering,
'Take me home, too. Take me home, too.'
'WHAT?' I said aloud then...
And they all turned to look
at Me, startled,
and at each other.
'We didn�t say anything,' they said.
So I put away my pen and the log book,
refilled my bowl and just smoked,
and thought about how when I was a kid
my Dad made
ice cream in an old
wooden bucket ice cream maker
with a crank on the side
we took turns cranking;
he filled with ice and rock salt
after we filled the center
with cream and peaches,
putting the top on tight.
How fine it tasted on the 4th.
...and other souls stand,
rising from the rice like zombies,
reaching out, whispering,
'Take me home, too! Take me home, too..!'
The last vestige of Humanity
struggling to return;
struggling to NOT return...
everyday they breathe inside me,
still as though encased in ice,
thrashing about without visible struggle.
As if I knew the way anyway,
though programmed
to make my way alone
with as many of my team
as are still
breathing,
killing tanks all the way....
Tanks?
The Horror denied
of having never felt
the Horror
at one's ability to feel the Rush
being the biggest "Tank" of all...
There are easier ways to commit suicide!
Before ever shipping to Nam
I lived in an old haunted trailer just
outside the landing strip at McCord,
in Puyallup, Washington,
where Doc Severnsen's Jonquils grow;
where every day -- every night big
black jets laden with bags
of boys shrilled in over my head
from the place I was coming to ...
to replace one of those men
to be dead at McCord!
by "Dudley", -July 4th, 1969
for Verne Lochner, Jim Lanier, Wally Paisley,
Tony DeLaCerda, and especially John Witts!!
-with thoughtful gratitude
to Victor Frankl,
For pointing out that
by bearing this burden;
by Surviving them,
we Spare those who loved us from knowing
the difficult Pain of surviving us....
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"We're AMERICANS!
We Should Be Allowed To Blow Stuff Up!"
--Denis Leary
...Quoted in the H.B. In-house Newsletter, "The Weekly Roomer"
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WE SURVIVED TO GET BACK HERE!
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HOME
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