a night without armor

"Some people react physically to the magic of poetry, to the moments, that is, of authentic revelation, of the communication, the sharing, as its highest level. . . . A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good person has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape and significance of the universe, helps to extend everyone’s knowledge of himself and the world around him." –Dylan Thomas (1913-1953)

From an early age, my mother would gather me and my brothers after school for "workshops" in music, visual art, and writing. I grew to love the poems of Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, Rumi, Yeats, and others that she read to us. She read her own compositions, as well, and taught us to write our own. For me poetry allowed word to be given the to the things that otherwise had no voice, and I discovered the strength and soul of poetry-through it we come to know; we are led to feel, sense, and to expand our understanding beyond words.

Long before I wrote my first song, words formed as poems in my journals; and poetry drives my song writing today. My songs are strongly influenced by Pablo Neruda, Bukowski, Octavio Paz; and musically I admire the great poetic lyricists like many of the writers of Tin Pan Alley, and others, like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, and Tom Waits. Each forged the bridge from poetry to music.

I’ve learned that not all poetry lends itself to music-some thoughts need to be sung only against the silence. There are softer and less tangible parts of ourselves that are so essential to open heartedness, to peace, to unfolding the vision and the spiritual realm of our lives, to exposing our souls. Poetry is a passage into those parts of our being where we understand who we have been and where we discover and decide who and what we will be. It makes us intimate with ourselves and others and the human experience. It stirs the Divine within us and whispers all the things there are no words for, and this is essential to bring balance and dimension to the human expression.

Poetry is the most honest and immediate art form that I have found, it is raw and unfiltered. It is a vital, creative expression and deserves to find greater forums, to be more highly valued, understood, and utilized in our culture and in our lives. There is such wonderful poetry in the world that wants to be given voice. My hope is to help inspire an appreciation and expression of that voice.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO

the One in Whom we live and move and have our being

to my parents, Nedra Carroll and Atz Kilcher

to my brothers Shane, Atz, and Nikos

and to the land which inspires my heart to sing, Alaska

As a Child I Walked

The Bony Ribs of Adam

Wild Horse

Bukowsky’s Widow

You Tell Me

Paramount, NY, 9:34 A.M.

It Has Been Long

Too Many Nights

I Look at Young Girls Now

Seattle

Saved from Myself

Taking the Slave

Sun Bathing

Red Roof Inn, Boston

So Just Kiss Me

Second Thoughts in Columbus, Ohio

Cautious

The Dark Bells

The Inertia of a Lonely Heart

Collect Beads of Night

Communion

Love Poem

Father of a Deaf Girl

Dionne & I

1B

The Slow Migration on Glaciers

Tai Pei

Tai Pei 2

Tai Pei 3

In the South of England Somewhere

1966

A Couple Sitting on a Bench

Envy

Pretty

Those Certain Girls

Sausages

Though I am 8

Dylan

Vincent Said

Camouflage

Sara Said

Parking Lot

Coffee Shop

I Say to You Idols

Steady Yourself

Awaken, Love

Gather Yourself

You

Bleary Eyed

I Miss Your Touch

Night Falls

We Have Been Called

Underage

Grimshaw

A Slow Disease

As a child I walked

with noisy fingers

along the hemline

of so many meadows

back home

Green fabric

stretched out

shy earth

shock of sky

I’d sit on logs like pulpits

listen to the sermon

of sparrows

and find god in Simplicity,

there amongst the dandelion

and thorn

I left the bony ribs of Adam

for the fruit

of my own

personal desire

Its scent still heavy

upon my flesh

my absence still

thorn

to his side

But now how my belly

hollows and aches

craving seed

craving kisses

but outside the road hisses

and I find my self

packing girlishness

in an old leather bag

love stepping lightly

away from the door

I’d like to call you my wild horse

and feed you silver sage

I’d like to paint my poems

with desert tongued clay

across

your back

and ride you savagely

as the sweet and southern wind

through a green and wild Kentucky

I’d like to make you my secret sun

blazing dark and red in the orchards

and I would steal away

to watch the way

your silver belly bends

and bows beneath me

I’d make you my wings

in the foothills of Montana

my lover in the oceans of the world

‘

I’d make you my many calico children

and scatter you

across

the green memories of home

I’d be your hungry Valley

and sow your golden fields of wheat

in my womb

My prince has slipped!

and his face has turned

to shadow

his tongue no longer strong

but gray (how sad!)

it used to be so full

of spit and roses

My prince the stars have

fallen from your crown

And I can not fathom

their fading-

some things should be forever!

You’ve taken your coal

and your seaward gaze-

me with nothing but

words to keep me warm

But I don’t want them!

Take them back!

I want Paris

I want you drunk on wine

I want to walk with you

and hold you up

and giggle and kiss

God how I miss

your smile and thick skin

At night

(Do you remember?)

How I’d worry

and you’d press me tight

against you. Extinguishing

the red flame

of my head against

your shoulder

Smooth as chalk dust you’d laugh

in the face of

death and uncertainty

Do you remember?

You’d say time knew nothing

well now you’re gone

and time is all I have left

It cannot be so

you say

simple hands

cannot change

the fate of humanity

I say

Humanity is

a boundless,

absorbing heart

transcending

death & generations

and centuries

absorbing bullets

and stitches

and tear gas

enduring humiliation

and illegal abortions

and thankless jobs

I say to you

the heart of Humanity

has not

and will not

be broken

And let us raise ourselves

like lanterns

with the millions of others-

with the mad

and the forgotten

and the strong of heart

to shine

In the morning tiny bells go off

that light a darkened path

Reluctant as pinpricks

dawn pierces sleep

with nimble fingers

I am unwoven

the rich yoke of slumber

unraveled thread by thread

until I am naked and glistening

standing before the newness

of another day

a tiny form birthed of white linen

and restless dreams

It has been

long and

Bony since

your willing

ways since

those thirstful

days of

summer nights

and Burning Beds

It’s been

too many nights

of being with

to now be suddenly

without

I look at young girls now

in their tight crushed velour

skin tight sky blue

hip huggers with the baby doll

tank tops

and I think

I’ve been there.

God, have I been there.

Sixteen years old and

wrestling with an overwhelming

newfound sexuality.

Parading it in all its

raw and awkward charm

I had a pair of vintage

burgundy velvet short-

shorts that laced up the sides

from the 1920s

and I wore them

with a tight leotard

and a plastic faux pearl

choker

showing off all my lanky

leggy blossoming

youth on the verge

of womanhood for all the

free world to see

with no idea how to keep

a secret, especially my own.

Tonight on the street I saw a woman

whose hard living

had turned her into a weak man;

robbed of all softness. No magic. No awe.

She had bruised breasts and was

arguing with a drunk boyfriend

in the middle of the road.

He held her collar whole her sour face

reddened and hollered and spit

until finally

he threw her down like a beetle

on its back-

her thick skin cursing.

I wanted to stare

but just kept walking like all the other passerby.

The clear bottle

of vodka in her hand

lighting up

like a watery lantern.

How often I’ve cried out

in silent tongue

to be saved from myself

in the middle of the night

too afraid

to move

horrified the answer

may be beyond the

capability of my

own two hands

so small

(no one should feel this alone)

Burn

her eyes

without hope of

understanding them

Kiss

her mouth

that you may

fathom

its strange tongue

Indulge

in her brown skin

because it reminds you

of Mother

Rape

her mind

because it is not your own

but so sweet

so familiar

like coming home

to a native land

your pale and inbred hands

can only faintly fathom

I read a book

and the man thinks

I can not see

the wrinkled posture

of his son

as he is nudged.

He thinks

I can not sense

four eyes

upon my flesh

as the father tries

to bond with

his teenage boy

by ogling my breasts.

I miss you miserably, dear

and I can’t quite manage

to face this unbearably

large bed

alone.

I find myself avoiding sleep

busying myself with

menial chores

so I pick up my guitar

stare at books with bleary eyes

get restless then shave

my armpits with your razor

and cheap hotel soap.

So just kiss me and let my hair

messy itself in your fingers

tell me nothing needs to be done-

no clocks need winding

There is no bell without a voice

needing to borrow my own

instead, let me steady myself

in the arms

of a man who won’t ask me to be

what he needs, but lets me exist

as I am

a blonde flame

a hurricane

wrapped up

in a tiny body

that will come to his arms

like the safest harbor

for mending

I find it strange that we search

our whole lives for love

as though it were the

final treasure

the solemn purpose of people

in movies and magazines.

Yet when it comes to your door

one morning with calm eyes to deliver itself

you realize it alone is not enough.

You are before me, sweet man,

and I am thinking

Aren’t I supposed to give up

everything?

Aren’t I supposed to be brave

and abandon

each dream and aspiration

and yield utterly to this

elusive beast love,

to your soft belly and companionship?

Aren’t we supposed to

have a piece of land-and children!-

that look like you, and cook

soup and bread and sing

each other songs before sleep

and absentmindedly count the stars

from our front porch as we pray

for each other’s keep

and pretend

forever is a word known

not only by the heart?

You don’t call

anymore.

You say

it hurts

too much

your heart

like one of

those

fragile cactus flowers

cast amongst

thorny ribs

So ready

to be

hurt.

The dark bells

of midnight

tolled

for no others-

those were our names

rising forth

from their rusty throats

like small birds

falling from the nest.

My heart turned seaward

sea-sick from

all the things

I would have to tell you…

My hands

pale knives

that held your face

in the twilight

of our bedroom,

in the turbulence

of our hearts.

My tongue

(the same tongue

that kissed you!)

endeavored, with

tiny incisions, successful as paper cuts,

to free you

from my side.

The dark weight of the hour

humming madly

filling my head

with blood

and sorrow

and dread

the executioner’s song.

The world is full of cripples

and endless nights

and broken fruit

and calls that never come through

and restless dreams

that fear being awake

and stars that lose themselves

and waves that are always leaving

and bitten mouths

and lonely bars

and rosy nipples

rosy as dawn

rosy as the first blush of youth

and tired people

and lonely hearts

opening, orbiting

crashing into open mouths

and hungry eyes

and empty-handed lovers;

the inertia of loneliness

a miserable force

Collect beads of night

Fill your

skin with the dark weight of the

wet sky. Let boldness live in your heart

and I will recognize you

amongst the many

and claim you

as my own

my flesh melts

on your tongue

my breast dissolves

beneath your desire

my ears turn to wind;

roots reclaim my veins.

My stomach disappears

with its lunar twin

water taking my will until

I am reduced to a glimmer

boiled down to a spark

sifted into tiny stone

that has many wings

nesting inside your palm

We made love last night

beneath the stars.

The moon’s Cycloptic eye

unblinking

staring us down

uncovering our bodies of the darkness

like naked roots

we tangled ourselves

thighs and elbows heavy fruit

shiny as winter chestnuts.

Body of the man I love-

bitten mouth, tangerine lips

rose petal surprise of tongue,

I could wander the continent

of your golden valleys

without ceasing

and delight each day

in discovering

a new dawn

rising from the depths

of your mysterious being.

Every time her hands began to stutter he became

enraged. She threw these fits sometimes, and he

never took the time to understand what they meant.

Her words were wasted on him. Her hands useless

birds caged by their quietness, and he would

immobilize them, tying her wrists together so they’d

jump like awkward fish, gasping at the shock of air.

Un-heard they’d dance like that for hours, her eyes

full of silent desperation, on the other side of the

closet door. He never even knew what they were

saying.

I want to fly from here! I want to fly from

The woman sitting next to me

in 1B has burn marks on her hands.

As she sleeps, I let myself stare

trying to figure out

if it was a cooking accident

or…

She boarded quietly,

but her eyes

gazed at me with

malignant anger.

She is awake now.

I turn away,

look out the window.

Reaching for the phone

The sleeve of her business jacket lifts, revealing

a neat row of round burn marks

all up her forearm.

Was she hurt as a child?

Was it a late husband,

mean boyfriend, crazy sex fetish?

I try to catch the title

of the book she’ s reading

for clues.

It’s just some mystery novel.

I can tell

I’m making her

uneasy.

I go back to my writing.

She looks so hard-

like a lot of women in LA

Dark secrets hunting her insides,

softness sucked out,

a deep sadness in her eyes.

The slow migration of glaciers

unfolding through the centuries

their heavy wing

burdened with all the

weight of the earth

they move and carve and breathe

swollen rivers thick with soot

my pony and I drawing

deep sharp breaths

as we cross

submerged

in all that is natural and Holy

To run free with you once more

to let my hair tangle its self

in a wind that knows only motion

to lose my heart once again

in the thorns of primrose

on the plains of Fox River Valley

lost in a maze of Timothy and Blue Grass hay.

These are the things which made me

these are the things I call home

these are the things that have filled

my heart with song and I raise them now in homage:

my father and I riding until after dark

chasing cattle or startling eagles into flight

cooking on a coal stove

cutting meat with a dull knife

my hands raw from picking rose hips

on the sea cliffs above Kackamack Bay

staring endlessly at the blue sky…

Few would guess how much I miss

you Alaska

how my heart grows

heavy out there

so far away

So much talk

so much noise

strangling all the stillness

so I can no longer

hear the voice of god whisper

to me in the silence

I will return to you, Alaska,

my beloved, but for now

I am youth’s soldier

chasing down

an endless dawn

Midnight.

Blackest sky

Outside my window I can see

A stranger’s tongue

wagging and winding its way

through its native streets.

But this is not my home.

I am the stranger here,

with no language but my pen.

Sex fills the air.

It is humid and ancient

Many lovers have been taken down

exalted, fallen, risen

kissed by the purple finger

that seeks the plum blossomed Love.

I have no Lover

only my pen and an

answering machine

back in the States which

no one calls.

I am told

I am adored by millions

but no one calls.

Thick night, a cobalt expanse

littered with the bright shock

of yellow and orange neon signs

boasting their wares,

dried fruit or wedding dresses

in the latest style.

A humid claw clings to me,

every movement anticipated

by this moist air,

this Asian sky

with its endless fields

yawning unseen beneath it.

Somewhere out there, an overhead fan

is spinning, ticking, rattling.

A young girl sweats her

armpits like tidy rosebuds.

The businessman

from Hong Kong pretends to have

fallen asleep while

she washes herself in the sink,

the night sticking to her

insides in a way she can’t wash off.

A warm rain swept across

the streets. Filling spaces

with humid quiet. White noise.

Moist gauze

dulling the edge of

the vendors’ pleas.

Woman selling incense

outside the temple. Huge brown bowls

bellowing smoke,

the room

thick with choking fragrance.

Women of prayer with deep lines

in their faces and blue robes

blessing those who come to them

seeking clarity.

The click-clack of wax pieces

as they are dropped upon the

stone floors, wet with rain,

by a devotee to see of his

prayers have been answered.

The warm mellow golden hue

of the red ceremonial candles

lit in interlocking circles that

climb, circle upon circle, into

a darkening sky.

Fog and rain hanging low and heavy

Like a damp and woolen hood.

On the steps below there is a man

with one leg, whose face

looks carved of wood

a hysteric smile

parting his lips.

He reads people’s palms.

In the south of England somewhere

they race lawn mowers

The fastest goes 65 miles an hour

at top speed

with no head wind

I don’t know how men run along behind them

Unless it’s the kind you sit on-

which seems like cheating

There is a museum there

run by a fanatic

He has memorized and catalogued

the sound each mower makes

noting fondly his favorite three

There are also worm charming contests

Three people to a team

One to charm

one to collect

one to count

Local John McCallister reassures us,

"It’s on a strictly catch and release basis, of course."

I turned off the TV.

Looked out of my window

to the streets below.

Dry sidewalks.

A line had straightened up

stiff as uncut ribbon

beneath a sign

that read Army Headquarters.

I stared at the boy’s faces.

They looked itchy and awkward

like my brother’s. I don’t know

what kept them in that line,

the sun was hot and unrelenting.

I wondered if my brother

would stand in line too.

I wondered if it would take him somewhere.

I wondered if all the brothers

in all the world were leaving,

and if there would only be us sisters left

to occupy the empty rooms

with doll clothing and postcards.

He’s the skinny one of the two.

He reminds her of it constantly.

He’s a very funny guy that way-

ha-ha as she wobbles-to-walk wobbles-to-walk.

passionless bodies

with pointless little limbs

that flaunt in vain

such narrowness of frame

with nothing to offer but bone

There is a pretty girl

on the

Face

of the magazine

And

all I can see

are my dirty

hands

turning the page

I am fascinated by

those certain girls

you know the ones

the women that are always girls

their tiny bodies like

neglected willow trees

controlled and contorted

which may blow away with

the slightest disappointment

While leaving the airport,

a gypsy woman stole my luggage.

She wore a rice paper mask over her eyes.

A mole showed neatly on her chin,

hairless. She laughed while sausages

fell from her pockets in heavy shivers.

I hope she misses them sorely.

Though I am 8, my father is 63 years old.

He drinks concoctions of chickweed, garlic, and ordinary

grass

pulled out of the front lawn. He blends it with

a machine that wakes me every morning.

It makes a loud growl. He is worried, I think,

He won’t make it to my high school graduation.

Outside winter swallows my footsteps

As quickly as they are laid,

which makes me cry.

I had a dream last night

that a little girl came to me.

Her hair was a halo of warm light

and color dripped off her tongue.

She was your daughter

and in her I saw the fruit

of everything I’d ever fought for

or believed in, or dreamt of.

Vincent said she was like screwing a corpse,

but a 16-year-old corpse with young tits,

so it wasn’t bad. She left the door open

while he pretended to be asleep

and did the walk o’ shame

through the hotel lobby.

I know his girlfriend, Phyllis

but I won’t tell her.

It’s not for me to judge

or discriminate just because

she does

and he won’t.

A gay man

is sitting in

a hotel lobby

smoking

a cigarette.

He stomachs my

breast dutifully

like spinach or lima beans

or other things that make one sick

because he fears

the red-necks

at the bar

are on to him.

i used to screw without condoms

and let the man

come inside me because

i was too shy

to stop him

then i’d go home

and pray on my pillow

please

please

please

don’t let me get pregnant

i couldn’t sleep

or eat

just think

of my 15-year-old life

with a child

PLEASE GOD

DON’T LET ME

GET PREGNANT

then i would bleed

and find relief

until i was at last

at another man’s mercy

an open vessel

whose function it was

to be filled

until my consciousness

could return and

spit out

the bad seeds

It was the way

my thigh felt against

the cool car hood

that made me like you so

And it was the way

a risk can run down

a spine that made

my blood race

as a few bleary eyes

stumbled to their cars

unaware

And it was the way

you took me with such

strength and stretched

me between the

moon and a Chevrolet

that made me

crave you so

Young girls wrap themselves tightly

in bright smiles and denim,

no more patent leather

and pigtails here.

They suck on coffee

with great indifference,

their young thighs

weapons they have cocked,

hardly comprehending

the potency which lies

in suggestion.

Tight, dark, dark blue

wrangler jeans

and lonely smiles like

latent prophecies.

I say to you idols

of carefully studied

disillusionment

And you worshipers

who find beauty

in only fallen things

that the greatest

Grace

we can aspire to be

is the strength

to see the wounded

walk with the forgotten

and pull ourselves

from the screaming

blood of our losses

to fight on

undaunted

all the more

Steady yourself, love,

steady yourself

for victory is near

Shut out the world

with its tyranny

of noise

none of this matters now

Draw strength from

the vision the deepest

folds of your soul

so longs for

For it is a song we all sing

Steady yourself, love,

upon my gaze

in this corridor

& waver not in the face

of the battle cry

We will not be beaten!

Lose not your faith now

for I need it to strengthen my own

and should your steps

falter, mine would

grow lonely in this

world of coal and roses

We are the living

and the living

must love the world

It is our duty

to fill our hearts

with all the anguish and joy

of out brothers and sisters

Steady yourself, love,

be strong beside me

and know that our

unrelenting gives them

dis-ease, and that

the clearer your mouth

raises itself in

songs of freedom

the more others will come to

warm themselves around

the flag of your faith

For out numbers grow

and will soon outweigh

their tattered armies

and I want your heart

to rejoice in this

inevitable victory

Awaken love,

the sun beats itself

upon our windowsill

and dawn in well spent into day

Awaken love,

open your eyes

lighting all they tough upon

in wondrous blaze

Upon the streets

a kitten’s mew

and beggar’s shoe

are calling

and the voiceless

ask to borrow yours

so sweet and

always falling

Awaken love,

we are a pair

two knives, two flags,

two slender stocks of wheat

And the song that sleeps

inside your mouth

is the song which bids

my heart to beat

For without your hands

your battle cry

your timid fearless

roaming eye

I would be awkward hands

with no flag

with no pulse

no boast to brag

but alone, simply

Alone

Staring down

an endless sky

unable to face

injustice

or even I

A tiger’s loveless soldier

Gather yourself at the seashore

and I will love you there

Assemble yourself with wild things

with songs of the sparrow and sea foam

Let mad beauty collect itself

in your eyes and it will shine, calling me

For I long for a man

with the nests of wild things in his hair

A man who will kiss the flame

You with your

gentle lightning

spinning like Orion,

full of muscle

and all the patience

of stars.

Hooked upon the pinnacle

of a desire

that arrests

itself,

caught on the crosswires

of what could be

my mind turns to you:

A pin hole of light

that softly hums

and murmurs

whose blurry edges

beg to come into view.

Bleary eyed

and sleepy still

I unwrapped you

of the morning

like careful fruit

with forbidden flesh

made sweeter by

the scorning

My hands still shaky

from kisses sweet

and the dark hours

of night’s embrace

I checked to see

if fastened vines

my heart had left

in silv’ry trace

While you slept

I looked inside your chest

to see what there

was growing

I saw my heart

with quiet eyes

to your side its self

was gently sewing

I saw my heart

with quiet eyes

to your side its self

was gently sewing

I miss your touch

all taciturn

like the slow migration of birds

nesting momentarily

upon my breast

then lifting

silver and quick-

sabotaging the landscape

with their absence

my skin silent without

their song

a thirsty pool of patient flesh

Night falls

and keeps on

falling

Autumn leaves

bruise the sky

a yellow shiver

ripping the smooth hour

with its edgy

spine

Struggling to hold back

the dawn

open-hearted lovers

cling to the sweet fruits

of last-minute kisses

so eager

to lose themselves

in the honey-thick gravy

of love so new

while beyond the Gates

leaves tear themselves

from the only limb they’ve known

to experience

the freedom

the uncertainty

of air

We have been called

naïve

as if it were

a dirty word

We have been called

innocent

as though with shame

our cheeks would burn

So

We visited with

the careful idols

of cynicism

to learn to sneer

and pant and walk

so as not to feel the scales

of judgement so wrongly

But we say

some things must

remain simple

some things must remain

untouched

and pure

lest we all forget

the legacy which begot us

the health of our origins

and the poetry of our fundamental selves

And so

it is to

the longing of our hearts we sing

rise! Spread

your wings!

Let no hand

nor ill will

keep you.

I hung out once in the bathroom of Trade Winds Harley

bar in Anchorage

with several biker chicks for company until the cops left.

They had pale skin and thick black eye makeup

and asked me to sing at their weddings.

I said I’d ask my dad.

We all sat on the counter and waited for the pigs to leave.

Some guy O.D.’d and was outside foaming at the mouth.

I remember looking in the mirror

and seeing this white face,

my shirt all buttoned up.

The women were nice to me

and looked like dark angels

beside me. I liked them,

and together we waited

patiently for the cops to leave,

so I could so back out

and join my dad up

on stage.

Grimshaw came to T’s Homestead

each time dad and I played a gig,

which was every Tuesday night.

Behind his round spectacles,

his eyes looked sad and small as whales’-eyes.

His beard was wild and full of birds nests, I supposed.

He had a routine I knew well:

He’d organize his money in neat stacks

and let me chose and bill I wanted

(I took two 1’s for Shirley Temples),

And request 3 songs:

Ain’t Goin’ to Study War No More,

House of the Rising Sun,

Green Green Fields of Home.

Then order four pitchers of beer,

which he lined up on his corner table.

Grimshaw was quiet and didn’t scare me.

He always said please to Sally the waitress.

One Tuesday he didn’t show up.

The next week, we asked Sally and she told us

Grimshaw had shot himself in the face.

Sally said that all of us at the bar

were the closet thing to a family he had,

and so Dad and I sang on a Saturday afternoon

in the gravel parking lot to raise money

for a proper burial.

I came up to everyone’s belt buckle

and had to crank my neck back

to look up at all the adults.

So I just studied people’s waistlines and listened

to the disjoined melody of the broken men

gathered into a loose knot for the tavern wake.

One man’s face was worn out but his eyes were bright.

He said, "He has a cabin out on Fox Road."

Another winked down at me saying,

"I sure hope he’s happy."

They all talked about him as if he were still alive.

I found out Grimshaw went to Nam when he was 18,

to be a surgeon when he wasn’t one.

He had to hurt people until he learned.

I stood that day around bar flies and regulars

and made a vow-the kind a child makes-

to face things as they came

so they wouldn’t compound with time and become

like huge ships, impossible to turn around.

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