Tag Archives: veteran

106. war dead

.

today i found your phone

message and one envelope

that you had sent to

me last year before 

you became just one more dead 

man that I know. 

.

you had sent a photo

that i saved and i won’t hold it 

against my heart 

.

or against you –

.

i for one know the cost of no

interior rest and 

i’d not have lasted

as long, whiskey and gun as

backboard or not.

.

well i did save it 

just not as a sacrament.

more like a scar that

can still raise a smile.

it’s there in a flat tin, now

second drawer down

.

where the accidents

are filed. Let’s assume you could

not have saved yourself

.

since no one else could

save you. Let’s assume 

you’re now comfortable,

warm

loved.

.

101. in my dreams

.

last night i picked up

the phone but you were still dead.

you keep calling me

.

though it’s hard to hear

your words this way, hard to trade

old photos of our

.

heroes, your new collage,

my aimlessly wandering  

with found objects and

.

tribal members. your

brother is angry and P 

is angry with me

.

which is easier. 

i’m fine. i’ve seen your face on

strangers in philly

.

and once in DC … you

winked at me, no less – nice touch

and every time

.

i inscribe three dots

on the bottom of a clay 

pot i smile for you 

.

now untouchable.

it’s always nice to hear from 

you. it’s just hard to

.

understand over this phone.

i’ve reserved a place for you 

in my dreams tonight.

83. asphalt

.

asphalt underlies so many

memorable longings and 

questionable lovers: basra,

madrid, montalban;

empty highway ninety-five

soaked in restless

sunlight and angry

ranchers’ dissatisfaction.

my roads, lift upon

.

lift, shift against a 

subbase poorly laid.

asphalts stretch, alligator

thin skins a clever tease… my

roads do not run on and on.

my roads do not 

wear out because they explode. 

basrah loops as a flash

bright as cordite,

one fox running all out, one

tree out there waiting.

.

asphalt just lifts.

my road fountains and settles 

back whole just in time to lift again, 

disintegrating and settling, silently

and again, loops of exploding

asphalt. 

.

how I 

at times do long for 

the men known, dead now or those

not quite dead, still here.

.

64. Slim Canyon

canyon rock sweeps 

a mild west curve

by the cottonwood just

drifting toward green with damp

dark against root 

tapping two feet down;

where the two red rocks

lie flatly cupped

by wide bedrock 

and fox cross daily,

under sheltering sandstone’s mass

overhang, stained by drooling rim

and fire 

are stones, dressed and 

stacked and fallen

back to earth again,

lying in weak spring sun 

like exhausted children

left on the beaches of war.

.

Slim found Guadalcanal

in a storm of metal jackets,

a flash-flood of fear

and he walks the canyon 

named for him.

He rustles cottonwood leaves

with fingertips.

He kicks sand

into wind’s posture.

Slim whistles through doors

of shored adobe,

tapping rocks.

His palms are all over the walls.

His feet are all over the sky.

Between ripples

marked by flood is his breath,

there in the troughs.

In the evening he lies quietly

beside the stones,

dressed and stacked and fallen

back to earth again.

.

Each breeze is cold

against ruins whitened by moonlight.

All the pots are broken pots.

All the songs are old 

and specific.

.