Bartending The V.F.W.

       Lawrence, Kansas (1995)

There's not much to it:

pour the drafts,

clear the ashtrays,

mix well-drinks.

The Vietnam vets

favor Jack-n-Coke.

The WWII crowd,

Scotch-and-Soda.

Our only Korean War vet

takes his brandy neat.

We keep a bottle of St. George

behind the bar for him.

An occasional floor sweep

exceeds expectations.

Christmas décor is tacked up

year 'round.

Campaign insignias

and service ballcaps

line a smoke-filled perimeter

that obscures all 

but the exit signs.

It's Memorial Day,

and the Colonel delivers

his annual speech

honoring the sacrifice

of our fallen brothers.

Manny offers a solemn toast,

"To the lost."

Jason buys another round

of shots.

To remember them,

they drink.

They drink

and beat their chests

in solidarity.

They drink

with the awareness

that all

are at the mercy

of the universe.

They drink

to animate themselves

and tell the stories

that otherwise

remain buried

in the footlocker of experiences

for which they do not

posses the tools

to relate

to one another,

let alone

civilians outside

eager to thank us

for our service. 

**First published in G.I. Days, an anthology by Milltown Press

Corpses

 

            Outside Kuwait City (1991)

We came upon them mid-day

in a rush for shelter from the petrol rain,

three corpses upright in an armored personnel carrier

as crisp as dime-store cigars.

Oil fires illuminated a blast zone surrounding the vehicle,

casting a perverse half-light

over the living and dead.

Some Marines took photos with the corpses,

souvenirs for the living back home.

I kept watch through the scorched, steel turret

and thought of my Grandfather lying embalmed

in a casket in Enid, Oklahoma.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I was sixteen when Grandpa died

and recalled him displayed like some wax mannequin

stuffed with ice and vinegar.

The mortician overdid Grandpa's makeup

which cracked like desert topsoil around his hairline.

I half-expected him to rise up

and scold the adults in the room

for displaying him that way.

The preacher's pontificating ran on for eternity,

and I experienced a skepticism swelling in me

toward claims that the dead reanimate

in a celestial paradise

surrounded by childhood pets

and deceased loved ones.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Staring back at those unfortunate soldiers

trapped in a fiery death-box of American military might,

the poison rain hammered away

at our fragile notion of youth's invincibility.

The thunder of approaching artillery

rattled our momentary reprieve.

An offhanded sentiment offered 

by our most-junior squad member,

a boot private from Encinitas, California,

proved a more convincing eulogy

than Grandpa received.

"Sucks to be them," he said. 

**First published in As You Were literary magazine

and second-place winner of the 2023 Col. Darren L. Wright Memorial Writing Awards.

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

PsyOps Theater (Desert Storm)

Dear American Soldier, are you prepared to die for a barrel of oil?
Dear Iraqi Soldier, we are a Multinational Force with overwhelming air superiority.
Would you like to be one of the cripples who are only lamented in the charity ceremonies?
We want you to know the truth! It is the actions of Saddam Hussein which have forced the world to war with Iraq.
You know you cannot win against our fearsome troops and the invincible best friend of Allah.
We have no desire to harm innocent people, but Saddam is leading you to certain death.
Put down your bombs. Demand to go home. You are weary of sand and sun and sweat on your body from senseless aggression.
Resistance is purposeless. The outcome is inevitable. Kuwait will be free from Saddam’s aggression.
You are secretly admiring the great leader, Saddam Hussein, and asking yourself, “Why am I here?”.
Your fellow soldiers along the entire front have either surrendered or were killed by our bombs.
How do you like our Arab lands where you cannot get a Kentucky Fry Big Mac to eat and you are always missing your half-naked, immoral sweetheart back home.
Save yourselves and head toward the Saudi border where you will be welcomed as a brother.
Your American president is losing allies.  He is like the stupid fox that enters into the house of the clever fox.
To seek refuge safely, remove the magazine from your weapon, raise both arms above your head and approach our forces slowly.
Your Arab allies will turn their weapons against U.S. soldiers instead of Iraqis.
If you do this you will not die.
Why be dead for your president’s dumb mistake?

9-11 Diary

Horrific morning.

While I deliberate
between scrambled eggs
and breakfast cereal,
they are leaping from the towers

to elude the flames.

They are burning alive

under the concrete rubble.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Glued to the television for hours.

Tragedy sucks the life 

from daily routine.

Here, no work is done,
no progress.
We are at a halt.

A friend arrives for consolation.

"I can't take anymore," she cries,
switching the channel
to Cartoon Network.

We get high and watch 

animated characters
gleefully bludgeon each other,
but only for a moment before 

returning to the day's events

ashamed of our indulgence.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Rumors of an oil-price spike.

At the station, a line of cars
stretches around the block.
Neighbors are honking at each other.
I wait nearly an hour to fill up.

The man at pump three
lights a cigarette.
The woman at pump four
demands he put it out.

"Lady, haven't you heard?"
the man responds.
"It's the end of the world!"

She looks to me for support.

I say nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Fanatics have seized the day,

religious zealots drunk

with vanity and self-righteous rage.

One of ours has raises his ugly head.
He is on the radio
blaming abortionists, pagans,
liberals and feminists,
gays and lesbians,
the ACLU.

"I point a finger in their face!"
he howls.
"YOU HELPED THIS HAPPEN!"

Thus, madness begets madness.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

A dinner party is assembled.

"I'm inclined to show mercy,"
Philip declares.

"Drop a nuke on the bastards,"
James replies.

"We must respond with dignity,"
says Katherine.

My thoughts drift back 

to the Kuwait desert where

Marines sift through charred bodies

and shattered, starving Iraqi soldiers

ordered to fight the infidels

else receive a bullet to the head.

It is trifling

to ascribe forgiveness

when our bellies are full

and our loved ones near.

Ask the combat veteran.

Ask the ER doctor.

Ask the victims of this dark day.

Someone, somewhere

is always confronting

a hellish choice.

Mission Accomplished

We came.
We conquered.
We blundered.
We recovered.

We abandoned
the place
a shambles.

One tyrant,
half-a-million
men, women,
children
DEAD
in
IRAQ

You're Welcome

       ~ America