Guide To Amsterdam (For Visiting Americans)

Follow the mother 

holding her child’s hand

through the Red Light District.

Smile at the working girls 

dressing rose-colored windows.

Spend an afternoon in a coffeeshop 

with an Englishman named Bob 

and a joint called ‘Cheese’.

Order a jenever─

remember to bend and sip

before picking it up.

Stand aside for an army of bicyclists;

they own the right-of-way.

Observe ancient church rituals

older than the promise of the New World.

Tour the Anne Frank House

and marvel at the unbeatable tenacity

of creation.

Drop by The Book Exchange:  

donate one well-read;

leave with a promising new companion.

Traverse the canals at dusk

with fellow travelers you never met.

Break bread.

Indulge the chocolates, frites, 

beers, cheeses.  

Try the soused herring.

Tell a self-deprecating joke

about American tourists─

their delight is your passport.

Everyone speaks English, 

but you curry favor

with your fumbling attempts at Dutch.

Wander without a destination

through the cobblestoned 

City Centrum district.

Languish at midnight 

in your third-story window,

curtains open.

Behold a city 

that bled to free itself

from puritan austerity,

where tolerance

is good manners,

and pleasure

demands no apology.

**First published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos

Private Lindsay

She made a show of liberating her breasts

every time we went to the field.

Some pimple-faced private 

would retrieve her bra

for display in the berthing tent.

Marines quietly jerked off in their sleeping bags

to visions of her bouncing 

like a go-go dancer

beneath regulation camouflage.

At the club, she wore combat boots, 

vinyl leggings, and tube tops 

that thrust her front-and-center 

of every conversation.

Guys took shots from between her thighs

while you imagined her naked and sweaty

pouring tequila over lickerish nipples.

Half the platoon claimed to have slept with her,

which you suspected was half-true.

And when she approached in the Company office,

slid her manicured nails into your crotch 

and declared,

        "Tonight,"

all you could muster was a timid,

        "No, Thanks,"

not because you didn't want her,

but for the over-riding impulse you discovered

in that moment

        to resist

                being owned

                        or compromised

                        except on your terms.

Se recoiled.

Desire hardened into anger.

By morning, she filed a grievance 

with the Master Sergeant 

accusing

        you

of sexually assaulting

        her

Master Sergeant believed you.

Lindsay was reassigned.

You limped away

looking over your shoulder.

The Second Marine Division

was weeks from deploying to war.

You already learned

that a man's throat can be slit,

his round edges carved straight,

without a shot fired.

West African Chicken & Peanut Stew

     The people's stew will have peanut butter (natural peanut butter).  Flavorful and delicious, this recipe is great for stormy days when the body craves warm comfort.  One of my favorites! 

INGREDIENTS 

• 3 tbsps. peanut oil
• 1 large yellow onion, chopped
• 2 large carrots, peeled and diced
• 1 red bell pepper, seeded and chopped
• 1 jalapeno, seeded and chopped
• 4 medium sweet potatoes, scrubbed, peeled and chopped
• 1 (28 oz.) can crushed tomatoes
• 1 (15oz.) chickpeas, drained and rinsed
• 2 tbsps. tomato paste
• 4 garlic cloves, minced
• 4 tbsps. peeled, grated ginger root
• 4 (32 oz.) cups chicken stock
• 12 oz. crunchy organic peanut butter
• 1.5 1bs. cooked chicken, shredded 
• 4 cups kale, chopped
• 2 limes, juiced
• 2 tbsp. curry powder
• 2 tbsps. coriander
• 1 tbsp. cumin
• 1 tsp. cayenne pepper
• 1 tsp. cinnamon
• 1 tsp. ground cloves
• 1 tsp. sea salt

          GARNISH

• crushed peanuts

     1).  Warm the peanut oil in a large stock pot over medium-high heat.

     2).  Sauté the onion (with a pinch of salt) 10 - 12 minutes, until begin to brown.

     3).   Mix in the garlic, ginger, cumin, coriander, cinnamon and cloves.  Sauté another 1 - 3 minutes, ensuring the onions are well coated with spice.

     4).  Mix in the sweet potatoes, bell pepper, jalapeno, carrots, and tomato paste.  Stir another 5 - 7 minutes (or until the sweet potatoes begin to stick to the bottom of the pot).

     5).  Pour crushed tomatoes, chicken stock, and chickpeas into the pot and season with cayenne, curry powder, and salt.  Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and let simmer for 30 minutes (or until the sweet potatoes are tender).

     6).  Add peanut butter and puree the contents with a hand blender producing a smooth texture.

     7).  Stir in the chicken and kale and simmer another 5 - 10 minutes.

     8).  Stir in fresh lime juice, then season to taste.

     9).  Serve garnished with chopped peanuts.

 Accompany with jasmine rice, or works great on its own.

SERVES 6

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-and-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.

The Colonel delivers

his annual speech

honoring our fallen brothers.

Manny offers a 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 grim awareness

that all stand at the mercy

of the universe.

They drink

to animate themselves

and tell the stories

that otherwise remain buried

in a footlocker,

too heavy

for sober conversation,

too jagged

to hand another vet,

let alone

the civilians outside

eager to thank us

for our service. 

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

Mulligatawny

       Perhaps you recall the Seinfeld episode, The Soup Nazi, where Kramer mentions mulligatawny:  "It's an Indian soup. It's simmered to perfection by one of the great soup artisans in the modern era."  "Who, the Soup Nazi?" Elaine replies.

       This is not the Soup Nazi's recipe, but a confection of ingredients drawn from mixed versions I have explored over the years ... Light and flavorful, it makes for a great Springtime meal.  Note:  I like to double the recipe and keep the pot in the refrigerator all week long. 

INGREDIENTS 

• 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter
• 1 yellow onion, chopped
• 2 celery stalks, chopped
• 2 carrots, diced
• 1 red jalapeno, seeded and diced
• 5 garlic cloves, minced
• 2 tablespoons ginger root, minced
• 1 apple, cored and diced (I use Granny Smith)
• 1 (14.5 oz) can diced tomatoes
• 2 tablespoons curry powder
• 1 tablespoon dried thyme
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon paprika
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
• 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
• 1 cup red lentils
• 1/3 cup white jasmine rice
• 5 cups chicken stock
• 1 (14 oz) can unsweetened coconut milk
• 1 lime, juiced
• 1 rotisserie chicken, shredded (I only use the breast)

          GARNISH

• Cilantro, chopped
• Raisins, golden
• Cashews

     1).  Melt the butter in a large stock pot over medium-high heat.

     2).  Sauté the onion, carrot, and jalapeno 6-8 minutes until onions have softened.

     3).   Add garlic, ginger, apples, celery, and diced tomatoes; sauté another 3-5 minutes.

     4).  Add all the spices and toss until fully coated.

     5).  Add the lentils, rice, and stock; bring to a boil, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer 30-40 minutes. 

     6).  Immersion blend about 75% of ingredients.

     7).  Add the chicken, stir in the coconut milk, and squeeze in the lime juice; let simmer another 10-15 minutes.  Salt and spice to your liking.

     8).  Serve with a garnish of cilantro, raisins, and cashews.

 Accompany with warm naan bread.

SERVES 8

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;

        their boots melted into the floorboard.

Oil fires illuminated a blast zone 

surrounding the vehicle,

casting a perverse half-light

over the living and dead.

Some Marines took pictures

with the corpses,

souvenirs for the living back home.

We cracked jokes

to steady our nerves.

I kept watch 

through the scorched, steel turret

frightened less by the dead

than the unseen.

Grandfather came to mind,

lying embalmed in a casket

in Enid, Oklahoma.

I was sixteen when he died.

The mortician overdid 

Grandpa's makeup,

which cracked like desert topsoil 

at his hairline.

I half-expected him to rise up

and scold the adults

for displaying him that way.

Someone passed around

the photographs.

The laughter stopped.

Thunder from approaching artillery

rattled our reprieve.

We shouldered our packs

and stepped into the poison rain.

A boot private

from Encinitas, California,

glanced back

as a helmet

tumbled from the carrier.

"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

In Between

Now, the pillows are crumpled, 

sheets crushed at the foot of the bed, 

clothes scattered across the room; 

the mattress rests 

over the side of the frame, 

and we lie entwined in glorious silence
as she dreams 

of something else to do.

 
Her checkered flannel and denim

will soon be on again, 

and she'll be off somewhere:

        the salon, 

        the supermarket, 

        a girlfriend's sofa.

"Do you want to come?"

 

I will decline 

without the sting of guilt
so present in the early days 

of our courtship
when she wore the shame 

of her father's absence
and I carried the burden 

of her self-reproach. 

Then I was arrogant enough 

to believe 

my love could heal her wounds, 

that form can be shaped 

from raw desire─

like willing a volcano not to erupt. 

Even when she bloodied my face, 

daring me to leave, 

the tremor in her eyes 

could not pierce my resolve.

Wait for the eyes to soften, 

I told myself,

and sure as the earth's crust heats 

and cools again,

they would.  

Hours, days later, 

after many eruptions 

and tearful apologies, 

the good times would return

and we would collide again 

on that old mattress.

We poured ourselves down 

through the synthetic fibers 

and failing box springs,

then abandoned them 

with all we hoped to unmake

for another foolhardy revolt 

against the mighty forces 

that divide man and woman.

Now, we operate 

in this in-between state.

Borrowed afternoons.

Borrowed bodies

shared like a cigarette.

While we wait 

for what's next

there is time 

for other pursuits.

There's time for silence.

For this.

**First published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine

**Illustration by Morgane Xenos