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

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.

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

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 lay entwined in glorious silence
as she dreams of something else to do.

 
Her checkered flannel and denim

will soon be on again, 

and she will be off somewhere:

the salon, the supermarket, a girlfriend's sofa.

"Do you want to come?" she will ask, 

and 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 much shouting 

and tearful apology, 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.

The relationship is transactional, uncomplicated.

We don't make a mess of things.

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

Iyla Grace 9.0

    Iyla Grace 9.0 maintains the abundant joy we so appreciate and introduces her brand new production company.  Iyla Grace Productions will release its first feature-length film this Fall, just in time for Oscar consideration.  The film is titled, "A Whisker Away", and tells the story of two feline friends who get lost in the big city then find their way back to each other by following their distinctive fart scents ... Bidding is now open for a distributor.  If interested, call Iyla's secretary, Eloise Jane.

    Happy Birthday, Miss Iyla Grace!

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia

 noun

1. The fear of long words.

Some Nights Are Lonely Nights

You ache for companionship.

No champion will emerge.

Your spouse is in bed with a migraine.

Friends will not pick up the phone.

Neighbors are away on holiday.

The bartender cannot be bothered

with your cry for attention.

Even the moon, the big-hearted

benevolent moon, behaves

like a coveted woman unconcerned

with your existence.

You find yourself at last call

surrounded by insufferable strangers,

wrestling a poem about 

longing and self-pity.

Too fatigued to labor for creation,

you scratch out a few, restless lines

and wander into the twilight

chasing streetlamps until you can

no longer bear the shuffle

of your footsteps.

You scurry home and crawl into bed next to her.

She cradles you with her naked form.

Gentle fingers navigate the stories

written upon your bodies:

        adolescent scars, 

        a child's birth,

        unwanted surgeries, 

        beloved tattoos.

Every anxious vibration stands still.

Even the best lines of Whitman

or Shakespeare are wanting beside her.

Leave them in the dresser drawer

and bid goodnight.