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

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

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!

Some Nights Are Lonely Nights

You ache for companionship.

No champion will emerge.

Your spouse is down with a migraine.

Friends do not answer your call.

Neighbors are away on holiday.

The bartender cannot be bothered

to turn from his want ads.

Even the moon, the big-hearted

benevolent moon, behaves

like a coveted woman unconcerned

with your existence.

You find yourself at last call

boxed in by insufferable strangers,

wrestling a poem into submission.

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 hurry 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.

Eloise Jane 5.0

  We are celebrating the release of Eloise Jane version 5.0 in Mexico.  I asked our girl this morning how she wants her special day to go:  "Papa, first I want to snuggle with you, then open presents, then have cake for breakfast; then I want to ride a horse on the beach with Mama, then play with my presents, then swim at the pool, then snorkel in the ocean ... Then I want to have a party, Papa – then more cake."

Alright, Mexico, let's make this happen ... Happy Birthday to our little buddy!