Spiritual Casualty

My country wages a war in a far off place.

I deem myself a decent man and still I struggle

to feel anything for the pawns of the war.

I too am a pawn of war.

I have been bombed.

The fallout: a haze of indifference,

   a bunt of numbness.

On T.V., talking heads cannibalize me.

Their dish of preference

my own memory.

I'm rendered ignorant,

become an accordion of fear,

each key a sensation I play for relief:

sex, food, "entertainment."

Tomas H. Lucero

The Annapolis Hotel

My country wages a war in a far off place.

I deem myself a decent man and still I struggle

to feel anything for the pawns of the war.

I too am a pawn of war.

I have been bombed.

The fallout: a haze of indifference,

   a bunt of numbness.

On T.V., talking heads cannibalize me.

Their dish of preference

my own memory.

I'm rendered ignorant,

become an accordion of fear,

each key a sensation I play for relief:

sex, food, "entertainment."

Tomas H. Lucero

The Annapolis Hotel

I

Fifteen minutes new in Saigon, raw green, covered in June sweat, covered in ideal dreams, they called me to the Front Bunker Watch, twenty-four hour flight from San Frisco, ten minute shower, five minute sandwich, now stand in front of the red-headed E-6, First Class Petty Officer offering me a thirty caliber rifle…

“I don’t know how to fire that piece,” I warned, “They didn’t send me to Survival School—just flew me here from Memphis.”  He took the rifle back and said:  “Do this & do this & do this.”, then handed it back to me.  I was trying to remember the second “do this” when he told me my bunker was outside the wire, if any Vietnamese stopped in front of the sandbagged bunker, in front of twenty yards of concertina wire, in front of the Annapolis Hotel I was to say “Get out of here!” in Vietnamese. 

I asked what to do if they didn’t leave and he said to say “Get the f out of here!”, in Vietnamese. 

“What do I do if they don’t leave after that?”  I asked with sweat pouring down my neck, into my eyes, down my arms, and down my resolve.

“Shoot ‘em.”  he said and then instructed me to follow him to the bunker.

I thought, “This is not what I signed up for; my dream was to stop dominoes from falling, make the world safe for democracy, serve my country by being a good ambassador, not curse human beings I didn’t know, or didn’t know if they were combatants or civilians, or shoot them, THIS IS NOT WHAT I SIGNED UP FOR” I worried walking into the hot tropical sun, into the hot colonial war, towards the bunker that sandbagged my dreams…

II

            the street was bustling with bicycles, motorbikes, pedicabs, pedestrian hawkers of cheap souvenirs, arms circled by wrist watches imitating name brands and Asian nick nacks; beautiful, petite women with long middle of the back or tied back black shiny hair,  men, women, and children war-maimed, missing arms, missing legs, missing out—all looking thin and hungry—hurrying somewhere…

            I kept trying to remember how to fire the rifle, I, who had never seen a rifle range or a weapons class—he said do this & do this & do this…

            Some time later, my shirt soaked with sweat, I remembered the second “do this” and walked through the firing of the rifle in my mind; beautiful women, fragile, detached, distant, cautious, measured, walked by in white silk pants and split-tailed tunics, perfect doll faces walked by, some singly, some hand-in-hand with a woman friend,

            The air burned danger, the air burned despair, minicabs burdened down with full loads of miniature yellow/copper human beings, a black toothed, black pajama clad grandma chewed betel nuts, lead an emaciated goat limping from the weight of the war —the weight of terror—the weight of deprivation…

            The smell of diesel, the smell of broken concrete, the smell of urine, the smell of sweat, the smell of dung, the smell of death—do this & do this & do this—revolved in my mind like a lights out ferris wheel stress-powered by electric fear driving my eyes from right to left, left to right, and back again, rooftop to street, street to rooftop, rooftop to sky and back again repeating the new, warning Vietnamese, the new cursing Vietnamese— and then it started…

III

            He was an ancient grandpa, old and thin, yet thin is to weak a word to describe him, more like skin and bones and shallow, sunken eyes; he couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds; riding a rusty bike with rusty spokes and rusty chain, he stopped ten yards from me, sharp to my left, inches from the entrance to the hotel and the concertina wire, straw baskets stacked twelve high, balanced on the back of the rusty black bike; he dismounted, pushed at the kickstand with sandaled foot, walked to the rear of the bike—it happened too fast—began to dig through the bottom basket—it happened so fast—I did what I was ordered to do:

“Papa San, didi!”, I shouted as loud as I could.  He turned, held one finger up and bowed—just a moment please—a reasonable request, and returned to digging in his basket; but this was war and I had my orders.

“Papa San, didi mou!” I shouted louder than the first.  He winced at the profanity turned again, held one finger up bowing a little deeper— please sir one moment if you will—but this was war and I had my orders—do this & do this & do this, the ferris wheel turned in my mind…

            I aimed the rifle at him, his back was to me when I bellowed,

“Papa San, didi f-ing mou!”, he turned and I saw raw fear in his eyes, diplomacy burned, fear in his eyes burned seeds of hate tainting the image of America, forever creating ugly the image of Americans, my heart flooded light on the ferris wheel:

Don’t do this, & don’t do this, and for God’s sake, don’t do this, don’t shoot your Grandpa…

            But he had already leapt through the air landing hard on his commerce bike sweeping the kickstand with a windmilling, sandaled heel, pedaling away in a frenzy of fear to the rapid beating of my heart.

IV

            Two weeks later I was on the Mekong River at my duty station, LST 905, Large Slow Target Madera County, a new friend called to me, wanted to know if I had seen the Stars & Stripes, the military newspaper? I said I hadn’t, “Check out the story on the back page.”, he seemed oddly amused, an in-country smile with chagrin.

            I found the rag and read that the front bunker watch at the Annapolis Hotel in Saigon, the young sailor who had my watch, the green seaman who was where I was two weeks before, along with all of the concertina wire, along with half the hotel, along with two Vietcong, had been blown away by a satchel charge thrown from the back of a motorbike.

            I missed my death by two weeks…

            The air was wet with sweat and irony as it always was in the Nam, the air went still as I read the story a second time; what about this young man who died?  Was he in- country for mere minutes like myself?  Was he taught the insulting warning curse like me?  Was he trying to remember do this & do this & do this, like me? 

            And the two Viet Cong who died that day?  They were my contemporaries, did the grandpa tell them about being threatened and insulted?  Were they his sons, grandsons, cousins, relatives?  And what did all three men die for, die so young for?

            There were no dominoes falling that day in front of the Annapolis Hotel, only blood and bloody body parts falling to the ground, democracy was not safer because three youths died, democracy was not reachable for the three, nor touch, nor love, nor breath, democracy was dead for the three, no dominoes falling, only death falling that day in June of 1969, almost 40 years ago, death falling like shadow cloud monsoon rains; composers of the falling dominos myth snickered in the shadows, laughter from the living dead, laughter from impunity…

Jim Moreno

Poetry From June 28, 2008 Workshop, Blackwater

My capital is a foreign country to me,

a place where plain and pretty men, elegant women

speak in a different language

broadcasted across the globe.

They look over their shoulders,

across the Potomac.

Over the hills

they know there are People there.

They remember, the way a drunk remembers

last night's shenanigans,

these are people they Represent.

My capital is a foreign country to me,

money circulates faster there than anywhere else,

                              circulating at the same speed its being stolen

from my hands. My capital

is a theme park where the buildings, the monuments,

are devoid of all meaning.

The White House, the Capitol, the Supreme Court stand there,

their dark windows echoing with ironic music.

My capital's operators are preachers of democracy and freedom,

practitioners of deceit and torture,

tyrants splish-splashing in tubs full

of the the blood of the poor

dying in their wars.

I drop to my knees when I enter my capital

Its volume of lies renders me

the same way Guantánamo Bay prisoners

are rendered under heavy metal music.

It's a country where the passport is cynicism, and where reality

never catches up to the rhetoric.

My capital is a foreign country to me,

the world's traffic meets in gridlock there and only

the mighty advance.

It's a place I'd never like to visit.

I prefer the soft seat of my heart, the respite

Between two pensive breaths.

My capital is a foreign country to me.

I shall dress up and visit soon.

I want to face it,

stand in front of it, measure it up

like fighters do

before the bell.

I want to go arrest Republicans for high crimes and misdemeanors,

Democrats for the vilest of hypocrisy, and the most embarrassing of cowardice.

I want to tell these sharp-suits and power-pumps

that they don't Represent me.

I don't stand for stealing from other countries,

I don't stand for the racism that justifies

the murdering of Moslems,

for the building of fences between nations,

for the forced separation of parents and children

 on our own land.

I don't stand for Imperial Presidents!

Not for political parties who don't know when to stop playing politics,

and start practicing democracy.

My capital is a foreign country to me, and stops being so

after my visit.

I've seen it! It's just a place.

The grass grows and pigeons poop.

Individual dreams of power die there

along with its practitioners,

they wither away the way brown leaves crack, brittle,

and disappear into the earth

Tomas H. Lucero

Ice Clouds Thaw

Jeremy, are you just selling books?

Do you only want me to be afraid?

Why don’t you offer solutions?

Or is the solution right here in my hand—
                                                               Moving             across         the          page…

What if a young person asks me

what am I doing about Blackwater?

What if my daughter asks me

how to stop mercenaries?

I must not forget the answer

to oppression,

My solution to injustice,

Our remedy for racism,

Is right here in my hand—

Moving             across              the                         page…

Ice storms  —  dark & heavy —

                                                            loom over my country’s capital  —

d.c. is a foreign country

                                                —  $peaking a foreign language  —

deaf to the songs of citizens

                                                d

                                                   r

                                                     o

                                                        w

                                                           n

                                                             i

                                                               n

                                                                 g

                                                                     in secrets of power

                                                                                    answering only to the lie…

I ask the dolphin to come & help

                                                                keep our heads above

                                                                        WATER

I ask for the dolphin to help keep us strong,

I ask the dolphin to help us swim to the isle of freedom,

Where we always know the answer, the solution with grace―

Right here in my hand―

                                        moving across the page…moving…moving…now.

Jim Moreno