J O H N 

Where do we all go from here?

During the Depression we all struggled
as best we could, hand to mouth,
we knew where we were,
like pigs in a chute.

Now America has won the wars,
in Japan and Europe — I was there, I saw it

firsthand — the new age
of pre-eminence has begun. 

I suppose it should be a golden age,
the ascendance of democracy.

Don’t get me wrong.
I believe that’s a good thing,
a decent thing.

We had to fight, and we had to win.
The world was watching us.

It’s just — I don’t know where
I belong in the picture.

When the fighting ended, I was still
in the Philippines — sick as a dog
I can tell you, but alive.

I could almost hear the two bombs
going off in my head—pure imagination,
given I was so far away,

but real in my ears just the same.

I have killed people.
I have seen their legs and arms
go flying over the hill,

beyond the palm fronds,
beyond those damn creeping vines.

How can I live with that?

Granted, this was war and such
actions are necessary.

Many of my comrades,
those I knew somewhat and those I
didn’t know at all, I saw shrivel                                               

like sucked-out animals
along the road,

or exploded like balloons with
green camouflage tatters trickling down.

A few of us — Chuck, Art, Snookie —
made it back to the States,
but for what?  All scattered geographically.

 How do we talk about body parts?

The nation won a great victory,
no one wants to hear nightmares.

Ellie’s a good woman,
I felt proud as a president
when she gave birth
to my first, my only son,
the reward for all my absences. 

Nobody’s at fault — that’s the way
history unfolds, America strides over

the world like a Colossus
and I am here now,

 in a small town along the river
in the middle of America

having my flashbacks
that nobody understands, nobody

wants to believe 

and the smallness of it all
will never measure

up to that great movie, that weird
cauldron of life I was acting
in like an extra,

nothing will seem important
ever again, like

my pin has been pulled
from the grenade of my life

and everyone is celebrating the return
of normalcy, the nation’s mushrooming power.

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STERLING

It all seems so ironic now.

In college, I was totally out there.
And I do mean out there.

Any demonstration within a hundred miles,
I was there, carrying a sign, screaming.

Black Power, all that jazz. 

It felt good, it felt real good.
And I believed. 

Whitey, The System, they were
about to go

the way of the dinosaur.

My daddy said, “Why don’t you prepare
for a real job — law, medicine, even accounting? 
I didn’t survive the Good War
for no sociology shit.”

Black Studies he always spat out
with open scorn. 

But that’s where it was,
the action, the freedom, the energy. 

 And it was a good place to be —
in those days.  Nothing at all wrong
with majorin’ in sociology. 

Only no jobs.

Reality hit the Big Fan.

So I signed up, innocent as
the proverbial babe.  I couldn’t have
been thinking — ticket to what?

 As it turned out,
the jungles of Vietnam.

Lord, I thought Alabama was hot!

Felt at first like the oven
of Satan himself—

only humid, with the air
clawin’ over you with tongs.

But the setting wasn’t so bad overall,
sweating, crawlin’ around, pretendin’ to be

accomplishin’ something, till

Boom! that shell hit
and everything went black.                                           

Black as night. 

An’ I’m not talkin’ African
skin black, which is mostly brown
anyway, ‘least in my case,

I’m talkin’ black
as everlasting absence
of any light, sun or moon,

blind as Oedipus
in — where was it? — Thebes.     

Joe was beside me with his leg blown

off, laughing like a maniac, “I’ll never play
baseball again, I’ll never play
baseball again,”

almost like he was glad
to be rid of the American pastime.

But I looked out
and saw nothing more

than the end of my favorite life,
the life I had been so busy acting in —

 no more Civil Rights,
no more upping The System,

just feeling my life
ooze out like the lost soul
I always was,

prisoner

of the Old South
not yet crawlin’ to the New.

As the man said, sockets dripping
in tainted blood, “I was blind,
but now I see.”

I see in myself
a fool of the first order

who believed we could really
change The System, make it help
the poor, the damaged, 

the folks with the dark skin
who suffered so much and will never

get their justice
without some serious blood.

 Man, was I a babe!
Innocent and so blind — 

and now I stare at the world,
I look at everybody through the heart
of myself and see it

clear as a shell

break open like a flower

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J O E Y

History doesn’t get made in a teacup.

You either roll over the other
guy, or get rolled yourself.

Torture or be tortured.

Those are the rules of war,
so you can’t be pretty and take prisoners.

An Arab comes up to you,
you shoot, and ask questions later.

I’m not sayin’ it’s right,
I’m not sayin’ it’s good.

But you have to protect yourself;
the guy could be camouflaging a bomb.  

And in any case, it’s one
less soldier, one less insurgent

for the other side.

 Look, I’m not the ringmaster here.
Most of human history,
this is the norm.

I don’t have to love it,
but sure as hell can’t sit home and
twirl my thumbs like a girl

and pretend there’s no problem.

No, sir.  We’re here                              
to get things done, help

these people set up their own country. 

Simple as that.

Somebody’s gotta do it.                                       

That’s America’s role in the world,
forging democracy for

all freedom-loving people.

And everyone loves freedom —
’cept those in power, who hate losing

control, who rig elections
and maintain

one-party government
through corruption and pay-offs.

My parents aren’t too wild
about my being here. 

They didn’t actually oppose it —
after all, my dad lost his leg in combat,
so he’s one to talk, but

they thought there
wasn’t enough justification. 

I say, the justification
is, we’re here, we’re trying to 

make democracy where
there wasn’t one, 

we need to civilize these people
best we can so the world can be safe.     

I’m not a knee-jerk military man.

I hate mess-halls
and tromping around
with these monster guns —

hell, I feel kinda sorry
for the little ones and the women,
who look up at you all sad in the eyes
and pleading like

they don’t understand a word.

I feel for them inside.

But you can’t let that get
to you or disorient your objectives.

I do hope my tour o’ duty
won’t be extended. 

 I walk out alive, I can go
home, maybe get a girlfriend
and have kids.

I’d prefer not to limp
like my dad, but hey, you take
what you get and leave all the decor.

That’s my philosophy,
and I don’t think I’m all
that unusual. 

I’m proud of my country,
and proud of myself for putting
up with trash that woulda

buried anyone else,
made him bitter or sorry.                                               

I pray God
keep me upbeat

and confident against
all odds.  Like a good soldier

marching
in the host of heaven.

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Order America Bound