The Vision Jammer
(abridged)

Southern Comfort permeated
his thirsty
veins,

racing visions of steel
dreams through his
intoxicated
mind.

Bats flew circles above
the Vision Jammer,

as he rode the
moonlit asphalt
hard and fast.

In Nam, the
Vision Jammer
existed from
self-teachings on
the power of
fantasy and illusion.

It kept him alive,
and delivered him
home safe,
but not sound.

No Vet ever came
home sound.

War fragment
reminiscence
collectively floated
on top of what
was left of
gray matter.

His war-stained hands
pulled the Red Barons
over his inflamed eyes,

and he snugged the
stars-and-stripes
bandana around
his forehead,
not about to lose
a piece of America
again.

He laughed in
the wind, knowing
war had not killed
him,
came damn close
more bloody
times than he
cared to
remember.

His hard shell
toted a
disgusting amount
of unwanted
foreign steel---
the proud,
red, white, and blue
result for enlisting
for Uncle Sam.

The Vision Jammer
does appreciate. 
War does that
to you.

Makes you appreciate
even your numb
legs, steel plates,
and crippled spine.

The power of
fantasy and illusion
is how the
Vision Jammer
spends his
days and nights.

The corridors of a
Veterans hospital is
his road, and the
iron he rides is a
wheelchair.

Copyright 2005 Keysta D. Lorean aka Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist