Vietnam—Trick Bag

Jungle silence
shouts the enemies presence

I know Victor Charles squats—waiting . . . waiting
and he knows I know
Yet, down the trail I trip
step . . . listen / look . . . step
Sweat drip

A game I must play
As armchair warriors rule the day

---

Vietnam—Scars Unseen

In the hell-hole of my mind are their faces

And I am pulled
into their eyes . . . their eyes
Their eyes; wide with terror
begging for mercy
Yet, grasping their fate—and mine

An eternal pact

In the paddies of my mind
their screams do resound

Hands over my ears
only locks them in

I take another sip
but no amount of whiskey ever dulls the trip

The only anodyne I find
is to re-live that terrible day
And become one with their re-death

Another bond

---


Simulacrum


I study him

He towers over most

yet feels dwarfed in their presence

He tries to understand life,

but it is a game of Scrabble; sans vowels

He is composed

but his mind tick . . . tick . . . ticks. . . .
anger long repressed waiting for a mad minute

He has deep emotions;

rivers of anguish can flow from his eyes
but he can be as hard as a diamond shines

He feels alienated

observing civilization while gone underground in their midst

He simply seeks peace of mind
but cannot attain a truce

War’s end?

Not for him

It lingers in his day dreams and haunts his nightmares
the incubus of his soul

I reach out and touch my mirror image craving a oneness
but alas, he is just . . .

Glass