((Mpls, Mn) (observations at the Va Hospital)) No: 2711/5-29-2010
Among a few men come trailing down a hospital corridor,
Soldier
one man among the few pushes a wheelchair-that looks like a coffin,
in it sits a torso.
Legs are gone from the hip, from his hip,
yet the upper part of the commanding man lives,
nothing more, nothing more and nothing less.
My brain centers and my speech, and my physical rhythm are broken
I gulp down his growing awareness, as if sucking nectar threw a straw
and watch this young man, soldier, come trailing down the corridor
(broad stalwart, strong sturdy hands, burly shoulders, once big-;
brave clean-shaven face, wearing a skullcap.)
From an intersection, a crisscrossing crosswalk, they meet,
another young soldier, pale to white, without arms,
and legs amputated at the knees-being pushed the same,
there’s a sign on the back of his wheelchair that reads:
“Baghdad Rats!”
What I’m creating here seems to be a poem but it’s nothing else but an emergency
we’ll elect a new congress and president soon-I have to confess,
they’ll say what they need to say to be elected
end up being party to all this…again, and again and again!
-there is no end, wars without a emergency to the Nation!
On the front of the wheelchair of the first mate, I read:
“I’d like to walk pal, but I just came from Hell.”
We’ll elect a new congress and president, soon, I confess,
who will resell all this: a crime, the crime of all times!
-there is no end, wars without a emergency to the Nation!
There they both sit, in wheelchairs, supporting themselves:
one by his arms, the other armless swings his body to turn his seat,
a young soldier pale face, legs amputated at the knees.
Another soldier walks by; his arm stumps carry a letter:
where’s the media, the media, the protesters, I protest?
It’s not like it used to be, protesters all over the place,
on buses, and marching on streets, they’re all asleep
in these two wars (Afghanistan and Iraq)-
waiting for someone to take a picture, take a peek,
who’ll smash down the door? They’re plainly waiting, sleeping!
Tell the munitions manufacturers no more ammo
for this week, that week, the next week! Then the war will end.
Too many soldiers lying in the hospital beds, too many wounded, maimed!
The Armed soldiery must have good salesman, organizations, perks!
These two wars seem not to have any knee jerks.
I have to shake and scratch my head-everywhichway
and think, just think, thinking on an empty stomach.
I see a sign that reads “Food, Cafeteria-this way!”
(“Food, food, food, food…” my stomach is saying.)
In the cafeteria, the procession drags on, along the food line.
Slowly I wait, all is still, all is nil, and everything has a chill
and a few soldiers walk around me, by me,
I’m looking at the jelly, it is yellow, and the chicken it is licking well
still no indigestion, not an accusation, just a statement.
An one-eyed and one-armed soldier pushes his way around me
I say under my breath: “…at least he’s not in that damn wheelchair!”
Other soldiers walk by, in heavy black boots, they move slowly
perhaps thinking of war, and that everlasting darkness: a
snipers rifle registers in my head, I start back up again
follow the food line to its end…so much unbridled wisdom
in the voting process-we’ve created an ongoing emergency for our Nation.
And I, for my part, have lost faith, in the old human race, saying:
for free time and for faith, faith in our nation, do we fight and stand,
for liberty and justice for this land, they throw it all out to the soldier
like white on rice, as if God, Himself, has given us this command
this unblinking green light,
to turn the world and build all red, white and blue
gas stations, coke cans in every store, an American Soldier at every door,
and I’m a war Veteran, and I can’t take no more!
After I’ve accomplished eating ever more and more soldiers
get up from their tables walk toward me. “The bastards are shooting!”
someone says to someone else, walking by me looking at the someone
as if wanting to shout. They look at me, face to face, faith to faith,
hast to hast-it is a strange occasion nothing else but (they know, somehow know,
I was wounded too-maybe they had observation early on I had a limped);
then something snaps, theyquicken their pace.
His life is a grim for him, perilous-I agree,
he’s nothing else but in a thinking state, I am gasping.
My jawbones are tight; I had noticed his lips were pressed tight too,
his eyes are cold and on-edge, his face looks like trenches…like death,
he ploughs his way straight through a group of women
(where there is back and forth mumblings, whispers, confused din):
some are nurses, others with aprons on, perhaps soldiers,
and he stumbles along with an air of secrecy:
as a roar of fury goes on in his head, I suspect; now he’s being carried off
with a scornful gesture.
He’s a hanger-on, I confess, who may never be happy again,
the real profiteers are those that sent him to war,
the so-called middlemen, who know at first hand
the superficially of it all, so I’ve learned, and they’ve labeled:
“For America’s Safety, liberty and God’s Will…”
Those fellows make immense profits, of course,
and because of those swine, we have to live with a bellyache!
I say under my breath, “Perhaps he’s great off in a wheelchair.”
And I think: wars without a emergency to the Nation are bad,
they set a wrong precedent, and I think and confess:
we’ll elect a new congress, a new president, soon,
who’ll come to be purvey to all this.
The restaurant is beginning to fill up again with people,
like wild wounded bloodhounds!
There’s music, women, dance and song, going on in a room nearby…
People huddled in a corner; wounded, so wounded they cannot leave
the hospital, be taken elsewhere, somewhere, everywhere but here
and this is where they’ll die.
Someone’s retention a drink to a wounded man’s lips,
too bad it’s not brandy, it’ll calm his wits-I tell myself.
The wheelchairs come in and out, with hoots and screams,
cheers and shouts, in the background…
that’s all I hear as I walk by awaiting my appointment.
And it comes to mind, once I read, that God said,
“All those you speak of are dead,” but what was He nothing else but saying
or telling this obvious person…?
“The swine no longer live?”
All the dirty people will be submerged, swept away, devastated
on judgment day-if not sooner? And he will send forth his soldiers
and all this will be ended, it will be finished-?
That it already has been written…it’s just a matter of time.
I think I’ll stick with the statement of: “The swine…”
This poem will not bring change, yet I bellow it to you
all the same, with imaginable hope,
if there be any understandable words, let them be…:
that we need to reset our brain centers, for we are deceived,
and I do believe, we are higher than Darwin’s grand apes
and monkeys, higher than their fingertips-or are we just becoming
a global lynching mob with intercontinental missiles
that will crisscross the world, to make our dreams
and inflict our laws?
(To have all those: red, white and blue, gas stations, on every street?)
Note: The United States has been in four non-crisis wars, in my lifetime and my grandfather’s lifetime, wars that have not been a emergency linked war for America: Wwi, the Korean War, Vietnam, and now Iraq; as the Iraq war continue today, and continues to kill or wound and maim our youth, a war that should have stopped long ago; we owe nothing to this so called campaign summons to rebuild nations we war with, paid straight through our tax monies after a war, how silly can we be, and it is no longer genuine to say: “For our free time and National Security,” hogwash, most of these wars are for profit, and have nothing to do with liberty (the race of happiness is for the rich) those are the folks who have not fought by the very people they send out to die, our youth out to fight for their bank accounts, these people have never faced an enemy in a war zone, should they, there’d be no war, and yet they lead us, is it not true the old Wwi statement, “Donkeys foremost lions.” World War 2 was for free time and liberty, and Afghanistan (which should have stopped years ago also), was perhaps significant in the beginning, in that there was a crisis. Beyond that, we have overstepped our bounds, so I feel. The author has spent much time at the Minneapolis, Minnesota Va Hospital throughout the years. Mr. Siluk was a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, and decorated Vietnam Soldier. (Written in a miniature form of: Poetic Prose.)
An Old Cigar Box
An old cigar box, I bought it about thirty years ago, or so, it has a date on it, that reads “1900″ in big black trimmed letters (it’s dark brown, and has shadowy looking designs in its wood-even glass inside as a divider, with a bluish old ribbon that once was complete, now faded into its grain) and it looks all that old, and some more, and for some odd hypothesize I treat it like gold, as it watches me grow older and older and older-I’ve had it for a long time, perhaps thirty years, or so. It has glass even inside it, and fancy trimmings around the edges, up and down and around its sides, and over the top and under, and some old trim, that reads: “M. Kratchvill’s, La Crosse, Wis.”
It’s just an old cigar box that reads No 45; a stamp here and there, I found it in a hamlet, in Minnesota, in an ancient shop way back when, and I keep my old pictures inside it-it’s kind of come to be a silent friend.
I wish it could talk-sitting on my desk, just staring at me, day after day after day, I wonder how many faces of death it has seen, of its many owners, now forgotten, long gone I suppose-I wish it could share something, anything. It is a hundred and nine years old this year, this old wooden cigar box, that doesn’t talk, or walk, but just stare, that has perhaps outlived all its previous owners.
If nothing else but the Cigar Box could talk, I’d give it a gleaming-and blessed smile, and sometimes I think it can, and I’ve come to the conclusion, I’ll have it buried with me, when I’m dead, that way no one can say-’…it out lived him.’
No: 2636/ 6-29-2009
Wounded and Maimed – arrival Home Soldiers – And, an Old Cigar Box
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