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Some the poems in this anthology are written by vets and some are not. The idea for this book was sparked by DB Cox when he sent me his poem. Like all good things, this was not planned.
RUSTY TRUCK PRESS http://rustytruck.wordpress.com rustytruckzine@gmail.com 11.11.09
Cover Art by F.N. Wright Editor: Scot Young Contributors: Alan Catlin, S.A. Griffin, D.B. Cox, F.N. Wright, Bradley Mason Hamlin, Jack Henry, Raindog, Scot Young
ŠOriginal Authors
ARMISTICE DAY Armistice Day came into existence to honor those americans who served during WW I for those of you who don't know it the germans signed the armistice that ended the war with its trench foot mustard gas the first time ever dogfights in the sky on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918 in 1953 a shoe store owner al king in emporia, kansas proposed an "all" veterans day to honor all veterans who had served not just during WW I & in 1954 Armistice Day became Veterans Day I think the government ashamed a shoe store owner from emporia, kansas was quicker to think of it than them declared Veterans would be attributive (no apostrophe) instead of possessive
no wonder our language is so hard to understand at times when the government isn't talking out of both sides of their mouth they are fucking with our language as if it was theirs to fuck with like they do with everything else that is ours. --F.N. Wright
Shapes 1. then
time rides a river— memories rust like old bullet holes in highway signs— sighs of relief now that you’re all more than forty years gone moved along with your hard facts about bags of flag-wrapped kids who ate red dirt on height-numbered killing hills— celebrated at home with silent songs of praise in secret parades down vacant american avenues— immortalized by artists with assumed names selling monuments with mannequin faces selling bare canvas in empty frames
2. Now back from iraq with stories to tell distorted dream shots
captured in sensaround brutal disjointed absurd scenes streaming in vivid heartbreaking detail— but as silence walks him down easy hometown streets past sunday night living rooms lit by wide-screen TVs overlaid with bought-&-paid-for prophets taking back old american promises— the tales die inside his heart— recollections that burned blood-red in the dark gone cold as the ghosts who breathed them— & he begins to comprehend how these shapes carved into his soul are only empty outlines forever shackled to another place another time --DB Cox
SHIT RIVER Every time it’s Veterans Day I think about shit river it’s true, you know what all those sailors say about that canal in the Philippines You walk over a small wooden bridge rocking back and forth holding your breath smelling all of the sewage much of it American floating down a narrow channel toward the jungle perhaps out to sea and the assholes of humanity mostly young insecure men throw pesos or pennies into the mud-colored water just to see if the hungry Filipino kids will jump
breaks your heart as they do hit the water because they have more guts more savvy than all those men throwing away their money. -- BRADLEY MASON HAMLIN
rolling Americana an old man sits on a deadwood log underneath young green leaves and thick branches of a lazy willow tree an old man sits watching folks go by and we all go by everyday they might see him as they see a rusted postal box or a forgotten yard sale sign he smiles through fake teeth provided by the VA he served some years ago in Korea and Vietnam he wears a blue cap inscribed with faded white letters insignia from the last ship he called home on occasion a police car
stops a pink skinned rookie with buzz cut and perfect teeth will tell him move along the folks around here that come out after dark are not gentle i see him when he rides his motorized wheelchair one adorned with little American flags and a pink stuffed animal down Rimpau Avenue sometimes he salutes when he passes an old stone cemetery sometimes he doesn't look that way fear, perhaps or, maybe, regret i can't be sure i never asked if i did i might not like his answer --Jack Henry
broken places
sometimes at night after the last light has been doused & the holy meds have rendered him oblivious to the pain & sickening smells of the ward he can feel the void that stretches out from his body in every direction— 360 degrees of seclusion dead as a disconnected phone & he reaches blindly into the black absence hoping his fingers will brush against something he can hold onto maybe a wayfaring angel who might allow a little unexpected mercy & lift him above these broken places— back to days of grace & the face of a child singing to himself as he plays alone -- DB Cox
JOHNNY
Johnny four days in country bawling in pain AK-47 shrapnel ric-cocheting through his torso like a steel ball in a pachinko machine Johnny in a war that he didn’t understand Johnny with his gun ready to kick some ass instead getting his ass kicked. Johnny a regular at the V.A. keeps the bits of shrapnel they continue to remove in a jar with the lid screwed down tight. Sometimes at night the shrapnel calls to him pleading with him to finish the job that was started years ago in the ambush. He sucks on the muzzle driving his girlfriend crazy. He is disabled and has learned to live in that system has learned to live with his disability with his pain
with his slow death by surrender Johnny is already dead laying down waiting for some words and a handful of dirt. -- Raindog
VETERANS DAY as a veteran I take veterans day very seriously because it is a day to gather with other vets & get seriously drunk & tell "sea stories" to one another staying away from "serious war stories" staying seriously away from that kind of serious shit. --F.N. Wright
Veterans Park he was drafted a hot prospect by the giants in ‘67 infantryman by the army in ‘68 somewhere north of the mekong delta pitching for charlie company my lai with the bases loaded he blew out his mind. today no dugouts or bullpens in this ward of word slobber he stands bent staring home through eastwood eyes waiting for a sign. dust dancing in the sunlight like confetti from the world series --Scot Young
Almost Home Again Almost Home Again (Veteran‟s Day 2001)
2:30 in the morning on the other side of a Thursday night I had just finished my late shift at the internet radio collective setup affectionately known to all as Kill Kill is the bomb Kill Radio dot org an alternative boho organization bent on changing the world thru consensus process the station mantra – kill corporate radio our mission – to provide community based programming news and information my show – The Auto Zone radio free radio with your host, Mr. Enjoy Yourself – be late my mission – to have a good time and get the message out between tunes for the five or so regular listeners every week this particular Thursday happened to fall on Veteran‟s Day I was joined in studio by Kill confederate Hassan who hosted his own after midnight jazz shindig Straight Ahead on Mondays
also in house were High Frequency Larry on poem and Lord of Lounge Mr. Guy on the stone-a-phone for the eveningâ€&#x;s musical repast I served up some classic grooves The Dead Kennedys Kill The Poor sweetened by additional classic punk some beat era bop poetics old school jazz and some inspired manic in house rants by Larry good times as I was locking up and getting ready to roll home Hassan comes charging up the stairs to the station broadcasting that somebody had bashed out the window of my car sure as hell the back window had been knocked out with a small steel manhole cover still resting in the back seat amid the chunky shrapnel of shattered glass my cd player all my cds and the interior unmolested nothing had been ripped up or removed the only thing missing from my negligible universe was the flight jacket issued to me while serving in far north Alaska I was pissed that damned thing had seen me thru almost 30 years and it was about all that I had left from my hitch in the military
so we mounted up as the late night over the hill brotherhood of the bud set off in search of the curious culprits who had done the dastardly deed easy enough to spot a well worn GI green lined with old issue button down Korean underwear a true one of a kind with no chevrons no name tags nothing would keep most anybody warm inside of this sad and shivering cold November of nervous terror post nine-one-one only weeks after the sky had made its official fall in America Hassan, Larry, Mr. Guy and myself started by shaking down the homeless in and around the immediate vicinity of The Good Luck Bar rousting a few poor souls sleeping in the parking lot & alley “We‟re wasting our time, I know who did it. It was those fuckin‟ crackhead bums hanging out and partying on the steps by where I parked my car when I got here tonight. I know where to find those fuckers, Tang‟s! You guys meet me over there.” Tang‟s is a notorious dilapidated coffee and donut dive about a half mile up the road from the Kill Radio intersection of Sunset, Hollywood and Vermont a Starbucks for the cracked and homeless where the inmates are actively running the asylum ground zero for crack zips to openly hang 24/7 cop, crash and burn the night away hustling nickel & dime chess
Hassan rode shotgun with me in my mechanical nag Mr. Guy rode with Larry in his a posse of whacked out slacker poets and musicians with a cumulative age of just over 200 Hassan and I rolled into the lot first we walked inside to give the joint the quick once over twice all clear I turned around and walked outside sending my radar out towards the street sure as shit there was my jacket draped over the shoulders of the same happy crackwhore from earlier in the night bending over with one foot already inside a waiting Yellow Cab a second more and she and my jacket would‟ve been hasta la bye bye “GIVE ME MY GOD DAMNED MOTHER FUCKING JACKET RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!” I roared in a 60 foot tall tone of voice the woman froze she turned and walked slowly towards me carefully peeling the jacket away like a cheap mink and handed it over no doubt about it it was mine had my filthy history all over it the biggest of about four of the men watching spills out of the safety of the ominous shadows
a loud mouthed sonofabitch about my size who had the incredible nuts to say, “Who the fuck are you, man? This ain‟t yer jacket motherfucker… where you get off talkin‟ to a lady like that?” I was familiar with his punk song and dance and ignored him as I quietly and methodically began to rifle thru my jacket thinking on razors, needles & pins I didn‟t want any trouble just my damned cheap and dirty government issue field jacket the woman asked if she could have her stuff out of the pockets I hesitated not a good move on my part and I knew it but I couldn‟t help myself I felt bad for the poor used woman hell, I didn‟t have any use for whatever she had stashed in the pockets and she more than likely had to suck off Mighty Mouth in exchange for the luxuriant warmth and relative comfort of my old field jacket I caved I ritually began handing her lipsticks and eye liners over while taking in all the creepshow darkness moving slow and steady towards me and the jacket like we were on the set of The Donuts of Dr. Caligari starring all the hungry brain eating zombies from Night of the Living Crack Dead no half-stepping in the shadows when walking thru the desert pay attention Hassan more or less had my back High Frequency Larry and Mr. Guy had pulled up and were hovering close by
waiting for the tension to break out into a serious wounded movie Mighty Mouth made a mad grab at the jacket in a last ditch effort to wrestle it from me the offensive broke the hit was on no rehearsals no second takes the wake and bake facing off the crack attack on Veteran‟s Day 2001 myself as the aging sheriff helping fight the war on terror by playing tug „o war over an old field jacket with this burned out welfare junkie backed by my aging friends and all for a nasty field jacket but this was MY nasty field jacket bartered 4 prime years of my youth to get it and there was no fucking way I was coming home without it we yanked at the tough green thing like a couple of fucked up old alley cats fighting over fetid fish bones until finally Mighty Mouth released his hold on it and I went tumbling ass first across the parking lot like a flesh rocket I hit the asphalt flat on my back everything spinning like a drunken disco I sprang up afraid of being rushed and began backing towards my small urban assaultless vehicle, “THIS FUCKING JACKET WENT THRU FUCKING VIETNAM WITH ME
MOTHER FUCKER. FUCK YOU!!!” I had what we had come for time to move along little doggie and make our exit stage left before this evening‟s comic farce turned truly tragic Hassan and I got into my chariot cranked her up and slapped that sucker into reverse but when I began to back out I saw in the rear view that High Frequency Larry had parked right behind me blocking my escape Mr. Guy was waiting shotgun but where was Larry? we looked and there he was quietly standing his ground facing the advancing pack armed with nothing but a blank stare and a shitty K-Mart steering wheel lock as if he was going take them all on single handed like Sampson tackling the Philistine army with the department store jawbone of an ass “Larry, let‟s get the fuck out of here. Move your fucking car man… LET‟S GO!!” Hassan and I kept shouting at him to get into his damned vehicle so we could all get off this crazy train before it jumped the track Larry had to be high or maybe he was caught in the headlights who knows? all I knew was we sure as hell weren‟t going give him over to the welfare werewolves
finally he snapped out of it made for his car backed out and we were liberated Mighty Mouth began to light into Hassan regaling him with his subterranean black on black rap, “You‟re a cheese eatin‟ Uncle Tom, motherfucker! You ain‟t shit, man! You‟re a fuckin‟ pussy too!!! You government-cheese eating Uncle Tom.” then back to me picking up the pace upping the ante with more of his nickel and dime bullshit “You‟re a pussy man. Talkin‟ to a woman like that. If you were a real man, if you‟d really been thru Vietnam, you‟d fuckin‟ stand here and fight. You ain‟t nothin‟ but a bitch mother fucker.” Hassan and I just let his come fuck with me routine go and moved on out our objective met “Fuck you man.” I said as we rolled by, “You broke the window out of my car for a fucking field jacket you fucking asshole. FUCK YOU!!” he held his ground at the mouth of Tang‟s parking lot yodeling like a wounded Tarzan trumpeting for the dead armies of the wind to gather around him as we stayed our course continuing past the gates of donut hell and back onto Sunset Blvd. re-entering the fear factory GI fleece in hand I dropped Hassan off at the station and we all split for our safe and separate ways
Lorraine had been asleep in our bed for hours waiting my return from our city on fire wild with the virus of war spreading fast across the politically parched and brittle landscape let us all pray we win the un-nameable war together blow it all to hell with liberty and justice in the drop as somewhere in this great city a gang of very young boys rip apart the night with sharp kitchen knives and dull gunfire in the practice and belief that they are men while still more young girls enslave themselves in orgiastic fits of binging purging their dreams in reverent supplication before the slim dogma of television visions of peace within the tangled reservation of the heart pepper the dance as ten thousand angels are delivered by the inquisitor genius of popular opinion history remembers the killers but never the killed the jacket feels good between myself and the cold November air as I have somehow managed to dodge yet another bullet landing on my feet one more time ~ S.A. Griffin
Section 60 the wind blows most days in section 60 as children & mothers & fathers & wives & you leave small stones on white marble so others will know between the silence you rub the name with blue crayola for the fridge at home on the hour the sobs muffled by iron bells you listen like something will change like the wind will blow it all away like tears of angels on white marble just might make a difference. --Scot Young
The Flower Arrangement at the Dead Photographers Exhibit, REQUIEM, The Eastman House, Rochester, N.Y. 2001 What music could accompany this exhibit? Twenty years of carnage begun, continues, memorialized as an ongoing funeral for the Age, attended in silence by the curious, the involved, the mourners; as a gift of remembrance, a warning. Not Mozart, Not Fuare, Cherubini, Handel; Not even Beethoven, Verdi, Brahms; Not Britten with his poems by dead soldierpoet Wilfred Owen incorperated into the Mass; Not Barber's Adagio for Strings, his memorial for the dead of World War II made into a new signature for war dead by Stone's Platoon; Not The Doors, The End, in Apocalypse Now!; No music at all, as in the image of battle weary soldiers emerging from their hiding places on Hamburger Hill, silence more eloquent than anything scored, ever, and here, beside these images of death, a simple flower arrangement between pictures, against a gallery wall; white lilies in a vase and a small stack of business cards that say: Viet Center Readjusment Counseling. --Alan Catlin