a poem is a memorial in a way, so today i honor those who've passed before me with this short note doctor williams might okay, and bukowski surely would salute if say it bought him a beer and didn't insist on parading us this year through blood puddles & gunshots, past uniforms blowing smoke about what it takes to kill or die. It takes everything: the red wheelbarrow, the white chickens, the blue whores glazed with rain.
What Uncle Sam Wants By 1972 most of us knew there was a better way to serve our country at eighteen than to let the bull-headed old men turn us into killing machines or fodder for their patriotic honor. Thank God, my father despised the military, state calculated murder, execution by committee, and taught me the battles worth fighting were inside me, in my face— sometimes bloody, sometimes silent . . . dirty work should never be recruited. If Uncle Sam wants you, tell him to go fuck himself. My Old Man told me: when the bully attacks, bites off your ear, beats you nearly unconscious, then puts the boots to your friend, and begins violating his wife— for the love of Jesus H. Sufferin’ Christ, it’s time to get off your ass and stand your ground. If you have to, take his life with a bullet, a knife, or a well placed word— there are sons-of-bitches in this world that need killing— and what a relief it would be if all the evil-doers looked different than me and lived in one place like Iraq or Vietnam. Then we really could nuke the bastards and live happily ever after— well, everybody except maybe Uncle Sam. What the fuck would he do without war?
Blue Declaration Come look at these bodies once filled with dreams, young bodies sprawled broken, blood pooling in oil, flames & black smoke everywhere. See the frantic actions of the hysterical mass—an ant-pile kicked by an amused child. Listen to the noise: bursts of automatic weapons, roaring fires whipped by wind, explosions, shouts, panicked screams, lamenting wails & moans. Look again, my friends, & try to imagine the smells (fighting the urge to vomit) or not being able to imagine—your brains blown out of your skull—jaw & chin forming a fractured chalice. No, we don't want to think about that, but we see what war has orchestrated & accomplished. It’s not about freedom, so don’t say it is. Be honest. You know what it’s about. It’s about money. It’s about power. It’s about control through fear. Yes, it's about death. Clearly it’s about creating chaos & confusion. It's about keeping people afraid, unsure, on edge & insecure, so they’ll listen, do what they’re told. It’s about not thinking & following orders from deceivers-passed-off- as-leaders. It’s about being a team player on a sinking ship, the Empire Builder, that’s taking on water in the servants' quarters while first class is partying on deck. It’s about doing a job, being a good cog cranking the bullshit machine while above officers stand guard over Big Wheels napping in the sun, the ones the cogs believe someday they'll be if they keep toeing the line & saving their dimes, keep oiling, keep grinding away, hands on their hearts, pledging breath to the rockets' red scare as ceremonial troops march along singing this song: Oh, say can you see in the setting sun the naked children running down the street, little flames, tiny torches—the price of freedom—in the twilight's last gleaming.
You're zeroed in with this stuff, Hombre!
Read this through tears. Thankyou.