the same, again, again

I am in the bunker
the wire is crawling with them
like so many black clad snakes
spewing venom at my brothers and at me
and I am out of ammo, my M16 magazines
empty, caked with mud

everyone is looking to me
for salvation, for a salvo of rounds
at the VC, and I find a twenty two
Ruger pistol, the same one I used
to **** a buzzard for sport, one
sinful desert day; and now I aim
at the enemy, firing over
and over, hitting them
dead center, but they
keep coming

I never run out of rounds
but the impotence of my fire
burns inside me--I reach for my empty M16,
but it's still empty--they keep coming

even when I wake, even when
the morning sun has blotted out
the black dream

they keep coming
I keep reaching, reaching
for the empty gun

some claimed the paddies smelled like
fetid fishes, *****; some said like the dung of oxen, peasants
or other beasts who squatted there  

others whispered the fields reeked of death  
while I found no odor to be grander evidence
of life’s languorous longing for itself  

we marched those mired moors, as hunters
of invisible prey--ourselves too being stalked, or worse,
mocked by other hairless apes,  

who like we, sought light, but
could divine darkness far better, for we
knew little of night, its sacred riddles  

some said those places reeked  
of rotted flesh, the festering relics of our deeds
I inhaled deeply, slowly  

only rich, fecund stories
were revealed to me, ones I fear yet
this silent night

Violin goddess
Melancholy of strangers
Overture of days

.

Scattered wavelengths
from a worn out speaker
cracking with each unbalanced bass note
Finding my brain on overload
and a slower heart beat
out of tune

Static the union,
tuning dial gone, volume at high
glowing in the corner of cobweb melodies
lingering on a distant shelf
now sinking lower in this
roadside armchair

An empty bottled fortress
collects the pain at my feet
glass brown soldiers stand,
bottle cap mementos flip
like dancing beans on a folding table
painted Dos Equis green at El Mercado

One more for the road
a staggering venture
along crooked dotted lines, weaving nonsense
two at a time, smirking
snickering like a prideful ending
mimicking the way

Still the static, white noise,
foaming seas on wavelength casualties
and the trees cry, when birdsong of night
haunts with a sound
interrupting the dance
of the beer container guards
and I tap a painful toe

bowl after bowl
cup after cup
movement in the mouth
the stomach is filled
yet the heart drained

physical food for spiritual pain

and the teacher's voice boomed

Our limbs are like windows,
like this room,
and our heart is the hall

what our limbs are exposed to,
will undeniably, directly, affect our hearts.
if the limbs do goodness
the heart will be good.
likewise, if the heart is good...
the limbs will be good.