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Amidst old smoke and stale perfume of a broken night, a seraphic voice posed a question in the dark— to tremble to hear a moan to sink into unguent warmth in a sacred retreat. In the green room, yellow gloves lay on a coffee table. She lit a cigarette and gazed at the fine rain I took her scent and felt her breath her nostrils flared an arabesque veil of smoke drifted into cloudy gray-green eyes. “Have we spoken?” A hot blush came to my cheek. “Your blood is warm.” “I read Bishop Sheen.” She forced a laugh and blew a jet  from under dark lashes. “I adore Coblenz. Kiss me. ”   She tasted of tobacco and stale mint. I slid fingers to her nipples her bosom swelled a tremor crossed her face. “Would you like a trip to Greece?” That’s where I want to go: White-velvet breasts C-section painted nails, on a cold-hard floor. I woke to a curving figure  in a wide-brimmed hat staring in a mirror, black-spike heels, cigarette, eye-liner, headlights in the drive shouts at the front door...

Pythia arose from The Education of a Young Gentleman , a nonfiction short story which tells of the late-night encounter between a 19-year-old boy and a 29-year-old married woman in a highly charged sexual atmosphere. She is fixed and unattainable at the conclusion of the poem, like the characters on Keats Grecian urn. Pythia says something about the strange magic of the woman and the encounter; the fusing of the mythological and the personal.  I tried to distill feeling, emotion, what it is to be alive, and moments in life, in order to create an alternative world.   My style tends to be sardonic. My words tend to be on the definite side, they don't caress each other. A w ord carves out a specific cultural niche. Reading a poem allows you to enter that world and those niches, albeit not always what the writer has in mind.  My first sense of literature was from the 19 th century writers. My introduction into culture and politics was high school Latin.  Pythia owes...

WHY I LIKE IT: Poetry editor Hezekiah writes… Pythia is a short, epic, poetic quest for two, not to be missed. Charles Jacobson is promethean in this intimate, imagistic, incidental encounter-conquest. Who’s the muse who writes his stuff?—I goda get in touch. “…to sink into unguent warmth” “ I took her scent and felt her breath.” And maybe the best line, “An arabesque veil of smoke drifted into cloudy gray-green eyes.” I was riveted by his words and the amplitude of the scene as it transcends to the divine and lapses back to the banal.(Spacing and font size are poet’s own) HS Senior editor Charles writes: What you are about to read is consummate poetry by a consummate literary artist. Just as mesmerizing as ‘Pythia’ are the author’s extensive notes and footnotes. Once settled on the page,, he is both sculptor and archeologist. Exquisite word choice and rarefied technique put this poem in a class by itself. Five stars.   Pythia...

What am I doin' here? Please Mr. Custer, I don't want to go —from De Lory, A., Darian, F. and Van Winkle, J. (1960). Mr. Custer [lyrics] Early February, 1970, Charlie company was hacking through thick bamboo over our heads, deep in the stomping grounds of the 9th Division NVA (North Vietnamese Army), investigating some funny business the Duck had spotted in a locality we were unfamiliar with. Back in the world, Jean Dixon, the gossip prophet, had marked our regiment (Custer’s 7th Cavalry) for destruction. If that wasn’t enough, the anniversary of the Tet Offensive was also hanging over our heads. Late that afternoon, the point stopped chopping; I almost crashed into Bob. Something piqued the man’s interest—a fresh path. Mmm-hmm. Intuition is a funny thing. When you get that flash, “something isn’t right here,” you’d better listen. Normally, we didn't touch paths, follow one, or cross one. Better to break bush than mix with heavy traffic and ignorant crowds. Patient, soft-...

“For the times they are a-changin'”—Bob Dylan Yet that’s what began to be felt in Charlie Company after Bob took point at 0745 on April 6, 1970, a few miles from the Cambodian border. Circling overhead in his tiny scout helicopter, Lt. Col. Trobaugh thought he had the ideal LZ (landing zone) for the lift ships (helicopters) to pluck us from the strange, unsettling wonders of Vietnam's jungles. After a short while, Bob walked across an old Armored Personnel Carrier track and emerged onto a single-lane dirt road lined by thick vegetation on both sides. Footprints in the mud jumped up and hit him between the eyes. “Fresh NVA (North Vietnamese Army) slicks!” He was standing smack dab on the Ho Chi Minh Trail! The squad stopped. The platoon stopped. Bob ushered us back into the safety of the bush. We were suspicious of our new boss, Capt. Al Rice, 24, ranger and gungho martinet. He had a reckless air and been acting odd—not stoppin’ soon enough to set up an adequate night defensive ...

When it finally happens and it's over, As you stand there and think— Something so mutilated can't be human So it was dead enough without this But even here there is beauty A small flowered patch of ground, a bird's call And the grace of a butterfly Frustration and disappointment Become a laughable thing But always the conflicting emotions to smile Or say the hell with it and cry —SP4 Bob Jackson. The Hell with It. (1970)   In early December, we left Firebase Jamie with orders for a combat assault. Artillery subjected the LZ (landing zone) with high explosives to flatten the jungle. CS (tear gas) was not used. A Huey is the greatest invention since the wheel. It gets you to ground where there are no roads or rails, which is most everywhere.  The next morning, five Hueys landed thirty feet apart on Jamie's dirt strip and began inserting us into the LZ, not too awfully far away.   Landings are high speed—choppers touchdown barely a few seconds before lifting off. We sc...

12:00 Noon. Fasting since last night. Swallowed two laxative tabs with eight ounces of water.  People always mean well. They wag their fingers and shake their heads, “Don't go skating." Toss my skates into the trunk. Strange gurgling from my abdominal region. 4:34 PM. The fast-lax was negatory. Toss back two more. Pick up the phone and call Richard. “What’s the big deal?” Richard laughs, "Just you wait!" Doc Klucka has to catch a mid-morning flight. I’ll have to report to hospital at 5:30 AM. I get to eat three hours sooner! Ten ounces ice cold Gatorade & forty grams of powdered antifreeze down the hatch. Ten more ounces. Forty more grams. 6:55 PM. And another one gone and another one gone and another one down the hatch. A call to the expert. Richard laughs manically, "No one escapes! Resistance is futile!" More bubbling. Pressure at both ends. Burps and hiccups. Running behind. No number two yet. Time to chug-a-lug number four, the yucky-tasty one. The...