storeeze

I cracked her door on a wintry day— Waist-high rotting piles Spread beyond all hope. We drove away with a crooked mouth Her eyes on me like a galliard tree Descanting Ulysses, Joyce and more. Read me sad poems, she softly said, Crystals, rings and virgin parchments I have seen all these. Late, I brought her home and She held me close with an opera she knew— Pratzel’s closes at two! She fell down dead Day after Christmas. I ate a bagel this morning.

Woman who lived, died a recluse will be mourned. By Bill McClellan ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH Sunday, Jan. 07 2007 "She is wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters, and the sun pours down like honey on our lady of the harbor." — Leonard Cohen from "Suzanne" Most of Betty Wynn's bed was covered with trash, but there was a little corner in which she could lie down. That was all she needed. She was not concerned about the things that concern most people. On the day after Christmas, her brother, Sam Lachterman, got up first. He is 85 years old, six years younger than his sister. He has long white hair, an unkempt white beard. He has a doctorate in mathematics, and he never married. He has lived with his sister most of his life. He was in the kitchen when he heard her call out from the room that had once been a dining room. She was on the floor, which was, as always, hidden under mounds of trash. He almost stepped on her. Then she rolled over on her s...

The brass came by, proclaiming their message of war. “When the NVA pounces, we’ll dump air and arty on him and wipe him out.”  Lt. Martinez, a veteran presence with four years in-country, didn’t share the line. Martinez was of a mind that you had to be a little smarter than to raise a baiting operation in the Dog’s Head. He spoke with amused vehemence as if he understood everything from the beginning. “Firebases are not a good place. No real cover, no room to maneuver, no chance to flank the other side.”  I didn’t think much of it at the time; my fear was an attack before Jay was hardened. After the last-light patrol sallied forth, it was time to wrap. Col. Hannas, who was not above taking point, was there to check the night readiness of the men. He eyed Thumper (my M79 grenade launcher): “Are you ready to go, son?” “Yes, sir.” “It’s damn hot.” “Yes, sir.” “Do you need anything?” “No, sir.” “Notice anything in the bush?” “No, sir.” “I like your attitude. Show me what you can ...

“The great question is: How can we win America's peace?”—Richard Nixon, Address to the Nation on the War (November 3, 1969) J. R. and I hopped on the world stage when we walked down the steps of a Flying Tiger 707 at Cam Ranh Bay, a humongous seaside base, 180 miles NE of Saigon. No flowers or open arms, just “You are now in the Republic of Viet Nam.” Commies weren't coming for us, we were coming for them. Neither poets nor conquerors, we were gonna make a statement, even a bad one. Funny people, strange smells in a strange land, nothing I could have invented. The weather was nice. A jeep drove us to a two-story barracks with a distinct lack of hominess. We shared a room with fifty other guys, picked out beds from scattered empties, and lived out of duffel bags. Each morning after chow, the guys in the barracks lined up outside in roll call formation. A bitch box (bullhorn) called out names. Done for the day, if yours didn't come up. Night-time, we climbed a fifty-foot towe...

In a warm-lit St. Louis night You drew me into a flame. Monday at BB's Your loose-knit top Stares me in the face: White-velvet In a black-silk cage. I call for Monk and a tango, Catherine D. Snow Comes up fast— You're hot, girlie! On an afternoon of morning, The dark is rising. Here is your card, Do you feel it? The Second Child. He is the reason . Y ou’re tired. They’re here, It won’t be long.

The first stanza is really nice and a very solid image. In the second stanza, the images move quickly and become more personal. On the third stanza, the details about Arlene seem to center the poem and where it the poet is at his most confident. Some symbolism is presented to the reader, and life and death seem to be the likely code to decipher. It seems to parallel with the ‘The second Child/He's the reason’. Whatever the case, I feel a balance is trying to be played, between a personal observation and deeper philosophical insight. To thread these concepts together can be difficult I give credit to the poet for trying his hand at such a difficult endeavor.  —Kent Walker, my writing coach a. R ichard upon hearing of her death, suggested that Arlene was ‘a flame of exuberance’. A rlene’s voice struck some listeners as ‘unattractive’ or ‘pushy'.  So full of life, s he would burst out of her  skin. A force of nature, she had a joy in her, a love of life with the confiden...

My life as a company clerk may not have been sexy, but it was the most sought after job in Vietnam. (Killer wanted it bad, but never got his chance.) Besides the full-time job of taking care of company business, I was mother confessor and personal vending machine. “Can you get me a Swiss knife?” “How about a Rolex?” “Any rings?” “Camera?” “A pipe?” If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. “I’ll give you a gook ear for an SKS.” “A TV?” “Chocolate covered cherries?” I’d been running in a thousand different directions when I put away the typewriter and hit the sheets. Sometime later, I had that dream again: It was morning. My wife offered a ride in our Impala. I said, “I’ve been expecting you,” and got in. Her hair was mussed. She was wearing clothes she wore the day I left for Vietnam. We drove on and smoked cigarettes. Someone was in the back sleeping. My wife stopped outside our apartment and grabbed my wrist. I tried to pull away. She tightened her ice-cold grip and sobbed, “Borgo!” ...