# 24

ROBERT D. WILSON'S

without

the moon, a sea laden

with why

      dry grass . . .
breast fed by a sliver
of moon

in the rice
field, singing to
      her stomach . . . 
an arched bridge
with the same shadow


    
     a long night . . .
a quiet without
hammers

they hide in

each other's shadows

and when it 

rains, a thousand

more like them

      noon heat . . . 

a dog licks

his penus    

from my chest

a thousand breaths

each of them

attached to a carousel

horse painted green

baklas

bumping into

my wife

seeing with hands

what they hoped to steal

    

     last night . . . 

a bar girl carries me

to the moon

a lot of

today's haiku

reminds me 

of a can of soup . . . 

painted by warhol

      sunday . . .

a poor man chasing

roosters

    morning cool . .. 

the heat of walking

past gravestones

grasping for ghosts

whispering never

she was
a child that night,
folding
flashbacks into
eucalyptus pods

your whisper

this morning, scenting

blossoms

she sees more

than shadows washing

laundry with

with rats on my 

ex-wife's back porch

your tongue,

catfish, probing . . .

sketches

manic,

this man writing 

poetry

in a locked room

with stuffed animals

        moonless night . . . 

shadows sleeping

with shadows

she looked

surprised when i

looked at her

in front of a shanty

made of tin men

      late morning . . .

and still the taho

vendor' cry

looking at

mount Makeling 

yesterday,

soothed what is left 

of the beast in me

i dreamt

a tilapia asked 

me to let her go

years ago,

i heard your belly

      rumble . . . 

the fire inside 

you, an altar

an anenome,

she swallows him with

     a dance . . . 

the boulevard lined

with christmas lights

male toads . . .

the hoarse song of

not knowing

jeepneys flee

the unrelenting grasp

of summer . . .

twirling in circles,

a GRO painting shadows

just a child

this girl watching 

passersby

what goes through

her mind escorting fat 

men into hell . . . 

a young boy taps me on

the arm, begging for pesos

     winter heat . . .

young boys scavenge

through refuse

still trapped in

a world i didn't

ask for . . .

the dragon wagging

her long tail

  day moon . . .

i wasn't brave enough

to ask her

will the

lizard eating

a live bird

inherit its soul?

ill fitting sandals

        

      noon whistle . . . 

trees searching 

for winter

it's the

unseen sculpting 

me into 

what you least suspect . . . 

a pebble washed by waves

"accompanied by blues harmonica in the key of D"

goodbye?
as if you'd
miss me,
an illusion
painted
on a scrap
of
newspaper,
a  wino
used to wrap
his lover in

orphan
annie eyed
drones
carry
ciclid shells
to
angry wives
watching
soaps
      before noon  . . .
mites
tap dance
on their bellies
with no sense
of time . .  .

Worn out
       swatch band  . . .
your reflection
underneath
an 

old bridge,
undulating
sensuously,
pulling you
deeper
into
the canvas
hanging
above
your
       cardboard bed . . .
waving to
the dreams
I have of
you

robert d. wilson

tell you

about the war?

monks on fire . . .

summersaulting minds

and dragons

           harvest moon . . .
soldiers filling
body bags

silly men,

you fed the fish

with yourselves

It was like a dream. The moon was full. The faint sound of singing

awakened me. I peered out the leeside portal of our sleeping quarters on

the YRBM-17 and saw two drunken sailors walking arm in arm towards

the water on a dock that ran perpendicular to our barge. It was about

two in the morning. The two men were singing a country western song.

I remember coughing. I always blink when I cough. The drunken sailors

were gone. The next morning at chow, a sailor told me the drunken

seamen walked off the dock and drowned. Most of those I served with in

Vietnam were ill prepared to fi ght a war they didnʼt understand. A tour of

duty was one year.

They were lonely. The culture was foreign. The pay was minimal. Unlike

those who served in past wars, those serving in South Vietnam were

afforded no honor for their participation in the war. Servicemen drank,

smoked marijuana, or prayed.

summer of summers --

swallowed up by the

dragon, too many lives

The dragon never slumbers. He has been awake for over a thousand

years, eating soldiers and civilians alike. In his wake, a trail

of bones. If only they could speak

       summer breeze . . . 

letters from home paint over

now with some day

Most of us were away from our families for the first time. We were

separated from our families and the neighborhoods we grew up in. We

were stationed in a country on the other side of the world with a culture

completely foreign to our way of seeing life. There are no certainties 

in war.   It's a crap shoot. Maybe youʼll make it home. Maybe you 

wonʼt. This reality never strays far from a soldierʼs mind. We were 

isolated from our families, our culture,and the world as we knew it. 

I was 18 years old and newly graduated from high school. I never 

knew how much I loved my family until I was away from them 

living in a war zone. Suddenly, they were the most valuable thing 

in my life. I lived and died for letters and packages from home. In 

my spare time, Iʼd daydream about my family, fiance, and friends.

Thinking about them was what gave me hope and kept me going. 

That “some day," needless to say, mail-call, was a major event.

swallowed by 

the earth, this autumn day . . . 

dreams undreamt

Thousands of people died in the Vietnam War. Not all of the dead

were soldiers. Many were innocent civilians. People with no axe to

grind. No political goal to fulfill. Men, women, and children who

were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their lives snuffed out

by napalm, bombs, hand grenades, mortars, rockets, automatic rifle

fire, knives, and human hands. There are no shiny black memorials

to commemorate their existence, and the sacrifice they made. Their

dreams, their hopes, their aspirations, relegated to what could have

been. And for what? A war, Americaʼs leaders now say, shouldn't

have been.

The memory of these people should not be forgotten.

it didnʼt have to

happen, this rice field

devoured by pests

In Vietnam, veneration of the elderly is a way of life. It's ingrained

in the culture. Showing respect to those older than themselves is a

time honored tradition. Disrespect is taboo, even to an older brother or

sister.

Heavily armed American soldiers, barely out of high school, often

went into South Vietnamese villages. Sometimes they were passing

through. Other times, they were searching for the enemy. Older people

were ordered around by many of these young men. Disrespect was

rampant. My country was supposedly in South Vietnam because we

cared about the nationʼs well-being. In reality, we were there to protect

our economic interests. We knew little or nothing about the people we

were charged to protect. Our treatment of South Vietnamese civilians

furthered the cause of Communism and helped bring about the fall of

the South Vietnamese Government.

I liken this disrespect to the pests that devour a rice field. Once a

pest is introduced to a rice paddy, unless it's eradicated immediately,

it will reek havoc to the planted rice, and destroy the crop. Had we

supplemented our warrior spirit with love, caring, and respect, maybe

the war would have ended differently. This is the first war the United

States lost. So many servicemen died. It didnʼt have to happen.

summer night --

a headless soldier

on the beach

A soldier stationed on our base in Dong Tam snuck across the

canal bordering our facility to have sex with one of the local

girls living on the canalʼs banks. This was an unsecured area

known to harbor Viet Cong and was off limits to Base personnel.

He did not return to his bunk that night. In the morning,

a Navy patrol boat saw what was left of the soldier laying on a

beach beside the canal. He had been decapitated. His head was

placed in a slit in his stomach along with his genitals. Whether

or not the grizzly scene was the work of a disgruntled parent or

the Viet Cong, was never answered.

lanternless night,

bamboo stakes, dipped in excrement,

wait for brown boots

Boobytraps killed and maimed thousands of American servicemen

during the Vietnam War. The Viet Cong had limited supplies and

money. One thing they didnʼt lack in, however, was ingenuity. They

were able to fashion boobytraps out of almost anything. One of

the most lethal of their boobytraps was the punji stake. Concealed

underwater in rice paddies and beneath jungle foliage, they were

crudely made bamboo stakes dipped in animal excrement. When

an unsuspecting soldier stepped on one, the razor sharp point of the

bamboo stake would pierce his foot. The animal excrement guaranteed

immediate infection. Soldiers on patrol in the jungle were

far from hospitals and infi rmaries. Especially those deep in enemy

territory, experiencing day to day combat. If improperly treated,

gangegreen would set in, eventually necessitating the removal of the

infected soldierʼs foot or leg. The pain from the wounds were excruciating.

They were the lucky ones. When fired at by the enemy in a

boobytrapped rice paddy, soldiers instinctively dove for cover. Some

of them landed on punji stakes, ripping open their stomachs, chests,

or bowels. Death soon followed.

forced to shoot 

others this manchild, one year

a thousand summers

Nothing changes a young teenager quicker than when he is forced to

kill another human being. Young boys were drafted into the Vietnam

War right after graduation from high school. At eighteen, their lives

had centered around going to school, playing sports, courting girls,

helping out at home, and other youthful pursuits. Overnight, they

were transported across the ocean to a foreign land where they were

armed with automatic rifles (machine guns) and told to shoot the

enemy if attacked. I had a friend who was forced to shoot a nine year

old girl who charged at him with a hand grenade. He told me it was

the most horrible thing he ever had to do, killing a little child. But

as he told me, “What else could I do? It was kill or be killed.” 

The taking of a human life changes a person forever. Gone is the 

innocence of youth, the naivete of adolescence. Some soldiers had to 

kill others on a daily basis, witnessing some of the most gruesome 

sights imaginable. Psychologically, of course, it took its toll. Some 

of my friends had glazed over eyes. Others drunk or drugged 

themselves to oblivion on a nightly basis. Others I know are plagued 

even today by horrendous dreams of what they experienced and 

saw during their stay in South Vietnam. This includes me.

The sad thing is, when we returned stateside, after completing our

tour of duty, few of us received counseling. After discharge, we were

sent back into the civilian world, emotionally dysfunctional. Drug

addiction, alcoholism, and post traumatic syndrome laid waste to

many of my fellow servicemen. I too, went through hell and back. It

was only through years of counseling and spiritual journeying that I

was able to rise up from the chasm of self destruction and reoccurring

spectres to a headspace today that gives me peace of mind and

inner happiness.

summer has ended --

what are they to you, these people

in the dragonʼs belly?

More than once, I was invited to have supper with a South Vietnamese 

family. The families I dined with were not rich. Most barely eked out a living.

The meals they served my friends and I, however, were second to none,

usually consisting of rice, shrimp, a kale-like vegetable, and dessert. The

meals were delicious and abundant. Better than the food, however, was the

hospitality. Our hosts treated us like visiting royalty, insisting we eat more,

giving us the best seats, continually asking us if we wanted refi lls for our

sodas. The South Vietnamese people are some of the nicest, most considerate

people on this planet.

The Viet Cong were everywhere, especially in the Mekong Delta region

where I was stationed. Those who offered hospitality to American servicemen,

paid a high price for their generosity. Sooner or later, they would be

tortured, killed, or forced to serve as spies by the VC. The Communists were

merciless with those who sympathized with the American war effort. I have

seen their handiwork first hand. Backs with burn marks and horrible bruises.

Backs that had been brutally beat. And that wasnʼt the worst.

Our guests gave to us and asked for nothing in return. Never once did they

pump us for information. They gave because that was who they were...

generous, giving people. We, supposedly, were in South Vietnam to help and

protect the people from the evils of Communism. Our presence in the war

gave many a false hope. A hope for a day when they too could be free from

war and poverty.

The United States left Vietnam in 1975, withdrawing from a war that

claimed an excessive amount of human lives. The Republic of South Vietnam's

 government was toppled instantaneously by the North Vietnamese armed

forces. What happened next to those who helped the American war

effort was not a pretty scene. Thousands were killed. Thousands were tortured.

Others were forced to attend reeducation camps. A Vietnamese friend

of mine who later managed to escape from Vietnam as a boat person with his

extended family, told me of former South Vietnamese policemen who were

tied spread eagle in his villageʼs square and hideously tortured as an example

for all to see.

Do we, who served in the Vietnam War, ever think about our hosts today?

Are we concerned about the welfare of the Vietnamese people we were formerly

charged to protect?

That's all for now.  Enjoy!