well that was quite a ride. I wanted to stop reading at one point, and
I thought I had, but turns out I was sucked in. this is sad, I don't
like it for its sadness, but for its sad poetry I guess. I like it.
KS
On 01/11/2007, joe green <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> A Short History
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> I have been very good.
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> I have been very good for 8 years.
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> I told my wife that our children looked like tiny skeletons only
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> three times.
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> When I spat blood I did so discreetly into monogrammed hankies.
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> I told my wife that at last I had a single integrated action plan (SIAP).
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> The time I went to Disneyland and blew the head off the hippo in the
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> jungle ride was an aberration.
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> The time I spent 2 weeks in the Rocket Motel with a topless dancer
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> named Baby Madonna was truly unusual.
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> I no longer think I am a wolf.
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> When I vomit on family holidays I do so with some grace and never at
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> table.
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> It has been years since I insisted on going into the woods to shit.
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> I have been interested in organizational development.
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> I no longer drink wine from bottles wrapped in paper bags
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> with guys named Spider and Bullethead. I especially avoid doing
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> this in our driveway.
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> I am meek at work and participate with enthusiasm in group activities.
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> When I run in 10 kilometer races it is hard to tell that I itch all
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> over and am imagining that I am being chased by hearts with mouths.
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> I only speak to the dog in my command voice.
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> I go dutifully to all the Vietnam movies to learn what I should
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> think. I explain to my son what a dustoff is. I do not
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> mention the fact that to me it looks like people in the audience
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> have the heads of hyenas and jackals.
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> My son looks like a tiny skeleton.
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> When he was born I went down in the cellar and built him a coffin.
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> I will send this with him when he goes into the army. From Dad.
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> If all dads did this it would save our government considerable expense.
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> Dads should also build coffins for the sons our sons will kill.
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> I have a complete set of plans for coffins for sons of many
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> nationalities. Spider told me that this was a waste of time.
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> Just send along some extra-strength garbage bags. He said.
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> And what about the mommas and babies. He said. And, anyway,
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> you dumb shit. He said. There ain't nothing to bury most of the
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> time. He said. You dumb old fucker. You think we're back in Vietnam.
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> I still think that it would demonstrate our compassion.
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> I often imagine my daughter on fire.
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> I was reading "Come Away, Joe" to her and she was curled up in my arms and
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> I imagined that she was hit with white phosphorus and burned from the
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> inside out. The white phosphorus looked like a star in her belly.
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> I imagined that she was also hit with napalm. Have some jelly, honey.
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> We called people burnt up by napalm "crispy critters." This was
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> a popular breakfast cereal at the time.
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> Here is how I am telling you I make love to my wife.
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> I imagine that we are both dead and holding each other. We are under
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> a hill. The hill looks over a blue and peaceful town. The town
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> is not a town. It is the shadow of a tone. The bank, the church,
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> the little stores and tiny houses tremble and dissolve in a soft mist.
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> No-one can see the town. It is not in any government records or on any
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> maps. Our children live there.
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> For a long time I was unemployed. I drove a car the color of a cloud.
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> I would pick up our children from school. Your father comes for you
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> in a car the color of a cloud.
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> At night I imagine that our dead cat is walking in the garden.
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> I imagine I am in the garden and she treadles my chest. She licks
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> my eyes thinking the moon's rays are milk. Her eyes shine with love.
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> Lay down with me lay down in the humility of death.
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> You see that I am very sentimental.
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> This morning we all sat at breakfast and I said "I am worried
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> about Goethe."
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> "Why, Dad?" My son said.
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> "Ok, dear." My wife said. "You have been good for eight years.
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> You can have that party."
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> This is a lie. My wife left me 10 years ago. She lives with our
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> children and her new husband in a very nice rambler on a cul-de-sac
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> in the very nice state of California.
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> I often imagine that my children are dream children.
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> I still live in the same house which is where I grew up. My father is dead.
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> My mother is dead. They are buried in Fairview cemetery. Just off Oak
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> street. Warrensville, Pa, 19380.
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> They are on a very nice cul-de-sac.
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> Old joke.
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> I spoke to my mother the other night.
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> "Do you have your gloves on?" She asked.
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> "Yes." I asseverated.
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> I came home from Vietnam when my father died.
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> "Your father died." They said.
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> "Complete this form." They said. "Be back in two weeks." They said.
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> When I got off the plane in Honolulu they hung flowers around my neck.
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> Then they unloaded the bodies.
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> This was back when wars were really fucked up.
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> When I saw my father in the coffin I saw that they put glasses on him.
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> He only wore glasses to read. They wanted a homey look. I vomited
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> in the men's room. I held my mother at the grave. Her cloth coat
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> smelled the same as it did when I was little.
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> We went home to the funeral meats which were Vienna sausages in tomato
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> sauce. This is how a lot of people live. My cousin turned on the TV
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> to watch a football game. True. He was down in the basement. True.
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> Other males were enjoying the game. I threw my father's hammer
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> through the screen. Incoming. I kicked my cousin in the face.
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> Everyone was embarrassed.
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> Here's who was dead when I came back.
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> Daniel Mitchinok
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> Carlos Gonzalez
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> John Rollins
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> William Latoff
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> Gross weight: about 710 lbs.
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> I bought a tape recorder to record my thoughts about war and letters
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> to my mother.
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> Here are my thoughts about war as recorded by me at Landing Zone
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> X-Ray adjacent to the Chu Pong Range:
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> Here is a continuation of those thoughts as recorded by me trekking
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> overland with the 5th Cav:
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> Here are my thoughts as I surveyed the 800 dead of a famous battle
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> that you can read about in a coffee table book available at
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> a discount rate from Barnes and Noble:
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> My letters to mother were equally eloquent.
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> Is this too easy? Yes.
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> Do you want to know the truth?
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> My wife told me she was leaving. I am tired of this shit.
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> Blah. Blah. She said.
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> I asked her to wait. "Don't pack yet." I said.
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> I went to the mall and bought a camera. Plenty of film.
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> When I came home she was crying. She was on the couch.
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> I took pictures of every room in the house.
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> I opened every closet and drawer and took pictures.
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> I took her picture.
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> When the kids came home I took their pictures.
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> They left.
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> Then her mother and her brothers came over and took everything.
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> It took me two years to complete the reconstruction. Now I have
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> a lifesize wife weeping on the couch. My son sits at his desk
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> and plays Pac Man. My daughter plays with her doll.
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> Some of that shit was hard to find.
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> You understand. You are also sentimental.
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> One year I drove to California to see my children. In the car the
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> color of a cloud. In Oklahoma I woke up at dawn and went outside
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> the motel room. It was next to a pasture. There were horses in
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> the pasture. I stood at the fence. The horses were the color of
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> the dawn. They came to me.
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> Then I kicked in the bedroom door.
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> Shot this picture.
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> Reader. Rider. Horses.
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> Slaked. Plausive. Ignorant.
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