Bootleg

“People in the community have to want to get together, have to want to work together in order to have a successful peaceful community. It starts within.” - Ashley Palacios

Exploring love and lost illusions, this collection delicately unpacks experiences of trauma and triumph. Through a series of profound and personal stories and poems, including gripping accounts of suicide and assault, this series of images and texts excavates difficult human experiences to find meaning and healing. It’s art therapy — shared publicly to inspire new conversation and collaboration.

Thanks to all who contributed art, words, prompts, edits, efforts, and ideas. Some of the artwork included appeared at the Veteran Art Summit in Chicago in 2019.

Lovella Calica provided the photos of art from Combat Paper and Warrior Writers workshops.

Special thanks to The Mission Continues, Warrior Writers, The Joiner Institute, UMass Boston, The Suffolk Poetry Center, Darwin’s Cafe, Northeastern Crossing, The Longfellow House, The Friends Meeting House in Cambridge, The Old North Church, The Veteran Art Movement, and many more who made time for writing workshops in Boston and Cambridge.

These collected works are owned by the artists and writers credited. The ideas expressed are solely those of the creator of each work. This collection does not represent any collective, movement, organization, or nonprofit.

Information in this document was not independently fact checked. This work exists to inspire discussion and new creativity.

Welina Farah copy edited this colleciton.

Yvette M. Pino, founder of the Veteran Print Project, created the back cover image, “After Three Generations the Daughters Are Free.”

The cover image, bought at a Juneteenth event, is unsigned and shared without consent with hope that the creator will reconnect to be credited.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022950158

ISBN: 978-1-7348401-2-4

11 November 2022

agape.guru

ISSN: 2770-0518

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

“I have been working on this idea of chaos after the war. I am completely saturated with this idea of how my life impacts my daughter’s and this idea of the war still eating away at me. This has been a continual struggle.” - for more, visit mattewdeibel.com

Four syllables to One. Life to no breath. Not that it is deadly poison. One drop will rarely dispatch you. It is never written down as the cause of death. Is that why it needs to always be rebranded as dangerous?

God help us to get free! From seeing and not seeing. From slipping into Complacency. An alternative reality where our being quickly becomes our lack of being alive. Or failing to live. We know it doesn’t just happen on the battlefield. It can be field, garrison, or none of the above.

May these pages keep us present. Anchors for our drifting minds. Telescopes for our wandering eyes. Comrades for our lonely souls. May they help to keep us fully alive.

We, were just poets Through the headscarves And beards

The childhood fears

We, were poets

From between the lines And the pages Ageless Raceless Brave and courageous Just poets

Within word drenched rooms Puddles converged Energy consumed Poets

We Were Poets

for The Joiner Institute, 2017

Warrior Writer

When I say that I am a Warrior Writer

I mean that the mission of the organization speaks to my condition It gives me hope I love the folks and I love the action We are a community

When I say I am a Warrior Writer

I mean that I do not really care about The other veterans politics I am glad to have buddies to pal around with

When I say I am a Warrior Writer

I mean that I appreciate the opportunity To look inward and express things I have hidden from myself and others

When I say I am a Warrior Writer

I have become a journeyman poet My own book has sold over 600 copies I host workshops series and open mics

When I say that I am a Warrior Writer

I have been able to recreate myself anew Because of the poems I am a better person And like myself more

When I say I am a Warrior Writer

I am not saying anything at all I am just a guy trying to get by The art helps

PIECE OF LEAD

In his own words, Ehren Tool “just makes cups.”

The humble vessels are layered with imagery and photos that represent not only war abroad, but also gun violence at home. Shelves in this installation hold a sepecific number of cups, symbolizing the magazine round capacities of the most frequently used guns in Chicago’s violent crimes:

Craft in America

“There is nothing I do that I think is going to change the world; but there is nothing in the world that releases me from my obligation to try.”

Group Therapy

People say I’m crazy! But they’re insane to think anyone would take a round trip flight to Hell and not come back burned, or more like scarred. No – charred, as pieces of my soul remain on that blood soaked soil of ancient Mesopotamia. And for what? For who? Why there? Why now? You don’t ask those questions. Why not? Trust me, you don’t wanna know the answer. So we maintain our military bearing, bear these arms and bear this pain but don’t bare your soul when it’s barely sane. And when it’s “mission accomplished” You take your little happy ass back to where you came from. And then it’s not the same the faces are but the vibe is different, it’s not me it’s you –you’re different My eyes are the same but the lens has changed.

Soaring, 20 thousand-plus feet high, up here the view is majestic, I can see forever. The world takes on a different display, people are barely the size of gnats. I can almost imagine another life for myself, however that’s not my purpose: I’m a necessary force for good in this barbarous world, delivering justice to whatever shithole requires it, regardless of sovereign borders; courtesy of the good folks funding the War of Terror; excuse me, War on Terror.

My area of operation is boundless & data collection is my obsession. Wait, do you hear that? All these uncivilized heathens do is whine & beg, petitioning for protection from me. The almighty Eye in the Sky, 66 — foot wingspan with vision sharper than that of any bird of prey, 500 lb. bombs & Hellfire missiles, my fatal talons. When will they realize their words are wasted, crying is futile? Nothing is safe when I reign down fire & fury, for none are mightier than I. Bald eagles ain’t got shit on me! I don’t just destroy lives — I suspend them in animation, hovering over their heads for days like bills passed due. My unwarranted presence incarcerating them in their own homes day after night, fear has replaced any trace of joy. No shadow can shield them from my wrath. Eventually they’ll come out & that’s when I’ll end them…

(UAV) Unauthorized American Vengeance, part science fiction, part Orwellian death machine, one look at me & Hitler would’ve prematurely discharged his U — boats. I ‘m characterized as a precision weapon that effectively locates & neutralizes targets systematically with limited damage to civilians; political lingo for “I fuck shit up!” I’ve witnessed coalition soldiers perish, observed enemy combatants blown to bits, & watched as civilians departed this world violently. I’ve learned that all die the same, the innocent as well as the guilty; not much difference from my vantage point, just scattered limbs & torsos for loved ones to collect & bury; positive identification is nearly impossible. I’ve obliterated funerals & ravaged weddings; war is hell. Do you ever step on ants & give it another thought? I sure don’t…

Speaking of pests, I’ve located a nest. Thermal imaging scans confirm a group of 10 military-aged males gathered with suspicious intent. They appear to be loading large substances onto pickup trucks; could be harmless, or could be a terrorist cell preparing their next attack. My “pattern of life” intelligence indicates they are involved in insurgent activity; time to release my reaper’s scythe; kill em all, let God sort ‘em out. Minimal effort required, a single finger stroke of a button, thousand of miles from the battlefield & justice is delivered faster than you can say, “fuck yeah.” Target’s eliminated, I’ll linger in the area waiting for first responders to arrive & greet them with the same hostile hospitality; what we in this dirty business dub a “double tap strike.”

At 17 million a pop, I’m the tip of the spear; eradicating radicals & extremists with no risk to our troops. We continue to spill blood overseas, with wires & keyboards sometimes being our only connection to the combat zone. Your child’s video games are the perfect tools for training & recruiting tomorrow’s desensitized button mashers. Touchy issues such as morality don’t confine me; I do what’s necessary minus the bureaucratic red tape. Regrettably, I do kill elderly, women & children on occasion; collateral damage is unavoidable. Understand, it’s not my fault; I’m just a mindless drone & do as I am programmed.

Demi Moore works out alone and in combat boots, basic-issue socks, cut-off sweats, and a white tank top rolled up to her breasts. She shows off her toned abs as she moans through a set of hanging sit-ups. The men in her platoon don’t see her nipples rise toward the pull-up bar she fights to raise her chin to or tease the barracks floor each time she lowers her chest to complete another push-up— legs spread, buttocks clenched, dog tags jangling. In the shower, her shoulders glisten. Her spine. The slight bloom of her hips.

She turns to face us.

Blink and you’re back in the turret of an MRAP on the side of a road off Route Aeros pulling security at a TCP. Left hand angling the .50 skyward, thumb on butterfly trigger held safe by brass, right hand resting on the round black turret control, you slowly traverse your sector— back and forth, over and over. Listening to idle chatter over the net because everyone else is asleep because we have been out here for 14 fucking hours baking in the sun, as your mind wanders over the BOLO list, and who named a fork a fork, and why is it spelled F-O-R-K not F-Y-R-C or filament or phalanges, you sound it out in your head as it becomes increasingly alien and ridiculous. Piss in a water bottle, wishing you’d brought a wide mouth Gatorade instead. Crack open another RipIt as your brain slowly liquefies and seeps out down your right earlobe.

Blink back the rage as you rep another set to failure, body so full of steroids and Superpump your sweat doesn’t evaporate. First Sergeant comes in yelling to shut the fuck up, we’re giving him a headache, and clean up the goddamn gym while we are at it. 300 club? I fucking rep that shit bro. Trying to finish your set before the smell of your buddy’s balls in your face as he spots you makes you pass out, haven’t done laundry in weeks, so dirty it’s just funny now. Getting prison big doing pull-ups and dips on bars make of hockey sticks and 550 cord.

Blink and you’ll miss it — the sharp white heat flashes on the dark FLIR as the RPGs rip into the sandbag bunker on the roof and McGee leans into the SAW and lays the scunion, three to six second bursts cutting through the night like music: Die Terrorist Die, Die Terrorist Die, getting confirmed kills while Staff Sergeant Ives crawls out of the pile of sandbags looking like a ghost, not a scratch on him. “Buy a lotto ticket, sarge.” Laughter.

Blink away the smoke and the sweat and the boredom as you cross off another day sitting on wooden benches and plastic lawn chairs, smoking haji cigarettes imported from France twenty fucking years ago; burning your throat with every bone dry inhalation, drinking Wild Tigers and waiting on the word. Air is green. Air is red. Air is black. Every possible permutation, I count down the patrols and guard shifts till we right seat ride and get the fuck out of this bitch.

Blink in the darkness as you wake up in a cold sweat and reach for your weapon, panic ripping through your chest when it isn’t there, only to slowly realize, as your eyes acclimate to the shadows, that you aren’t in Iraq anymore. You’ve been home for months. Sit on the edge of your bed and stare as the blurry red neon numbers shrink and sharpen into focus and your racing heart slows to something resembling normal. Three a.m. in the barracks. Shuffle past beer cans and climb into the shower, lay there naked with the cold porcelain against your skin as the steaming water pounds your chest and you stare disjointedly at discolorations in the grout.

Blink back the tears, alone, as you grab another shot of Jameson, Jack-fucking anything to catch a buzz and drown out all the noise, and stress, and bullshit. Watching war movies in your apartment, the intermittent brightness on the screen cutting through the darkness and bouncing off bare walls. Thinking about friends who have been dead for years. Thinking about that wrong turn gunning the lead vehicle when the driver took a sharp left instead of going straight. Thought nothing of it until a half an hour later when the next convoy didn’t take a left, and hit the IED. It should have been you. But here you are. Take another shot.

Blink and you’re back in the civilian world, not homeless or begging to reenlist, despite the Army’s prognostications. But you aren’t all back. You won’t ever be the same. You sit on a bench watching sailboats sway against the tide in Boston Harbor, smiling as time turns stress, and sleep deprivation, and ineptitudes of leadership into peals of laughter that flash across the waves.

Blink and you miss it. You miss it so much.

Too often we soldiers discover we are breakable for the first time in anesthesia, we wake up stitched together with the fibers of our past beliefs.

Too often us soldiers don’t realize the woman in the middle of the road has a soul until we return home and can no longer find our own.

Too often We as soldiers don’t notice we have a story until we have read many others some that move our eyes maybe even our lips but never touching home.

That will always be warzone.

Too often soldiers have unpacking to do, have duffels that last longer than our love ones. Stuffed with regrets heavy and enduring. Carrying sorrow well beyond our service obligation.

Too many soldiers posses gifts drilled out of our feet and skulls in the name of discipline, valor and the science of military psychology.

Too often the rhetoric outlined in the uniformed code of military justice punishes our humanity in the spirit of freedom.

Too often. Too many. Too much. What it means to be a soldier.

They have open faces, open eyes, Foreheads unlined by love Or sorrow--sweet faces seize The air like colts, thriving On springy legs, jumpy manes Their exquisite selves Committing crimes Walking to them. They are shouting Enough! Basta, enough! Shouting: this is not America.

They Are Shouting

Driving someplace, in the country in the summer in the mountains in New Hampshire winding road in some old car my wife in the seat beside me my kids and my dog in the back. We are going someplace but I don’t know where but I do know how to get there.

The car is green the sky is blue the windows are down the breeze is fresh, perfect not cold, not hot not humid, just right.

It looks like it might be 1963 1959. Striped jerseys and dungarees. The boys look like little baseball players, ears aflap. The girls look like Barbie, blonde pony tails. Smiles.

Dream Two

Wake-up Call

Six days before the fifth deployment of Sergeant Justin Crossnew our chaplain came to say no morning accountability formation and remain in the barracks till our silver-starred squad leader gets cut down from the third-story fire escape where he double-wrapped paracord ‘round his neck, let himself hang for the whole world to see.

I open the word window as if it were a window and see the word’s origins in auga, the north sea may all beings be safe,

Norse yielding an ow sound like wind blowing, a gust rushing in from the Hindu Kush in vatas, may all beings be free

scents of Sanskrit, inside of which is carried vates, the Roman priest who’d rip apart a bird to see if from danger and fear,

or what the flowing heart or liver might give us. Now the planet breathes again on my window, as a mother protects while on the tv I get a quick glimpse of some who piss on the dead, young voices splashing with her life her child, around a pebble of hope that at least one boy’s bladder clenched so tightly it refused to let go. her only child . . .

1. metta: Buddhist prayer for loving-kindness

Papa Says the Moon Pulls the Ocean Back

around the islands, tides make funnels that can swallow boats whole. Briny, weedy, pewter-colored air slips down a collar. We walk, cold round pebbles beneath our feet. Wet, unwrinkled sand, a cold silk unfurls with its sea offerings: pebbles, shells, barnacles, tiny slips of wrack, a month-old salted knot.

In the distance, the shadow filigree of feral coastline, wild with war, capes crumble with ruin, air raid alarm ricochet in puzzles of streets. Papa picks me up, spins me three times. No occupation soldier comes to arrest us. Three hours, fingers numb,

I discover a stranded jellyfish. Papa leans on an encrusted buoy, the moon shone in a thousand polished stones. I wade to my knees, soaking the hem of my dress.

Cupped hands spread, free to the fate of tide, in this morning, we’re surrounded by all the light we cannot see.

Lost in the Desert

My second tour to Iraq felt like an echo of the first. It felt like faux-work, a tease for those that had tasted the frontlines, but instead were told to ride the bench until the fourth quarter. In November of 2005, my unit and the rest of the brigade, set out for another 12-15 months of winning hearts and minds. Instead we found our home in the desert of Kuwait.

We had set out with tanks, artillery, infantry, combat engineers, and support primed for door-to-door combat, or humanitarian rebuilding, but the CIC dictated a reduction of operational force. The unit stepped down. We waited at the border. Restless, we waited. Month after month, unloading and reloading combat gear. Every day we would hear whispers calling us to war.

Supporting the mission is still a mission, but waiting for a mission feels like lunacy. However, this should not have come as a surprise. Over 200 years of “hurry up and wait” mantra should have prepared us for this difficulty. I had waited in line for shots without vaccines on site. I waited for hours for an email before departing base. I was told to wait for higher clearance to return fire when attacked in the heart of the combat zone. Reminders to follow the ROE, checking in with higher ranks for better judgement was a red flag of the dangers ahead.

We spent weeks in the cold winter months of the previous year ramping up for combat. In Graf and Holenfels, we took up positions in mock Iraqi villages that were knee deep in snow as we wore ancient MOLLE gear.

I remember the attack they staged on the chapel. Fear lived in my veins as I crouched in the snow scanning for muzzle flashes or movement in the distance. I felt like a bad mama jama with my year in combat experience as I positioned ready for op 4 to enter my view. Instead, I found myself chastised for encouraging a private to guard a door with a rifle in a room marked as holy.

“That’s not the message we want to send. Survival is not the only goal. We have ethics and standards holding us high, even in war.”

There is a saying in the military, “A busy soldier is a happy soldier.” Or maybe you prefer, “Idle hands are the devil’s playground.” We learned this lesson back in the fall of ‘04, after returning to the U.S. military base on German soil.

Within a month back from the tour, in record numbers, soldiers got locked behind bars and got extra duty for various crimes. Combat veterans that held high honor to their families and their nation spent time mowing grass, scrubbing toilets, painting rocks, and completing other menial tasks for the command in reparation for sorted actions: smoking marijuana, driving drunk, shooting heroin, or insubordination. The idleness struck all. With no mission, we began to fall apart. So back to training we went before the paint dried on the memorials of our dead.

Now, in the desert with no mission and thousands separated from their wives and kids, there sat a brigade trained and ready for combat. I heard the command begged to cross the border only a few miles away, but time and time again, the answer was, “No.”

In ‘04, back on German soil after deployment, we settled down. After a few months the numbers on Restriction began to dwindle as the consequences for unholy actions became clear. Weekends were liberating, but we held at bay pure ecstasy for fear of retribution from insubordination. There was now no threat on German soil, no need to live out today for the threat of tomorrow’s loss.

On the Iraqi border, it was a different type of waiting. Like a wolf held back by bars and starved, we salivated, waiting to taste meat some had only heard about and others had dreamed about for the last 12 months between deployments. God says that he will never tempt you more than you can handle. I have held my head to a pillow and screamed for mercy.

We stopped the bus in the middle of the sand, turned off the engine and lights, and sat. Slowly, the sun began to fade and all we heard was the wind floating past the sides of the bus. All four chaplains pointed in one direction towards home, toward the glow from base lights, a beacon back to insanity that would soon end with new beginnings. Six months in the desert, we were waiting for war.

Bare Life

I open myself to surveillance like St. Francis Standing at the wood line without clothes The villagers embarrassed For the marks and scars they gave him At the edge of the meadow a procession

Robed and wreathed barefoot mendicants

Hair of laurels, a single tambourine

Voices above branchless trees

Fecund hope grown in Northeastern gardens Uninterrupted bird song, a prayer wall for activists Someone scrawled a name so small we thought it an accident Did prayer stop the wall? Did prayer stop the killing? Or did prayer stop the heart from falling through the floor?

I tie myself to something at the bus stop So I don’t fall through the street in to the river My heart beats erratically unsure of its own path forward As if to beat or flutter, a wire errantly crossed To save or be saved on the 7:51 Tomorrow the sun will go away And the light through the window Will be flat and empty, depthless

I stand in silence unsure when living and lying begins or ends Which persona will I create today? Who’s clothes should I put on? This energy of bells ringing across the eaves and gutters Who is our warlord of night? When will we go to battle the lawyers? Courtrooms are instruments of the powerful Not scales of justice rendered in statues from myth A misplaced trust in a system that defies you Survival is not happiness

Bare life is just enough says the state adjudicators All is fair beneath the wig and robe Unless you are unclothed And your head is shorn

Coffee Date With Jesus

Everyday is Monday on deployment. As a fobbit, my Mondays were about as catastrophic as a Dilbert cartoon, or maybe an episode of Cathy on a bad hair day. It was just me and Sargent Sugar in the office with nothing to talk about besides the grayscale heat signatures feeding from our surveillance equipment.

It must have been a quiet night.

Sargent Sugar looked up from the moving shapes on her screen at me, face blanched in the colorless lights, “White, why don’t you like Jesus?”

“It’s not that I don’t like Jesus,” I said and let my voice trail off. I pretended to be examining a peculiar shape on the screen.

My first adult act in the Catholic Church was to leave, immediately after confirmation, as soon as I had a choice. I appreciate the teachings of Jesus Christ, and I like Church as an institution caring for the poor, the sick, the widowed and orphaned, but I cannot overlook their complicity in atrocities.

Many church members encouraged the Transatlantic Slave Trade. My existence is a direct consequence of the forced African Diaspora, which followed the genocide of native peoples in the Americas. Maybe my frustration had to do with Papal power protecting pedophiles, or maybe it’s about barring women from the priesthood. The stories seemed arcane and priests latched onto minutia like “do women really have an extra rib?s that just embellishment. Would a womb get in the way of ministering to a faith community?

There’s plenty of harm to go around. There’s plenty of blame to assign, excuses to trade. I’m not down with the pursuit of gold and glory in the name of God.

I do not understand how if we hate the sin, we can love the sinner. I’m not into fire, brimstone, and the “I pray to you, you give to me” transactional framework of the divine.

We are unable to speak on the will or desire of another being with any certainty: not a cat, not a lover, and certainly not a god. That’s just the problem with other minds. You can’t know them.

There is no love lost between me and the white man every adult told my child-self was the savior of all of mankind, but only if we accepted this truth. I could not believe that someone, especially God Made Flesh, could love all of humanity, die for every person who ever was and ever will be, only to accept us after death if we said the right words and felt the right way. That does not seem just, or loving, or kind, or divine, not to me, not to any version of me that I ever remember being.

All of those thoughts arose and crashed on the sore of my deeply breathing, loudly sighing, mind. I said none of this to her. Instead I gave her a parable. “It’s not that I don’t love Jesus,” I said. “I don’t want to hang out with his friends. It’s like High School, and Jesus is the popular kid. Every weekend there’s a party at Jesus’ dad’s house because his dad is not home and his mother is retired. And every weekend, Jesus has his friends over to his house to party, but they’re all assholes and I just don’t want to hang out with assholes. But if Jesus wants to get some coffee and chat oneon-one, we can do that.”

“Okay White, I can appreciate that,” Sugar said.

We’d come in off operation and drop our packs and weapons on the front porch of Ba Hiep’s restaurant just beside the Catholic church in Xuan Loc. We were snuggled between the 18th ARVN Division’s base camp, the 32nd Artillery compound, and the 199th Light Infantry Brigade’s main base camp, and couldn’t have felt safer. It had become a ritual to end up here, a ritual we didn’t want to break. We hadn’t lost a guy since it started.

Madame Hiep’s kids would take the block of ice we had brought out of our hands and replace it with cold bottles of Ba Moui Ba, 33 beer. The Ba Hiep would begin to ladle out Pho, strong, thick soup fragrant with garlic and lemon grass and spices we couldn’t have named if it meant our lives. Little peppers floated in the broth, so hot we feared them more than the Viet Cong. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t the bush. And it certainly wasn’t what we ate at home, not by a fucking long shot, but it sure wasn’t C-Ration gorilla bars or John Wayne cookies with that nasty C-Rat peanut butter smeared on them for a cold supper sitting out on some ambush.

Next would come bowls of sticky, seasoned rice with mystery meat piled on it. Guiterrez would say something like, “Sarge, yo tengo un poco Viet. Que es?” I don’t speak Spanish. He spoke very little English, but they still drafted him and got him killed. Sometimes the meat was pork; sometimes it was dog. Once it was something Ba Hiep called “Gon Ki.” I knew that “gon” meant banana and when I asked her about “ki” she did a little pantomime of scratching under each arm. I realized we were eating the ass of a baboon, probably rock ape. Only one guy wouldn’t eat it. The rest of us shrugged our shoulders, said “Fuck it” and bent our heads down into our bowls. Again, anything was better than cold C-Rats.

We headed up north the week after, to Quan Loi for the next operation and our streak broke, three dead, three wounded. One of the brothers shot himself through both cheeks of his ass to get out of the war. No one blamed him or turned him in. He had done his time and just couldn’t hack it anymore.

The afternoon we got bac to Xuan Loc, we were back on the porch, but it was different. We were different. The “mystery meat” that night was bitter and tasted like it had been dipped in perfume. I didn’t understand what Ba Hiep said the meat was in Vietnamese, and when I asked again, she said, “Trung Si (Sergeant), en Francais, Chat.” Shit. We were chewing on cat. No one would eat it. Everyone seemed really mad at being served it, all pissed off at Madame Hiep, saying shit like, “Fucking gook,” about her and to her, forgetting the pleasant safety we had felt on that porch, the wonderful meals we had been served there, the chance for such easy camaraderie in a combat zone, and the strength we had all taken from it all. Even with the infantryman’s innate superstition to keep up doing ritualistic shit, I couldn’t convince any of them to go back to Ba Hiep’s with me.

Then on the next operation that took us into the Michelin rubber plantations, we hit the big time, stepping into a huge ambush. A few of us walked away with our bodies mostly intact, but there were only eleven of us alive out of all the F Troop.

We probably should have said, “Fuck it,” and ate that damn cat.

Eww Newports!

Are you serious?

You’re sold out of Marb Red’s?

How about Camel’s?

Camel’s too!

Winston’s?

You’re kidding me even Winston’s! How about Pall Mall? No!

Okay. Okay. Now I know for a fact that Marines hate cloves. You’ve got to have cloves? Even the cloves!

Those fucking Fobbits!

Alright fine, fuck it, give me a pack of Newports. When first going to war, a bad day was a twenty-four hour shift, no breakfast, lunch, or dinner and three dead. Towards the end, a bad day was smoking a Newport, instead of Camel or Marb Red.

Alive or Dead

No face, no heart, your body has no skin. No birds to watch. One carries you away in its beak across the hot tarmac, now reinvent yourself, dumb as fossil stone.

Tracer rounds ricochet off the Quonset hut. No face. The monkey drags off your shadow. No heart. You have to decide which boys to let die. The Med-Evac is going down. You

have not yet learned how to do after war…

Whose wounds? What triage? What boy-soldier can wait?

You get through each day one sock at a time, smoke six cigarettes in two minutes.

You check out the book of names. Alive or dead, you try to save them all.

How To Connect With The New Toni

I am sorry to interrupt your regular schedule but this is a Public Service Announcement:

Veterans coming home to a home that doesn’t exist filled with guilt of past lives they left behind enemy lines running in line and following orders from the true enemy’s demented mind scared men and women shaking on the inside

Welcome home to no home and

All I can say is please, and thank you Feel like my life is dangling in the wind

The veteran can’t win! No retirement

Sorry we aren’t hiring!

Standing in line looking for rations

Behind counters with signs stating “Veterans Benefits”

Where do I sign

Initial here here and here

Sorry you don’t meet the income guidelines! So, who’s really benefiting? Welcome home.

So don’t mind me if I sit too long by myself with a dazed look over my face

I’m trying to retrace the exact moment when things went wrong

When my pledge of allegiance meant nothing to those who sit comfortably

Don’t mind me as I sit in a corner alone.

I am just trying to calm down voices of brethren I left whose spilled blood seems unappreciated by those whose bellies are filled at night while I contemplate the next supper line, I should stand in or the next free winter coat drive for me and mine Or maybe why the Department of Human Services doesn’t consider me human enough, so cutting what little resources they serve up shouldn’t be a reason I have horrible thoughts and act up!

Don’t mind me blank face sitting alone in a corner. If you only knew I’m fighting a war that’s so deep in cognitive responses that make it hard to respond to questions like “Miss, are you ok? Did you eat or bathe today? Talk or form any new friendships? How was your weekend by the way?” Hell no, I can’t remember eating or bathing shit sleep evades me and new friends Nah the old ones can’t stand me, family makes plans without me. Don’t you think I have enough rejection riding me! So I’m at war just trying to find the old me, and how to connect with the new Toni. You said she would come back, take 2 of these and 1 of that, but I suffer from insomnia and the side effects of those pills are insomnia and suicidal thoughts. So is it my fault or yours for prescribing a double dose of being locked in my head and can’t remember times laying in a bed! See silence isn’t quiet. She is always listening, thoughts always bickering, writing to fight used to be my ticket out of here, but now life’s turned upside down and I can’t tell if I left or returned. So don’t mind me!

Back to your regularly scheduled program

Signed the Veteran who’s Home Bound!

©iamtonitopps2017

We were sitting on the back porch when the news came on the radio: Saddam’s tanks racing across the desert Into Kuwait.

“That’s it,” she said, rising from her chair, stretching her arms to the sky, lighting a cigarette in that special way she had, balancing it nervously between her long, elegant, and often scolding fingers.

“That’s it,” she said. “It’s over. All over.”

We were children to her, our common ground was a war that ran like a wound through us and never let us go. We went to it in our teens and twenties as soldiers. She was seventeen when she arrived in Saigon, searching the spirit of a lover. We grew accustomed to the late night calls, the spectacle of her figure rising in outrage, her voice ringing out over a crowd to call a general or a politician out for their lie.

We felt good if she repeated a phrase we used, wilted when a misplaced word sent us for years into the Siberia of her silence. She slept rough at friend’s homes and apartments, feeling free to give away everything in sight. In New York when my wife and I were just leaving, she told us to wait in the car out front. A few minutes later she reappeared with the doorman, her arms loaded down coats as he carried out the large and expensive enlarger. She told us not to worry, her friend had too much Cluttering up his life and would never miss these things.

“No one will ever interview me,” she boasted. This woman who interviewed John and Yoko in bed, argued with them, cigarette in hand, about what they might really do if they were serious, like putting their bodies at risk as others did to stop the endless war.

I loved her tale of the sergeants getting high at Bien Hoa, writing commendations for officers who had never left their bunkers. She would go into prisons to talk to veterans, stay up all night, listening to stories from people like you and me and then weeks later call with a piece of advice How many times her voice at the end of a phone demanding a secretary interrupt a meetings so a friend could be called out and told the answer was to put the baby on top of the washing machine to stop its crying.

She was working on her book on Gaza, when our son was born. I think she was happy, though she wouldn’t show it when we told her he would bear her name. She promised to take him to Paris, but never got to live that long. She’d probably hate this poem, tell me to sell it for money for the Vietnamese or Iraqis. “Pity the world, what the greedy have done to it,“ she said. On things like this, she was never wrong.

Imagine Harad falling Now think of Jericho. For every Rahab, A Harad is spared. Harad lost its way, Jericho was swayed. In Judges book two, God’s flock obeyed Baal; They loved Astartes. In Middle Earth, Harad worshipped Sauron. Both cities fell. Was there a Bakhita in Jericho? Can there be a Haradrim Bakhita? From slave to saint, From Sudan to Italy. From slaves to nuns, Gandalf teach these ones. Be kind like ferry waters, Be humble like the Virgin. Love the hater, and live for prayer. Take the husband’s obedience literal; Then a Haradrim may sit on a pedestal.

Black Harad Has Fallen

there’s nothing like 4am to make you feel all alone by yourself with tiny words in the dark remembering the memories you don’t wanna remember remembering moments you are afraid to forget grief and anger mixed and melting into more complex substances a science of silence as you think of all the people you love in pain suffering and spinning searching for answers and sweetness, relief and hope maybe just a feeling of home wishing you had enough hands to hold them all hands to build a net of safety, security and a little bit of sanity once in awhile but your hands feel tied and twisted and broken having betrayed you time and again on a million dirt roads yet you still search for the little dirt road you could walk down to find a loving home full of warmth and rest and light forgiveness and hope laughter would live in the walls the mortar that held the heavy bricks together and sometimes yes, we could cry there but we would not drown friends around us would pull us to the shore remind us of sunsets and bike rides and babies we’d fill our bellies with friendship and food grown by our own hands digging our dirty fingers into the ground teaching these old hands to nurture new tricks we never believed in now proving fruitful

Quite frankly, I don’t owe you. Not a smile for your leer, a wave for your creepy wink, nor a giggle after your bad joke.

You say “what’s wrong with women these days, so angry?! I can’t pay you a compliment or even hold the door?”

No, Sir. Do beg your pardon. All the men before you should instead receive your scorn.

Because Of

Today my ears listened to no less than five languages, all human.

Today my eyes recorded images of a thousand colors and styles, all human.

Today my voice spoke greetings of kindness to other passing faces, and smiles returned to me, so human.

Because of today, I am that much more human and none-the-less, me.

cricketsong brown as soldiers’ shirts we sound dusky roughskinned nomoon canvas smell boots on exhausted they sleep as they fall begrimed sunsalted let me tell you firstwatch how notcity dark on dark not frightened not exactly but wary how patrol unseeing the quickened ears comfort of rifle from the brush a voice You ladies can really snore drill sergeant whispers as if equals and I not even an I ordered silent ordered lookaway which I do as if the trees held secrets the grisaille of darkness he panthers into tents feels for rifles unsecured me their sentry but fighting sleep they knew how a man might prowl how a woman failing that I was no protection at all

The Sentry Responds

Write a Snake Poem

Here’s a quick writing prompt to get creative juices flowing. Use snakes as means to explore an ethical or civic issue. Delve into your feelings of fear, honor, anger and curiosity. Take ten or fifteen minutes, and write a snake poem.

Our oldest myths and legends use poetry to convey deep truths about life and the development of society. The story of the snake in the Garden of Eden is one old example. Snakes have been at the heart of our civic discourse for millennia.

“There is an old quarrel between philosophy and poetry,” Plato wrote. Poets helped to convict Socrates of corrupting the youth. Poetry is an eccentric cousin to rhetoric, and it’s a powerful tool in politics. Use this prompt as an opportunity to reflect on the conflicts that occur in our minds when our rationality gets challenged by an emotion.

Al Wilson’s “The Snake,” for example offers a cautionary tale against trusting empathy over reason. Another poem about snakes that expresses similar apprehension, in a different form and taking a different tact is D.H. Lawrence’s “Snake.”

Set a timer for ten minutes and free-write. Use a snake as a metaphor. Maybe illustrate an ethical issue or convey a moral, or write whatever free associations come to mind.

Admonishment to a Barn Snake

While hefting a hay bale: down one grassy side, I saw your O.D. ribbon glide. Your eyes met mine. You froze to stare, with forked tongue to taste the air — then into a old tire did slide.

Now look, in the barn you should have no fear — you always should feel welcome here. Dine on worms, and frogs, and bugs, and baby rats and errant slugs. But our house? Don’t come near.

While I bear no great malice toward you, you’re quite the fiend, in Bridget’s view. With a shovel, hoe, or garden rake she’ll try her very best to make one barn snake into two.

So, for your sake I’ll forget I saw your cozy home inside my straw. Sleep through Vermont’s long winter cold — just do it here, don’t get bold — and you’ll live to see the thaw.

Liza, Herself

LOGLINE: A privileged young woman leaves the constraints of her unfulfilled life to join the Army where she’s a fish out of water but finds her true self and her soulmate on the battlefield.

INT. LIZA’S HUMVEE-NIGHT

Radio erupts.

SOLDIER 2 (V.O. panicked over radio) - Alpha six, this is Alpha-two. We’ve been hit! We’ve got wounded!

As the light fades, enemy snipers creep into position on the hillsides of the road. Bursts of M76 rifle fire kick up the dirt.

TAK-A! TAK-A! TAK!

Liza motions to stay down to Erin and Ben as she raises her M4.

RICH (V.O. over radio) - ALL UNITS RETURN FIRE! Form two protective flanks! How many casualties, Alpha-two?

SOLDIER 2 (V.O. over radio static) - Two I think.

EXTERIOR DESERT - DAY

SEVERAL HOURS LATER the convoy lumbers along the dirt road. Gears GRIND, engines HUM. Dust plumes. Now sunglasses replace NODs. Waves of heat shimmer.

INTERIOR HUMVEE - DAY

Liza drives Brad and the media. Their dirt-etched faces struggle to stay awake. Brad stares off into the distance.

Radio chatter...

SOLDIER 1 (V.O. over radio) - This is Alpha-one to Alphasix. Copy?

RICH (V.O. over radio) - Copy Alpha-one.

SOLDIER 1 (V.O. over radio) - What’s our ETA?

RICH (V.O. over radio) - Two hours.

INTERIOR HUMMER 1 - DUSK

Soldiers 1 and 2 sit in front. Matt and Rex sit in the rear. Rex suddenly stands up and sniffs the outside air. In one swift motion, Matt pulls his 9mm from his thigh holster and trains it out the window. To Rex.

MATT - What’s up, buddy?

EXT. CONVOY-NIGHT

As the convoy rounds a bend with hills on either side, a low WHISTLING. Then, BOOM! White light fills the air, as an RPG explodes on Humvee 1, disabling it. All vehicles halt.

EXT. CONVOY-NIGHT

Smoke and debris swirl as Hummers swing into protective position around the damaged truck. PAM! PAM! PAM! A76 bullets ricochet off vehicles. STATIC comes through the radio. SAW machine-gunners shoot their way out of Humvees 2 and 8. CHUMA! CHUMA! CHUMA! Sparks of enemy fire light up the hills. TAT! TAT! TAT!

INTERIOR LIZA’S HUMVEE-NIGHT

Brad has already shouldered his medic bag and M16. He exits, shouting to Liza...

BRAD: I’m going to Hummer one.

A beat.

LIZA - I’m going with you. She turns to Erin and Ben.

LIZA (CONT’D) - Stay here until the all-clear.

She grabs her M4 and smoke grenades. Brad motions to her to stay...

BRAD - You’re not a medic.

LIZA - I’ll cover you.

PAM! PAM! PAM! Angry bullets rain down on their Hummer. MOMENTS LATER Brad climbs out and crawls under the Hummer. Liza follows.

EXT. CONVOY-NIGHT

RICH (V.O. over radio) - AIRCOM, this is Alpha-

six. Heavy attack. Twenty klicks north of AJ. Request IMMEDIATE air support and Medevac. Repeat: IMMEDIATE. Radio silence, then.

RICH (V.O. over radio) - DO-YOU-READ-ME, AIRCOM?

AIRCOM (V.O. over radio) - Alpha-six, closest air is one hour out. Can you hold position?

RICH (V.O. over radio) - Only one medic. Request aid soonest. Out.

An insurgent with an RPG creeps downhill toward the left flank. POP! POP! Rich takes him out. Brad and Liza disappear under the vehicles and crawl to the damaged Humvee. ZWING! ZWING! Stray bullets rip by them RICOCHETING off the Hummers. Then, WHOOSH! An enemy flare lights up the sky and exposes them.

BRAD - SHIT!

He pauses for a second.

LIZA - Keep moving!

Bullets hail down on them... PAM! PAM! PAM!... as they crawl, pausing momentarily to return fire. Suddenly, a loud THWACK! Liza stops, grabs her calf, looks in disbelief at her bloody hand.

LIZA (CONT’D) - I’m hit!

Liza’s dazed. Brad turns to help her.

LIZA (CONT’D) (breathing hard) - You go! I’ll cover....

Brad, fixed on her hand.

RICH (V.O. over radio) - Get those God-dammed helicopters in here NOW!

A beat.

RICH (V.O. over radio) - I don’t care what the FUCK you have to divert. I have severely wounded!

He SLAMS the radio down and directs troops while continuing the counter-assault.

INT. DAMAGED HUMVEE 1-NIGHT

Brad finds SOLDIER 1 unconscious, broken leg bone protruding through his skin. He stabs soldier’s thigh with morphine, tourniquets and splints his leg. SOLDIER 2 has severe head wounds and a bloody socket where his eye was. Brad injects him. Liza pulls herself into the Humvee and staunches the soldier’s head wound. Brad notices her bandaged but still bleeding calf.

BRAD (still working) - Let me take care of that.

LIZA - No, not until we get these guys out.

BRAD - We’ll get them out!

Brad exits the Hummer carefully pulling the soldier with the broken leg with him. Instantly, the sniper fire intensifies and THWACK! A bullet tears into Brad’s chest. He chokes up blood and crumbles to the ground. Liza looks wide-eyed at the oozing red hole.

LIZA (screaming) - BRAD! Oh God!

She looks around, panicking.

LIZA (CONT’D desperately) - HELP! Someone help me!

In the din, no one responds. She looks at Brad’s life seeping away, hears his ragged breath. Steely determination overtakes her panic. BRRWHT! BRRWHT! BRRWHT! She fires into the direction of heaviest enemy shooting. Swiftly she lobs grenades until she’s surrounded in smoke. She grabs Brad’s collar, places her palm over his wound.

LIZA - Brad, please don’t die!

As hot orange bullets pierce the night, she looks around. She sees a soldier flinch and fall. She notices a sand pit a few yards off. Enemy fire starts to quell. Teeth gritted, she drags Brad with every ounce of her 125 pounds. In the pit she stuffs his wound with gauze, covers his chest with her body. She speaks into his ear.

LIZA (CONT’D) - Avery and Sloane are waiting for you... they need you Brad. Hang on.

Bullets SLAM into the dirt around them. Brad’s mouth gapes but, unable to speak, he blinks. MOMENTS LATER, WHOMP, WHOMP, WHOMP. There’s a distant sound of helicopters growing louder. Then, TAT-TAT-TAT! as Apaches appear over the hills. Their gunfire lights up the sky. Some enemy drop, others flee.

LIZA (CONT’D soothingly) - Help is here. Not much longer.

Brad’s breath is raspy. His chest barely rises and his eyes are closed. He struggles to speak into her ear.

BRAD - Tell them...

She strokes his brow. Her eyes fill, but she holds it together.

LIZA - Take your time.

BRAD - I love. Them.

EXT. CONVOY-NIGHT

The enemy fire’s suppressed and two Blackhawks land. Medics leap out and run to the wounded as the rotors continue turning. WHOMP, WHOMP, WHOMP.

EXT. CONVOY LANDING ZONE-NIGHT CONTINUOUS

Jack jumps out of one helo and helps get the wounded onto stretchers. When he sees Liza’s bloodied face carried out on a stretcher, his face changes. She notices him. Liza manages a weak smile as he helps lift her into a Blackhawk. She blacks out and his face darkens. MOMENTS LATER Jack watches as Liza’s Medevac lifts off into the blackness. On the ground two in body bags await their turn.

INT. BLACKHAWK-NIGHT

MALE MEDIC and FEMALE MEDIC quickly hook Liza up to blood transfusion and monitors.

MALE MEDIC (working) - I don’t think she’s going to make it.

Female Medic assesses the leg again.

FEMALE MEDIC - She’s lost a lot of blood.