DASHPOT
In 1968 it was 10 degrees out and the wild wind was
flying. In my driveway was a car so lethal it was murder.
The only thing that kept it running was the dashpot carburetor.
I looked up to the sky - frozen, and solid matter - and knew
I had to fly. My friend was coming home, to JFK airport, from
Vietnam. He'd asked for a ride and I said I'd oblige. Don't know
why, really. Fatigue in the disrepute from napalm and fury had
already sort of set me back - I wasn't too keen on this being.
Montagnards and all his stupid mountain necklaces. All he
ever talked about was those people - he said he was living
with them, among the high-plateau natives; somehow as an
Army medic. They taken to him and those blessed mountain
girls kept making him jewelry. I never could believe that tale.
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The thought of killing seemed foremost in my mind - if you're
there, that's why you're there. Killing people or killing trees, it
made no difference - the USArmy, by degrees, counted its
progress daily. Body-count lottery, dead-cat bingo. Napalm
another hillside just to keep it clean. What shits they all were.
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