Thursday, March 6, 2014

5140. DASHPOT

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.
-
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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