Thursday, April 27, 2017


I guess, it is, the fact, reveals :
for the life of me I've settled for
too little. 'Guns and butter,' as
they used to say in the Johnson
years. It was a type of 'either-or,'
but they never knew it. Money for
murder in Vietnam, or money at
home for things on the table.
I just went on. Walked away with my
head held high  - some screwed-up
High-Noon showdown with the metal
men in their military towers. I couldn't
even believe these guys went home
at night, and talked to their children
and made love to their wives.
Nothing made sense. Whitehall Induction
Center, and then Broad Street, Newark.
They had me locked up in chains, like
Charlie Manson and me were friends, 
or at least the Boston Strangler and me
hung out. The guy driving never spoke
at all. The two others guys, in their
military lapels, all they did was smoke.
Their pinched-lip, greasy-faced logic
spewed forth in a Stalinesque version
of alternate reality I didn't understand.
'Our country needs defending but not 
from the likes of you. You will be showed 
the way or showed the door...' Yeah, yeah,
that was the point  -  I'd already chosen the
door but they didn't get it. The horror for
me became the fact that they didn't even
realize where the damn door was. In that
vein, fifty-eight thousand others died.

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