US Civil War Wounded
Álgebra y Fuego
do you trust me?
When I say I care,
will I be true?
If I come back from far away
do you greet me,
Johnny and his gun come home
to join the prosthetic few?
Will you drive me daily
to my re-hab?
Will you buy me beer,
... push my wheelchair?
Will you explain the fearful
algebra and fire
that guide our fatal honor
into grief, into despair?
Will I smoke the opium
of Afghanistan?
Or from Ciudad Juarez
will I do cocaine?
Wake up screaming from withdrawal -
or from nightmares;
my mind is nitrous oxide
a seep of jet methane!
When you say you still care,
will you be true?
When you say you love me,
may it inspire?
The algebra of the past
defines fidelity
and honor, but we blacken
like candy in the fire.
Spanish Civil War Poster
-
notes:
Johnny and his gun = Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo. That's about it.
2 comments:
I wish you would submit this to The Sun, or somewhere.
When I was 18 I met a young man, in a wheelchair. Vietnam, I'm guessing. I went home and told my mother I could marry a man in a wheelchair. I don't know how long good intentions last.
This is a terrific poem. The last two lines burn it up.
Thanks, R
You are early. I'm still making changes as I look at it up on the site. I won't touch the last two lines.
I've had a lot of good intentions, and they don't last very long. Our pasts come right up and roll over them, squashing them flat...
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