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Saturday, September 14, 2013
The Vest
Composite-stacked ceramic
And boron carbide,
Produced in flawless stacks,
Set in ballistic nylon,
Wrapped in bit-mapped camouflage.
Hand-molded
plastic explosive,
Finger-dented
green/gray clay.
Strips
of duct tape torn on teeth,
Scavenged
wires,
A
nine-volt battery.
It is 35-pounds.
Add MOLLE pouches of
220 rounds 5.56 mm ball,
PVS-14 Night vision device,
Tactical LED flashlight,
Two PowerBars,
A St. Christopher medal.
The trauma plate
Clamped tight
Across a throbbing heart.
18.21
kilos,
Of
economic explosive power,
Chock
with steel ball bearings,
Rusted
nails,
A Minnie
Mouse keychain
Thrown
in as a joke.
Shaking
wires are inserted
Into
the terminals
Of
the battery
Hung
between supple shoulder blades.
Add Rules of Engagement card,
Geneva Convention booklet,
Improvised Explosive Device ID
pamphlet,
And omnipresent scrutiny
Of camera lenses, videophones, and
Ever-swarming blogosphere.
Weighed
with the severity of ancestry,
The
aegis of millennia,
The
densities of generations of
Faith
and righteousness,
It
seeks direct hits
On
newsprint across the globe.
The product of science,
Of industry, of modern innovation,
And limitless American funding.
It sails through Congressional budgets
Employs flag-toting constituents,
And stops AK-47 rounds
At point-blank range.
An
assemblage of
Time-honed
utility:
Iranian
plastique,
A
bastardized remote control.
It
costs two $100 USD bills,
A
few dinar,
Years
of refracted faith,
And
the unwavering word of Allah.
It is the best in the world
At what it does.
It
is the best in the world
At
what it does.
But it is useless in fire,
Defenseless against concussion,
And cannot check human will.
But
it is vulnerable,
To
both wavering faith
And
faulty soldering.
Every day shield
A rock of security,
Defender of organs and arteries,
It is his home away from home
Away from home.
Guardian, defender,
Resistor of steel-jacket projectiles
And flying shredded steel,
One vehicle of many
To take him far back home.
It
is both accomplishment,
And
accomplice.
A
pinnacle;
The
achievement of study,
Devotion
and trial.
The
key to Jannah,
His
vessel to salvation;
Virgin
maidens,
Beautiful
mansions,
And
the favor of Allah.
It is technology
It
is finality
It is power projected
It
is faith absolute
It is his savior
It
is his conduit
It
is his ticket out
Of
dead-end jobs
Of
street corner cigarettes.
And
now it walks the dusted streets of Ba’qubah
Searching for culmination.
The Dude
A charred filet of man is lodged
Under the smoke discharger.
There are seared nuggets of him
Wedged into the grill.
There are random other chunks and streaks
All over the truck;
A hairy sliver slapped into
The cupola gearing,
Something dark and meaty
Mashed across the rivets
Around the bullet-proof glass,
His fats and oils smeared
Across the windshield.
The meager wipers
Only smear it around
While the dribble of wiper fluid
Just beads and runs off of him.
He was walking down the sidewalk
When the car bomb hit.
Rigged artillery rounds ripped the taxi
Into flying shrapnel,
Twisted hunks of steel
Screamed through the air
Tore him in half.
His torso exploded across the windshield
Legs evaporated,
Ripped
Into small
Charred pieces.
Was he an insurgent
With bad timing?
Was he the signal man?
Was he an agitator, a recruiter, a sympathizer?
Was he strolling back to work at the market
After a midday prayer?
Was he a cobbler, a mechanic, a father of three?
I don’t know those things.
But now,
It’s hard to see the road through him.
And he’s starting to reek;
His bits baking and broiling
On the skillet-hot, sun-baked steel
Of these 120-degree days.
It stinks of rot,
Of rancid human oils
Of shit and piss and brains –
All so quickly diced, flash-fried,
Pureed, then evenly spread
Across this armored truck.
We drive together,
The Dude and I,
As the wind catches just right;
Floating through the open gunner’s cupola
And filling my nose.
I breathe in the stink
Of rotting, baking human flesh.
I breathe in The Dude.
Who informed his family?
Who picked up his legs
From the yard they landed in?
What grief counselor talked
To the little boy that found his foot?
At least we named him,
However generic ‘The Dude’ is.
The little girl,
The one with half her head blown away,
The one who asked us for candy at the police station
But now lies face down in the street,
Eyes and mouth agape,
We couldn’t even bare
To give her a name.
To give her a name.
My hand aches.
My hand
aches because
My hand is
empty.
My hand
misses the feel,
The weight,
The
finality.
My hand
misses the ominous grip,
Designed by
thoughtful engineers,
Allowing the
quick reach of a finger
Onto the
trigger,
The
steadying sister hand wrapped around the fore-grip,
My cheek
welded to the stock,
My eyes
searching
Through the
site posts
For a
target,
For center
mass.
My hand is
hungry.
Hungry to
touch again the steel
The aluminum
The plastics
The power - and
the glory.
My hand is
hungry,
Hungry for
the pull of its fingertip on the trigger that leads to the hammer that
releases the bolt that drives the pin into the primer that leads to the explosion
of powder in the chamber;
The 556
round flying, a ripping six-grove, right-handed spin, exploding from the barrel
upon a wave of fiery gas...
That leads
to the chest erupting.
That leads
to the ruptured, cavernous exit wound.
That leads
to the skull coming apart
In chunks.
My aching
hand has me
Clearing my
living room
Hunting at
bars
Sizing up
distances and windage
On the lone
figure in the distance,
Look for a
kill shot.
My hand
misses its weapon.
That weapon
pressed into it
By drill
sergeants and NCO's.
The weapon
locked to it
By training
and exercises,
By
repetition
By muscle
memory.
My hand
misses its weapon,
The one
welded into it
Every day
for a long, hot, dangerous year,
The weapon
Branded into
it,
Branded into
the flesh of my hand,
And the
grooves of memory,
For life.
For life.
