vietnam vet

i don't think i'm gonna kill myself; i think i'm gonna die.

if my body standing up, my life, my perception, was a pie

chart, the bottom right quartile, measuring from my eyes,

would be on fire. this is the type of flame as from a hardwood log,


like it won't go to ash. It's in back of me; it starts just a centimeter

behind my peripheral vision on the right, extends about as far

as my arm stretched out, circles back behind me, like a police officer's

got me in an elbow and wrist lock, with my face up against bricks.


when I drink it crawls up top of my head like a laughing squirrel

on a farmer's cap. Asleep maybe I turn and face it; i turn a lot

of ways, like i'm rolling in it. when i wake its pulled

down over my eyes, a firing squad blindfold.

i march off to coffee like it's my last cup.