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Aug 31

Soldier’s Sleep

by Matt “Doc” King

Cold with no covers trying to stop the night sweats
Demon and angel on my shoulder laughing, taking bets
How long will he sleep? How will he awake?
Silently sitting up or with a violent quake?

Now it’s toss and turn, trying to quiet them
The moaning resembling an old time choir hymn
Eyelids flutter; hands clench tight
To sheets now soaked, drenched with fright

It’s not a scary movie that haunts the sleep
Nor is it sickness that makes my pores weep
There’s never an end, at least I’m told
By the ones who went first and now are old

A two-time Purple Heart recipient, Matt ‘Doc’ King served in Iraq as an Army scout medic. Doc currently resides in Los Angeles and writes poetry for therapeutic release. When he’s not on a film set, Doc can usually be found surfing off Venice Beach. 
 

Aug 31

Storm

by Matthew Brown

Water falls to the ground
Cutting through the air with ease
Softly caressing the leaves
Gliding to the earth
Breathing new life to the World

Distant flashes
Bring discord
To the harmony
They rumble quietly
Making an entrance
To the symphony of life Read more

Aug 30

September 13

by Elizabeth O’Herrin

Years have passed since I joined the military on September 13, 2001 and it feels like long ago and yesterday all at the same time. When I decided to leave the military I suspected I would miss it. I contemplated reenlisting, but decided I wouldn’t miss it enough to spend more time as United States government property. So after seven years in, I decided to get out. And although I left years ago now, I have these nights—although they are fewer and farther between—these quiet nights when I’m by myself, sipping wine, and the memories flood unexpectedly.

It feels like only a few months have passed since I bounded into roll call before dawn, amped up on three cups of coffee and ready to cause trouble. When I put on the uniform, I detected a significant change in my personality. I’m not sure it was a better me, but it certainly was a more foul-mouthed me. And so sometimes, on those quiet evenings, when the nostalgia kicks in I wonder if maybe me and Uncle Sam could’ve made a deal for a few more years. I had a lot of fun as that girl in uniform. Maybe too much fun. Read more

Aug 30

Unexploded Ordnance

by Timothy W. Puetz

327 days, 2 hours, and 13 minutes. The civilian world is still driving me fucking crazy.

“Sir, can I go burn one?”

“Joe, I told you don’t need to ask me every time you need to take a smoke break.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I told you. Call me, Bob.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Oh. And Joe, you know those things will kill you.”

Yep. Driving me fucking crazing. 327 days, 2 hours, and…

“14 minutes until I’m done wearing this uniform. No more beans. No more bullets. No more headaches.”

“You are going to miss it, Joe.  The Army is in your blood.  It’s not so easily…”

“…forgot my lighter can I borrow yours.”

“What?” Read more

Aug 30

The Voice Behind Me

By Paul J. Kozak, Jr.

In the 1960’s during the Vietnam War, severely burned soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines were sent to Brooke Army Hospital at Fort Sam Houston, Texas.  Brooke Hospital was known as “The Miracle Center of the World”; there, the injured received superior and compassionate care.  For some patients though, this divine-like intervention did not always mean deliverance from pain, suffering and the grip of death; it sometimes meant something else… I know because I was a patient there.

I remember one night in the fall of 1968. The quiet of this late October evening was suddenly broken by the sound of gurney wheels, as they clacked and skipped across the polished linoleum floor.  The smell of fresh gauze and the muffled sounds of surgeons’ shoes softly filled the air as another burn patient was brought to the ward.  The new patient was being “brought to,” as with all burn patients, immediately following surgery; there was no post op for burn victims. Read more

Aug 19

Words Are Bigger than Yusef Komunyakaa

by Dario DiBattista

Yusef Komunyakaa doesn’t return my emails. This confuses me. When I met the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet two years ago at a small house at the tiny Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, I thought I had made a positive impression. At the conclusion of his speaker’s engagement there, Yusef had even stopped me on the way out the door to shake my hand. When I queried him recently, he remembered this encounter and agreed to an interview. I am unsure why he doesn’t respond. But thinking about it now, I can piece together why.

On the day that I met Yusef, the rain fell intensely. Everyone was soaked from the short trip from the parking lot to the building. Most of the attendees were veterans; almost none of them brought umbrellas. Considering that many of them had survived monsoon seasons in ‘Nam, why should they get worried about a little rain? Yusef’s College appointed handler took a long time to introduce him — there was a lot to introduce: a Bronze Star for service in the Army as an information specialist in Southeast Asia; three degrees, including an MA and MFA at respectable universities; a collection of eight published poetry books that boasts the Pulitzer Prize-winning Neon Vernacular; and all sorts of teaching accolades, most notably, English Professor at Princeton University. Read more