by my campfire

in Hiroshima
it's a quiet evening
with a red sun
rising over the tall mountains
to the east.
there are Japanese ghosts nearby
who dance in the shadows.
a few years from now
from my front porch
looking up
there will be fewer stars visible
in the night sky
because of a persistent light pollution,
and i'd rather see stars than
sudden fear in a child's eyes.
i must acknowledge Edison, perhaps,
or Tesla,
but there's darkness
beyond the strip mall,
some welcome and some not so much.
in parts of the Mekong delta,
for instance,
water buffalo still roam
without headlamps or streetlights,
stepping into fertile mud,
raising rice,
raising their heads with huge horns.
the Viet Minh have buried their dead
in that land,
along with their black sandals
and black shirts and black teeth.
they claimed a lasting victory
over US Marines who came ashore at Da Nang,
splashing onto China beach like confident predators
while keeping a watchful eye at dragon clouds
swirling atop Monkey Mountain.
the American troops were to protect innocent
civilians and corrupt Vietnamese generals
by force of arms and
with accurate shooting,
if possible with an unreliable M16.
but a Marine sharpshooter, living in the World,
sat high atop a campus clock tower
in Austin, Texas
shooting at people
far below who were
not Viet Cong
but were waiting for the Texas Oklahoma game to begin
or going about their morning business.
he might have been in Da Nang,
where killing was expected.
Iwo Jima, in the Pacific,
also had a pretend Marine,
John Wayne, a hollywood actor,
who got his feet wet in the black volcanic sand,
but he
didn't climb a clock tower to kill friends
or strangers,
even though he never grew a flower from a seed.
he faded away, holding a stiff deck of cards,
a stiff drink,
and a smoking cigarette,
anxious to begin his shuffle toward a new beginning
where he could act without killing,
without pretending to be someone he wasn't.
and the war to end all wars might have come and gone,
but it failed to end the madness.
the predators often ate their prey
while wearing some type of uniform
and sometimes they ate each other,
naked ambition dripping off chins.
i don't remember if there were any predators
at my high school back in the 1960's
but once, at a post-prom party,
i wanted to read
The Stranger by Camus
but i was told
by a blond cheerleader i was fucking
to quit acting absurd,
and i thought that was funny!
when i met Picasso, a Spanish painter,
he told me at that exact moment,
blond was his favorite color.
the conclusion of our conversation
was a discussion about war
and we both agreed it was a sexual thing.
he liked going into beach cabanas and i'd go anywhere.
the following summer i returned,
looking for him,
but he was busy growing the nail on his little finger
while avoiding
the subject of the German invasion of France,
though he did mention the earlier bombing of Guernica.
and it was only after Salvador Dali
died that i took a renewed vow of sobriety,
excepting for, of course,
the better French wines which i couldn't afford.
i had seen too many ticking clocks melt into distorted shapes
like the faces of small children who
were once seen at play in the narrow streets
of Nagasaki, Japan one surprising morning
while a silver predator flew silently far, far overhead.
and then i read about Dresden, Germany
and that ugly fire bombing
and got sick, really sick,
as i had many times in the past.
i've now been in bed writing for over a month,
give or take,
and will soon go outside for an evening walk,
hoping to find at least one
hungry stray cat,
or a dog
which once upon a time was a wolf,
a type of predator,
and yet wants to be by my campfire
under a starry sky
where we'll both howl to the moon.