Sunday, October 21, 2012

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

DRIED WOOD - Poem

DRIED WOOD

There are no umbrellas in the war.

My grandfather held a gun
in the middle of nowhere,


China.

His boots were
soaking wet by a mud


wall. When he wiped his face,
his commander smacked


his left ear. And then

the wall was riddled with bullets… 
 
His fellow Japanese dragged
their paralyzed legs. Their hands

smelled of piss and blood.

How difficult it was to set

fire on that day...........The dead bodies

smoldered from toes to fingers.

The commander rolled them over
with a long pole and asked
my grandfather to bring


more dried wood.

Their eyes glared into a meaningless

death...........Listen.

The commander’s name is Goro Inukai.

Punch him in the nose.