DEROS: My Soul

I.

At times when I am calm

I remember

that even if you waited for it

nothing came as suddenly

as gunfire

and nothing (not even the Lieutenant)

seemed as stupid

as the silence that followed-

At such times I know also

that each of us

who fought in Vietnam

was spiritually captured by it

and that each remains

a prisoner

of his own war-

It is, therefore, not surprising

that for some (like for me)

the AfterNam emptiness

published no DEROS

for the soul…

Yet, in moments better known to me

when reason drifts

and whole worlds are illuminated with Platonic images

dancing against the cave-walls

of my mind

lit by a single candle

borrowed from a twilight wish,

I take the stairs two at a time

and wait in the second-floor window

of my days

hoping that Someday will come next morning

and that I’ll recognize the soul

of a much younger me

come diddily-bopping up the street

eating a Sky Bar

and hefting a duffle bag

filled with new and more believable myths

that I might live by

(not to mention back pay)

while humming something (in a nasal sort of way)

about going to San Francisco

and something else I can’t make out

about a flower in somebody’s hair-

Frankly, I don’t know if I’d throw flowers

or run down stairs, meet him at the curb

and beat Hell out of him-

leaving me the way he did!

You know, there never was any great debate

(between my soul and me)

ending in a mutually agreed upon

existential parting of the ways.

I mean it’s not like my damned soul

dressed up like a teensy-weensy

Jennifer Jones in drag

and waved farewell with a lace hanky

from the base of a bonsai plant

in a Tu do Street floral shop

while I dreamt too soundly

on Ba Muy Ba beer and woke next morning

to discover I couldn’t cry anymore

or laugh like before

or give a shit period-

And my soul didn’t just go berserk

under the too bright light

of a Government Moon

and go roaring down Highway 1

doing a wheely on a cycilo

like James Dean in a steel pot

and flak jacket

laughing a Red Baron kind of laugh

and quoting Kipling’s Barrack-Room Ballads-

No.

My soul just did

what most souls did.

Just disappeared one afternoon

when I was in a firefight.

Just “walked away” in the scuffle

like a Dunhill lighter

off the deck of a redneck bar…

II.

Peculiar,

A man can lose his money

his woman

(even his mind)

and still he can come back,

but if he loses his courage

or his pride

then-

it is over…

And what of a lost soul?

(I ask myself)

when madness invades

scattering today’s headlines

like March Hares

leaving nothing at the table

of my reason

beyond one crumb of truth

and the enormous bloodstain

on the white cloth of my youth-

shaped

(if you come ‘round this side

of the table & cock your head

just so)

like a distorted lunar projection

of Vietnam-

And careful!  Don’t strike your knee

against that table leg!

‘Cause then it jumps alive-

like somebody flunked

the inkblot test

and knocking over the candelabra

dives out the window of my sanity

to run naked down the street

lined on both sides by

Vietnam Vets

who couldn’t sleep either

and just followed the blood trail

like mute somnambulist

in a black and white foreign film

because they heard that tonight

their shared nightmare

(with Vietnamese subtitles)

had called a muster of lost souls

to be followed by Nam,

Blood Nam,

leading a one-man parade

and twirling a baton

that looked like nobody’s penis

I ever saw

and probably belonged

to the guy in back of me

(poor bastard)-

Geez, it gets scary in here sometimes,

do not Brutha?

And oooh, Sister!  Do you have songs to sing?!

About war without glory

and love beyond reward…

Maybe someday God will mint a medal

so beautiful, no words are printed on it

and all of our sisters

who were there with us

would get one

and everyone, everywhere, who saw it

would know just what it was

and would find a “thoughtful place”

to go sit down in for a week-

And then maybe God would let us have

a picnic (bigger than the moon)

and all the boys and girls

of daddies whose lives they saved

could hold hands

to make a daisy chain for the sun.

And when it was all done

the big people

would make God a prayer-promise

never, never to do anything like Nam

again.

And when the cheers died down

the sun would bow his head

(ever so slightly)

so the children might wish their necklace

‘round his head

and when it was in place,

all of a sudden-

faster, even than gunfire,

everybody’s lost soul

would just come floating down

like a bright balloon

on a string

and mine

(the smart-assed red one)

would wink at yours

and pretend not to see me

and when everyone got his,

All the children would sing

Happy Birthday!  Happy Birthday!

over and over and over again

until all the ice melted

and all

our hearts…

By Steve Mason - from Johnny's Song

Steve was the Poet Laureate of Vietnam Veterans of America

He served as a Captain in the U.S. Army (Infantry) in The Republic of South Vietnam 

He died in 2005, at age 65, of lung cancer attributed to exposure to Agent Orange