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BREAKFAST IN HELL
The yolks are jungle green
or bloody, depending on which blasted tree you squat against to try and hoist the greasy, lukewarm chow in your
tin canteen cup to your leathery mouth. A colony of spores thrives on humidified bread and fried insects pepper blackened
bacon.
Breakfast in hell, three days soaked-loping from Firebase X where Charlie waits along the trail, black
mosquito with a stinger, copper-jacketed, that ruptures trained brains or a foolhardy chest. Nothing reminds us of
a Diner in Indiana or New York. This is a kitchen where disease drips from trees.
Were happy for a moments peace
to swill dry mouths out with a brew the hue of coffee but the taste of burnt tires our guts have learned to tolerate
along with shrapnel crumbs. Too tired to ask ourselves why were here we light joints to avoid being besieged by answers.
Patriots all, we huddle, ready to salute death, the general whos drafted tens of thousands on all sides. The
heat is stifling and makes us wish we could pull on Charlies thin black pajamas and still serve our violent mission
as good grunts who keep metaphoric dominoes from tumbling.
Theres Tex from Arizona who rode a bus through
a Panhandle night to Benning and swears hell move to Amarillo if he outlives Nam. Wash, from Harlem, paid a seamstress,
who sits near Saigons Paris brothel, to create a pair of boxer shorts for him from a nylon Old Glory.
We swear
in feigned joy well reunite ten years from now to hide a pessimistic truth: many will be long dead, and the rest will
live in furnished nightmares and forget the wish to elbow at the bar in Denvers Browns Hotel.
Some will go
home to beat their wives again, others to pump gas near flying Turnpikes or deliver milk in Boston suburbs before
dawn. We have learned to commit crimes like murder, without facing trial. Some will try that. Ill wake from night-sweats
to write poems, still breakfasting in hell.
Oswald LeWinter
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