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36 bodies,
strung from the
perimeter wire
to the tree line
with one –
all by himself
half in & half out
of the bush – inches
from a clean getaway
the searching
sound of an m-16
on full automatic, going
through clip after clip – cleaning up
whenever a body
is hit, it shudders,
as if offering up a last
pitiful denial of the facts
a few lie so close
together, they seem
to be holding
each other…
i look out into
the mist-torn morning
balanced on a ledge
of indifference,
making a vain
attempt at stamping
some meaning on this
“attrition competition”
the pointless game
of a thousand cuts,
where the only difference
is who gets the grease –
& that’s no difference at all…
of lowdown prose,
that litters the page
like whiskey-driven scrawls
on drunk tank walls
recounting twisted
love affairs
with the seductive
dark ass of death
searching for
something real –
looking for
something certain –
by now,
it should be clear
the only things
for sure are:
the orbit
of the earth
around the sun,
& old coupe devilles…
but, if you wanna shoot,
go ahead, pull the trigger,
walk the plank,
slam that fatal fix…
or, better yet –
if you’re really crazy
about going out
in a pointless blaze
walk down to your
nearest recruiter
& sign
on the dotted line
maybe,
you can replace
some homesick kid
who’s tired
of staring
down the working end
of an ak47 –
tired
of waiting
for a dark-eyed lady
with explosives
strapped to her waist
who seriously craves –
a deadly embrace
"I'm a veteran. I gave America my all, and the leaders of this government threw me and others away to rot in their VA hospitals…" – Ron Kovic
sometimes at night,
after the last light
has been doused,
& the holy meds
have rendered me
oblivious to the pain,
& night-smells
of the ward,
i can feel
the void
that stretches
out from my body
in every direction –
360 degrees
of seclusion,
dead as a disconnected
phone.
sometimes,
i reach blindly into
that coal-black
absence,
hoping
my fingers
will brush
against
something
i can hold onto.
maybe
a wayward angel,
who might
allow a little
unaccustomed mercy,
& lift me
above
these broken places;
back to the days
& faces,
i hadn’t even known
i’d loved.
Originally from South Carolina, DB Cox resides in Watertown, MA.
At the age of 14, picked up the guitar, and a couple of years later played his first paying job with a band. After a 4-year stint with the Marines, spent a few years in the southeast playing in clubs and bars. In 1978, moved to Boston to attend the Berklee School of Music. Eventually found the blues circuit in New England.
He enjoys writing poetry for the same reason he loves playing the guitar; a way to communicate how he feels, at a given time, on a given day.