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Remembering 18
for all the young men and women in our “voluntary” services who were just planning the future and instead found themselves in a war.
Sandinista rebels armed by Cubans, and I’m 18.
I’m filling in the paperwork, registering for Selective Service.
Television scared me.
Don’t remember VietNam.
Nixon’s resignation.
It’s as if my memory turned on at the Bicentennial.
Fireworks flashing red over the Capital,
Bursting blue over the Monuments,
Whistling white and patriotic odes
As my youth pushed me more and more into this violent world.
I want my innocence returned,
Want this money order of cynicism cashed out
Want the Red Scare to no longer conjure memories of spilled blood,
The cold war to mean something other than a frosty suspicion of chilled vodka,
Bear skinned caps and bad movie accents.
The reality that I’ve seen has always been square,
Fairly sanitized, hypnotized, fantasized, images of flickering lights.
I’d never know what was true,
And the ones in charge would never know what’s true.
We hide behind language,
Languid words wrapped loosely around some truth,
Neither yours
Or mine.
My truth was moving, fantasy games
And girls I was attracted to but never knew why.
It was a truth my father wouldn’t tell.
Our truths are no more real than the sensations we feel inside this skin.
We could wrap it up,
Skin it down to bone and gristle,
And be no closer than the square reality,
The mesmerizing jump cut, advertised product, and disguised mischievousness.
This world doesn’t make sense.
It never has.
But tell me that it will,
That this scrap heap noise will someday
And I’ll just bide my time.
Don McIver |
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