Baby, talk Vietnam to me
in your sleep of charlie
and charred bones and
marijuana shake 'em up
joints. Cry for them to
shut up, Yell "Get Down!"
over sirens only you hear.
Oh speak Vietnam
in your sleep to me.
whisper all you secrets,
you keep tucked away
behind ears and knees,
folded neat or littered.
Big grizzly bear,
cry big Vietnam tears
in your sleep to me.
Some of us are
wild ponies,
running just to be free.
And some of us are
thoroughbreds,
forced by design,
to be that way.
It's how puppies play nip a little bit, on the fly, and then roll over and plod away. That's just how puppies are.
And it's His Girl Friday,
It's a Wonderful Life,
It's Norman Rockwell,
It's normal somehow.
That I, and you, we,
when we get rough
and bite too hard,
We may roll over
but never plod away.
It lingers in our minds and
poisons our neurons
and pops up all the time
because that's just how we are.
Plums are called prunes in French
and prunes are made of plums
and just like everything gets lost
in translations, in transitions,
I have lost myself again.
smoking newports by the pool,
we felt so grown but were barely babies,
with boys in bands, small apartments, and
keg stands waiting for us.
but the real joys of life
were right here, between the
chemical mint smoke and
chlorinated sweat and us and
the saddest moments of my life
were the years of silence between us.
Do you ever eat grapes high,
zooted out your brain,
popping sweet, juicy globes
in your teeth
and think-
It's all the same stuff,
from grapes to eyeballs to girls,
and the girls smells just as sweet,
taste just as good?
Even if they lay in the sun and get golden
or when they are cold from the rain?
Then, do you lick your sticky, dripping fingers
just wishing the carbon atoms would reorganize
just this once, from
grape to girl?
Have you ever felt that way?
Please tell me you've felt that way,
so I am not alone.
