3

Raquel Welch

Say what you will, but in my Company area, Raquel Welch was the pin up girl on my wall [black and white], I got a poster from her, signed, but I think it was printed on by machine. No one else in the company had what I called a poster. Calendars yes, but not an original poster, and of Raquel, surely not one from her, so that made me a kind of hot shot [but there is more to this].

Most of my friends in Vietnam believed she [Raquel Welch, whose poster I had put it up on a back-board of the bunk at the head of my bed] was my girlfriend, until I told them, three-weeks after I had gotten it and set it in my room, that I had gotten the poster by request via mailing for it. When I told the guys this, I also told them I was just kidding, that she was not my girlfriend after all —woops, that didn't go over so well, but to make up for it I told them that when I left Vietnam, someone would get it in the company area.

But during the time when they thought she was my girlfriend, the truth of the matter was, they'd come into my hutch, the GI's that is, check out the picture when I was gone, and go tell their friends [sometimes I would ask my hutch buddies '…who was in looking at the picture?' and they'd shoot a few names off to me]. And so, I became quite popular. But again, when I told them the truth, they felt a little dumb, and gave me some dirty looks, but life went on in the hot monsoons, none the less, and they still liked the pin up.

I kept her picture on the back of the board by my bed to the day I left. I had a few takers when I left Vietnam for it, as I had told them I was going to give it away, and I couldn't think of a reason not to give it to them, they'd most likely play the same prank on the new GI's coming into the company as I did. None the less, I did end up giving it to my friend in the mess hall. [I kind of wish I had kept it now that I think about it, a good memory for those long dark lifeless nights, so long ago.] But Raquel thanks for the 6-months of watching over me.

Poetry

[A moment in the present]

One might say my first love was always, or for the most part it seemed to be, either poetry or playing the guitar. One might even add to that by saying, they both went hand-in-hand, poetry in motion that is. In those long lonely far-off nights in Vietnam, between being drunk, guard duty, my regular job, screwing, going to the medic's because I was screwing and got something I'm not proud of, I would sit back and write my poetry, or play my guitar [yes I even found a guitar over there]. Three of my several poems were found recently in one of my old Army Greens I had left in the closet, with the mothballs [in l980, I wo

uld publish my first book of poetry, but I did not add these three poems into them, here they are now]:

[I was sitting back in my bunk, playing the guitar low, looking at my poster of Raquel, and started writing out of the blue…thinking of Minnesota I think "One Autumn Evening, Long, Long Ago,--1971]

I

One Autumn Evening, Long, Long Ago

It burns, burns, burns—with the Flickering of flames and forms: -- the warmth it brings to body and soul, and to the fireplace that is no more—.

The sounds—sounds of crackling, -- the crackling of the wooden-logs--: say, something was, that once had life, but that something is no more.

And so the shades of Dark Ash--, appear, --replacing the flames and forms—that once were there before—now to be buried, in the bowels of the earth, deep by a tomb, with endless sleep—and that too will change once more…

And so, two fires that once lived, side-by-side—burned, burned, burned alive—! Can no more consume,--as once, as once it did— one autumn evening, long, long ago.

[This next poem "Farting in the Wind', was written while on guard duty 'I hate to say', while at the ammo dump, the only thing in front of me was a dirt road, and I was in my little 4 x 4 guard shack with a big fat riffle that shot two rounds of grenade type missiles; it was a hot and lonely afternoon]

II

Farting in the Wind

You ever fart in the wind—a draft? [Pause, thinking] Farting in the wind is a sin— [did you know that?] Why? Because it is what demons do—; why? How else can they get your attention?

[This poem "Slang in the Rain” was written while on my way to Australia for R&R, from Saigon, on the plane.]

III

Slang in the Rain

Slang is my Rose of beauty, the beauty that makes my stomach ache, my bowels ache, and my mouth dry, my voice stutter— if I remember right.

It is called love to some—but to me, to me it is called, 'Slang in the Rain.' It makes my nights long [when you want to think of some girl you left behind, that now would not give you a ounce of time]. But this rain makes my blood hot, my heart throb, flutter, beat fast. I call it 'Slang in the Rain'— For it is like no other.

It really is like 'Pain in the Ass,' almost like grief…. [Thank god I'm here in Vietnam alone.]

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