Wounded and Maimed: Coming Home Soldiers (Poetic Prose)

Wounded and Maimed:
Coming Home Soldiers
((Mpls, MN) (observations at the VA Hospital)) No: 2711/5-29-2010


Among a few men come trailing down a hospital corridor,
one man among the few pushes a wheelchair—that looks like a coffin,
in it sits a torso.
Legs are gone from the hip, from his hip,
yet the upper part of the commanding man lives,
nothing more, nothing more and nothing less.
My brain centers and my speech, and my bodily rhythm are broken
I gulp down his growing awareness, as if sucking nectar threw a straw
and watch this young man, soldier, come trailing down the corridor
(broad stalwart, strong sturdy hands, burly shoulders, once big— ;
brave clean-shaven face, wearing a skullcap.)
From an intersection, a crisscrossing crosswalk, they meet,
another young soldier, pale to white, without arms,
and legs amputated at the knees—being pushed the same,
there’s a sign on the back of his wheelchair that reads:
“Baghdad Rats!”
What I’m creating here seems to be a poem but it’s really an emergency
we’ll elect a new congress and president soon—I have to confess,
they’ll say what they need to say to be elected
end up being party to all this…again, and again and again!
—there is no end, wars without a crisis to the Nation!

On the front of the wheelchair of the first mate, I read:
“I’d like to walk pal, but I just came from Hell.”
We’ll elect a new congress and president, soon, I confess,
who will resell all this: a crime, the crime of all times!
—there is no end, wars without a crisis to the Nation!

There they both sit, in wheelchairs, supporting themselves:
one by his arms, the other armless swings his body to change his seat,
a young soldier pale face, legs amputated at the knees.
Another soldier walks by; his arm stumps carry a letter:
where’s the media, the media, the protesters, I protest?
It’s not like it used to be, protesters all over the place,
on buses, and marching on streets, they’re all asleep
in these two wars (Afghanistan and Iraq)—
waiting for someone to take a picture, take a peek,
who’ll smash down the door? They’re simply waiting, sleeping!
Tell the munitions manufacturers no more ammo
for this week, that week, the next week! Then the war will end.
Too many soldiers lying in the hospital beds, too many wounded, maimed!
The Armed Forces must have good salesman, organizations, perks!
These two wars seem not to have any knee jerks.

I have to shake and scratch my head—everywhichway
and think, just think, thinking on an empty stomach.
I see a sign that reads “Food, Cafeteria—this way!”
(“Food, food, food, food…” my stomach is saying.)
In the cafeteria, the procession drags on, along the food line.
Slowly I wait, all is still, all is nil, and everything has a chill
and a few soldiers walk around me, by me,
I’m looking at the jelly, it is yellow, and the chicken it is licking well
still no indigestion, not an accusation, just a statement.
An one-eyed and one-armed soldier pushes his way around me
I say under my breath: “…at least he’s not in that damn wheelchair!”
Other soldiers walk by, in heavy black boots, they move slowly
perhaps thinking of war, and that everlasting darkness: a
snipers rifle registers in my head, I start back up again
follow the food line to its end…so much unbridled wisdom
in the voting process—we’ve created an ongoing crisis for our Nation.
And I, for my part, have lost faith, in the old human race, saying:
for freedom and for faith, faith in our nation, do we fight and stand,
for liberty and justice for this land, they throw it all out to the soldier
like white on rice, as if God, Himself, has given us this command
this unblinking green light,
to change the world and build all red, white and blue
gas stations, coke cans in every store, an American Soldier at every door,
and I’m a war Veteran, and I can’t take no more!

After I’ve finished eating ever more and more soldiers
get up from their tables walk toward me. “The bastards are shooting!”
someone says to someone else, walking by me looking at the someone
as if wanting to shout. They look at me, face to face, faith to faith,
hast to hast—it is a strange moment indeed (they know, somehow know,
I was wounded too—maybe they had notice early on I had a limped);
then something snaps, they quicken their pace.
His life is a grim for him, perilous—I agree,
he’s surely in a mental state, I am gasping.
My jawbones are tight; I had noticed his lips were pressed tight too,
his eyes are cold and on-edge, his face looks like trenches…like death,
he ploughs his way through a group of women
(where there is back and forth mumblings, whispers, confused din):
some are nurses, others with aprons on, perhaps soldiers,
and he stumbles along with an air of secrecy:
as a roar of fury goes on in his head I suspect; now he’s being carried off
with a scornful gesture.
He’s a hanger-on, I confess, who may never be happy again,
the real profiteers, are those that sent him to war,
the so-called middlemen, who know at first hand
the superficially of it all, so I’ve learned, and they’ve labeled:
“For America’s Safety, Liberty and God’s Will…”
Those fellows make immense profits, of course,
and because of those swine, we have to live with a bellyache!
I say under my breath, “Perhaps he’s better off in a wheelchair.”
And I think: wars without a crisis to the Nation are bad,
they set a wrong precedent, and I think and confess:
we’ll elect a new congress, a new president, soon,
who’ll become purvey to all this.
The cafeteria is starting to fill up again with people,
like wild wounded bloodhounds!

There’s music, women, dance and song, going on in a room nearby…
People huddled in a corner; wounded, so wounded they cannot leave
the hospital, be taken elsewhere, somewhere, anywhere but here
and this is where they’ll die.
Someone’s holding a drink to a wounded man’s lips,
too bad it’s not brandy, it’ll calm his wits—I tell myself.
The wheelchairs come in and out, with hoots and screams,
cheers and shouts, in the background…
that’s all I hear as I walk by awaiting my appointment.

And it comes to mind, once I read, that God said,
“All those you speak of are dead,” but what was He really saying
or telling this certain person…?
“The swine no longer live?”
All the dirty people will be submerged, swept away, devastated
on judgment day—if not sooner? And he will send forth his soldiers
and all this will be ended, it will be finished—?
That it already has been written…it’s just a matter of time?
I think I’ll stick with the statement of: “The swine…”


This poem will not bring change, yet I bellow it to you
all the same, with incredible hope,
if there be any understandable words, let them be…:
that we need to reset our brain centers, for we are deceived,
and I do believe, we are higher than Darwin’s remarkable apes
and monkeys, higher than their fingertips—or are we just becoming
a global lynching mob with intercontinental missiles
that will crisscross the world, to make our dreams
and enforce our laws?
(To have all those: red, white and blue, gas stations, on every street?)



Note: The United States has been in four non-crisis wars, in my lifetime and my grandfather’s lifetime, wars that have not been a crisis related war for America: WWI, the Korean War, Vietnam, and now Iraq; as the Iraq war continue today, and continues to kill or wound and maim our youth, a war that should have stopped long ago; we owe nothing to this so called campaign summons to rebuild nations we war with, paid through our tax monies after a war, how silly can we be, and it is no longer genuine to say: “For our freedom and National Security,” hogwash, most of these wars are for profit, and have nothing to do with liberty (the pursuit of happiness is for the rich) those are the folks who have not fought by the very people they send out to die, our youth out to fight for their bank accounts, these people have never faced an enemy in a war zone, should they, there’d be no war, and yet they lead us, is it not true the old WWI statement, “Donkeys leading lions.” World War 2 was for freedom and liberty, and Afghanistan (which should have stopped years ago also), was perhaps necessary in the beginning, in that there was a crisis. Beyond that, we have overstepped our bounds, so I feel. The author has spent much time at the Minneapolis, Minnesota VA Hospital throughout the years. Mr. Siluk was a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, and decorated Vietnam Soldier. (Written in a slight form of: Poetic Prose.)