war is letters from a girl named Martha.
war is, Jimmy, take care of yourself.
war is P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wristwatches, dog tags, mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits, Military Payment Certificates, C rations, and two or three canteens of water.
war is steel helmets, fatigue jackets, and trousers.
war is a compass, maps, code books, binoculars,
and responsibility for the lives of men.
war is 7 ounces of premium dope.
war is mellow, man.
war is shameful memories.
the common fear of blushing.
war is fierce,
mocking talk.
war is ghosts.
war is catch-as-catch-can, war is M-14s and CAR-15s and Swedish Ks and grease guns and captured AK-47s and Chi-Coms and RPGs and Simonov carbines and black market Uzis and .38-caliber Smith & Wesson handguns and 66 mm LAWs and shotguns and silencers and blackjacks and bayonets and C-4 plastic explosives.
war is a slingshot.
war is kicking over jars of rice,
frisking children and old men,
blowing tunnels, sometimes setting fires
and sometimes not.
war is a warm dense fog over the paddies
and the stillness that precedes rain.
war is sunlight.
war is a bright morning in mid-April. war is not like the movies
where the dead guy rolls around and does fancy spins
and goes ass over teakettle.
war is boom. down. nothing else.
war is smoking the dead man’s dope.
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