I see her

May 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

I see her I see

the boy, bullet scars and burns;

I see the man’s son flopping in his arms


and kids in uniforms

walking to school;

we use their desks for firewood.


Her Uncle has just been

found in the Tigris;


it will be her mother next

if they don’t leave soon.

We blow up her house


because that was where

the men who extorted her

father kept weapons.


She waits for me after school

to cry over verb tense

and mismarked decimals.

Some pictures to go with the Haikus

May 10, 2012 § Leave a comment

Sarg, I need to go

May 3, 2012 § Leave a comment

“Sarg, I need to go

downstairs.” “You need to stay here”.

“But that’s my best friend.”


“I have to shit.”

“Then shit in your helmet,”

Kris shouted over explosions.


“Private, I said pull

security. Don’t worry…he’ll

still be dead tomorrow.”

We entered, guns drawn

May 3, 2012 § Leave a comment

We entered, guns drawn.

Sheep, sheep feces, sour hay;

twelve albino kids.


Two old ladies use

an artillery shell for

a flower pot. Suspects.


Dead animals; raw

sewage; needles; sick poultry;

shit in half-done homes.

Easter Sunday

April 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

Easter Sunday. Second

and First took casualties

before Third woke up.


Captain America

justified his war with

stupid decisions.


Rounds walked in towards our

truck. Trigger opened fire. I

couldn’t see a soul.


Taking fire in the

dump. We’re being flanked. Fedeyeen

and friendlies downrange.


“Top” moves to

Article 15 Trigger, takes fire,

dive-crawls for cover.


Sniper fire. We

need to get closer. Gas truck

parks in front of us.


RPG struck the

dump, failed to explode, peppered

a troop with sharp trash.


The Golden Mosque

opened fire on us. The tanks’

gun pummeled the mosque.


We cheer as the Mosque

crumbles, surrounded by trash

that would make AIDS sick.


Kiowa pilot

shot. Kiowa Down makes a

terrible movie.


Back to the FOB. All

alone in the chow hall, eating

Easter ham slice.

On our way to win

April 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

On our way to win

the city council hearts and minds

our truck blew up.


Found hundreds of

mortar rounds. EOD almost

kills us with shrapnel.


One-one thousand. Two-

one thousand. Whooshoom. Fox holes

dug like shallow graves.


IP are in charge.

Smoke; tracers; mortared; IP

quit. Foreshadowing.


Getting mortared in

the open desert sucks worse

than MRE shrimp.


Day before Easter.

I read the bible. Haji

knows right where we are.


IP are dead or

gone. Everything is on fire..

We move tomorrow.

Being mortared

April 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

Being mortared;

never a big deal, except

for the Joes who were hit.


Khalid; the terp who

loved Baghdad, where he bought porn

and got drunk and high.


Mustafa; the terp

who loved chess, hated Maxim,

and listened to rap.


Mustafa; phone,

helmet, bunker, just before the

mortar rounds explode.



EPW cage, Tikrit, gone.

Khalid gets a pistol.