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Viet Nam Generation Journal & Newsletter

V3, N3 (November 1991)

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Poetry by Peter Desy

The Dreamers

Combat is all right if the other men
are dark or lighter. If the women
are hairy, this will ease our

burden, such animals are they.
If they live in huts with no power
lines, this is another plus.

                   * * *
Always bomb the bridges, the walkways
of persistent memories, linking lives
and times, under which the moon floats,

starting human dreams. The other
learning placesin and under trees,
in sleeping places, at the edges of gardens

the private sanctuaries of desire or
fascination; strafe these,
with our blonde eyes on the spidery

cross hairs of sights with dead centers,
these places where hamburgers and pizza
have yet to be invented.

Their brown-eyed, dark-skinned gods
won't interfere. Our god of light
stands with a flashing sword

we've forged from gold and given
others like it to the marines, each
with one foot on a beach somewhere.

We might be afraid they could dream
us away, the way we left off dreaming,
because we were afraid

of the worst dream of all,
that we've stopped living,
that there's something we've forgotten.

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