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 Viet Nam Generation Journal & Newsletter

V3, N4 (January 1992)

Texts made available by the Sixties Project, are generally copyrighted by the Author or by Viet Nam Generation, Inc., all rights reserved. These texts may be used, printed, and archived in accordance with the Fair Use provisions of U.S. Copyright law. These texts may not be archived, printed, or redistributed in any form for a fee, without the consent of the copyright holder. This notice must accompany any redistribution of the text. A few of the texts we publish are in the public domain. For information on a specific text, contact Kalí Tal. The Sixties Project, sponsored by Viet Nam Generation Inc. and the Institute of Advanced Technology in the Humanities at the University of Virginia at Charlottesville, is dedicated to using electronic resources to provide routes of collaboration and make available primary and secondary sources for researchers, students, teachers, writers and librarians interested in the 1960s.

Poetry by Rod McQueary

Near Snowville

It feels like green, heavy oil.
I am twenty feet below the surface.
Floating up.
Faintly, I hear a voice
calling calling
my name.
I wake inside my parents' car.
Home.  I'm home.
We are on our way to Ogden
to a horse show.
I was dreaming, but this is real.
     I am home.

My mother says
"You were talking in your sleep."
I can still see
Her hands tremble.
In the dashlight,
Her peculiar expression.
I still wonder, these many years later,
What I said.


inside the proud bird
after the hot asphalt jet exhaust
blowing orders papers into
after the cheering had
subsided in the darkened cabin
everybody asleep
across from me one seat behind
a black sergeant wakes sobbing
for a dog.
best friend i ever had
i mumble some simple kindness
he looks at me just looks
rejects my hollow sympathy
i turn away ashamed
i never meant to intrude.
pretty soon i sneak a look
he stares
face hard
through the black window
at home movies he'll watch
a million times
in years to come
he has learned secrets about
no one should ever know and
in this jet full of
in that weird world ahead
he knows
he knows
there is no one to tell

Our Parade

They bring us back
Right down
Main Street past the
Somebody built with
That good old fashioned
Helicopter Contract
On hands and knees
We snarl and bark
Like wolves
Hoping to be understood
By these nice folks
Debating whether we're
To Reintroduce.
These Modern Times,
A Bloody Muzzle
Ain't so cool.
Not cool like those green camo-suits
Flatlanders, Highschoolers buy.
(But we got ours for free)
But all in all--
We're fine, these modern days.
We don't howl and we don't chase
Defenseless farmyard pets
Any stinken more.
We're all healed up
     and fine
(except maybe for sore hands and knees)
From this goddamn
Main Street Blacktop.
But those poor bastards in the back--
Purposely, they're last, you know.
They smell like cigarettes and puke
They get hugs--from screw-top jugs.
Those poor buggers--don't wait to see
     Those wolves.
They mighta gone too far, one time.
     Defended America
     just a tad too hard.
These Modern Times, they still can't
How Sweet It Feels
to disembowel
a sheep.

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