. . . and white guys, statistically

Yeah, been a few since I posted a poem on here. Well . . . I got distracted. Joined a couple of different poetry sites that "claimed" to be poet friendly and good with the feed back . . . that didn't work out for me. It's better for me and my writing that I just . . . write here and maybe concentrate on getting the book of poetry going. Here's my latest piece.

 . . . and white guys, statistically. 

I wonder about hate, why 

we hate so much.

I wonder about guns, why

Americans love guns so much.

During my time in service, back in Vietnam,

back when I was a white guy, I owned a gun.
But I never, shot anyone . . . that I’m aware of.

“Mass shooting is Whitey’s thing,

statistically speaking.” Some faceless
Facebook ghost posted that the other day
in response to the
Pittsburg synagogue shooting.


Statistics . . . hmm.
Statistics . . . come and go

like girls in summer clothes.
Like ice on a summer’s day.
Like flesh and blood

and bloodied fists
and Anthem singers
and hair trigger fingers.

“It’s Made by Mattel 

and it's swell!”

Gleefully our D.I. shouted while

holding a brand-new M-16 rifle
above his jar-headed, head.

And yes, it was lovely! Hard plastic,

black metal body, cold in

the hands, warm in the blood,

hold me close on a monsoon night,

sing to me in clipped chirps and spittle
and I’ll lick your body clean

with a 100% cotton cloth,

washout your O shaped dirty mouth
and rusted throat with Hoppe's No. 9.

For the duration of my war career, my

M-16 hung on a beam inside the mess tent

where I cooked Shit on a Shingle and

grits for grunts, and officers and office
pogues. I never shot it once, not once.
Woodie 11-o1-18