I’ll be thinking of my friend Jack this coming week in Elko, Nevada, one of the first hands I shook at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in 1989, as we waited to get our schedule of sessions, poetry and song. I had to introduce myself, having watched him perform at the Ashgrove many times in the late 60s. Our direct link to Woody Guthrie and the pure heart of the working man, he’s been magically expressing himself on stage for over 60 years.
courtesy Claire Palmer Photography
breaking chains by Rod McQueary
for Bill Jones, and the others.
I run, hide, backtrack, but—
They know all my tricks.
They find me, eventually,
and beat me, and haul me
to some clearing
in the jungle.
There are a dozen or so, about a squad.
With broken teeth, and battered eyes,
I can hardly tell
what they tied me to,
but I know what’s next.
It’s a dream Sauvagio said he found…
One night, while drunk, he told me—
What they did to the two GIs
one white, one black, they caught
(too bad, I think, to tell here).
Sauvagio found ‘em.
They cut ‘em down,
cut the stitches in their lips,
put back the body parts traded,
started trying to forget.
Sauvagio—
mentioned it
Once.
This dream, they chuckle,
take their time, joke with each other,
show me the knife, and laugh
this dream. I mean to show ‘em
I’m no goddamn girl,
I’m no goddamn kid anymore
for the Corps, for my Country,
for my family.
I’m 2612933
and I pray
God, ogod, ogod
let me die now.
Jesus, it hurts
don’t let ‘em see.
Please,
don’t let ‘em see
I’m weeping.
Covered with sweat, panting
shaking with fear, and fatigue
I wake again, exhausted.
Last night, April 25, 1991
they came again.
It’s not good jungle.
It’s not very hot, but—
it’s the same squad.
I know them all.
I am astounded to see I’m holding
a 60. I don’t want a 60, it’s heavy,
it’s slow,
no extra barrel,
no glove,
the link belt is too short for this work.
I get a 16 50 shot banana.
I like a 16,
they don’t kick, just sort of flinch,
spit fire fling copper,
jitter left from the ejector throwing cases right.
The tall one is close, smiling,
shows me his knife again.
I pop him, tentative-like to see what he’ll do.
One neat little 5.56 hole between his eyebrows.
His hat flies off,
his skull blows up,
(Who you gonna crucify now, asshole?).
He falls down dead.
I shoot them all.
Last one runs
I’m calm now, doing business,
shooting good now.
I let him run a ways, then shoot him
in the butt to knock him down
just because I can, and
‘cause I got a few things to tell this bastard.
For Con, whose dreams are green
and stink
and are so evil
his mind won’t record them.
I going to tell this bastard
for Bill, for Joe, and the others
who NEED so bad to let it go, and can’t,
for our families, who tryandtryandtry
to understand, and can’t.
I’m going to tell this bastard
for poor Artie and the second 58
who folded
early
whose names are on no Black Wall List
…anywhere.
I’m going to tell this bastard
for all the wives and parents, who sent
men
and got animals back
and for them who will neverNeverNEVER
see justice in this world.
I’m going to tell this bastard,
M-16 barrel jammed up his goddamn
nose,
I’m going to tell this bastard
…Joke’s over.
© 1993 Rod McQueary
BLOOD TRAILS
Dry Crik Press
FIVE DAYS HOME by Bill Jones
My father and I
Sit in the shade
Of a chinaberry tree
Talk softly of the last good war.
A time of ration cards
And Gold Star Mothers.
“A uniform meant free drinks
And a lot more,”
My father says.
“But they kept me training pilots
Stateside…
And wouldn’t let me go.”
In the lower pasture
A phantom chopper whines
Rotors thrash hot wind
As it wobbles upward
With another half-dead cargo.
I blink the image away
“I won’t ask if you killed anyone.”
My father says,
“Because I don’t want to know.”
Just as well, I think angrily,
My personal count is a little hazy.
Like the pregnant woman at Gio Linh
(She never should have run)
Zapped by a battery of howitzers
Raising puzzling questions.
How do I mark her?
One and a half? Two?
“Drop 100 meters,” I whisper.
“Fire for effect.”
“Roger that,” the RTO replies.
Arm in arm
My father and I
Walk awkwardly toward supper
And the 6 O’clock news.
The chopper drones
Tilts plexiglass nose
To a hospital ship.
The woman at Gio Linh
Seeing her chance
Dashes like a sprinter
Legs pumping furiously
For a stand of scrub oaks
Behind the barn.
“It’s a shame,” my father says
Climbing the back steps,
“You didn’t get to serve
In a real
War.”
© 1993 Bill Jones
BLOOD TRAILS
Dry Crik Press
lander evening by Rod McQueary
from Gloria
Bill used to mention
Vietnam sometimes—
Snippets of story
I heard but never
felt.
He might have been describing Mars or
Disneyland
It was an untouchable
Part of his past.
Last October
Our pastor told the Bishop
About Bill’s poetry.
While he was here, he
dropped by.
Bill did his funny ones
Two or three
And mentioned in passing
He had written some
Serious Poems
About his war.
The Bishop asked to hear one, so
Bill went away and came
Back with
“Body Burning Detail”,
Halfway through it
He broke down.
I just remember him
Sitting there
Shaking,
His agony
His anguish
Pouring down his face
And suddenly
For me
It was real.
I could feel
with my heart
and soul
What he could never
Describe.
I think
I began to
Understand.
from the Bishop
I have a natural connection
With Bill
My Great-Aunt was born
near the ranch where
He works.
I like cowboys
Love Poetry,
enjoyed his story
about coming to Lander
to Recover.
He recited some funny poems,
We laughed and laughed.
It’s all great.
Then Bill said
There is something I’ve never
Read before. I wonder
if it would be all right.
He took it out
began to read.
It became quiet
By the time he had to stop
We all were weeping.
When it was over
We sat and talked
and prayed.
I have used Bill’s poem
Several times
Since then,
and I carry it with me.
from Bill
I almost couldn’t get through
“Body Burning Detail.”
I tried
But I couldn’t
Speak.
The Bishop said
I’m so sorry
so sorry,
You don’t have to
finish it
and I said
Yes I do
Yes
I do
© 1993 Rod McQueary
BLOOD TRAILS
Dry Crik Press
THE BODY BURNING DETAIL by Bill Jones
Three soldiers from the North
Burned for reasons
Of sanitation.
Arms shrunk to seal flippers
Charred buttocks thrust skyward
They burned for five days.
It was hard to swallow
Difficult to eat
With the sweet smoke of seared
Flesh, like fog,
Everywhere.
Twenty-five years later
They burn still.
Across seas of time
The faint unwelcome odor
Rises in odd places.
With a load of leaves
At the city dump
A floating wisp of smoke
From the burning soldiers
Mingles with the stench
Of household garbage.
Once, while watching young boys
Kick a soccer ball,
The Death Smell filled my lungs.
As I ran, choking
Panic unfolded
Fluttering wings
Of fear and remorse.
A narrow escape.
A letter, snatched from the flames
The day we burned them
Is hidden away
In a shoebox
With gag birthday cards,
Buttons, string, rubber bands.
A letter from home?
The Oriental words,
Delicately formed,
Are still a mystery.
© 1993 Bill Jones
BLOOD TRAILS
Dry Crik Press
Rod McQueary: A Cowboy Poet Remembered
It tried to rain. We grinned with glee last evening as it played upon the metal roof and dotted the deck—like kids, we grabbed our drinks to stand out in it: an immeasurable amount. Ever optimistic, Robbin suggested I free the dead bees trapped in the rain gauge. Though not enough moisture to settle the dust or change the smell of things, it was trying—it hadn’t forgotten how.
Waiting to hear the latest weather report, we’re exposed, like everyone else, to the news, mostly bad news and extremely bad weather other places like the devastating blizzard in South Dakota that killed over 20,000 head of cattle last October. Or the 2011 Texas Drought that cut the state’s numbers by 600,000 head. By comparison, we’re doing fine despite the dusty poems and photographs within this blog.
As a result of our reduced numbers, warmer weather and more alfalfa hay, the cattle seem to be doing fine as well. We know that our calves will be lighter this spring, and not as many cows will breed back to calve next September. We also know that selling cows to buy more hay is not a sustainable business model, but for the moment, most of our cows are OK.
We’ll miss our friends and extended family at the 30th National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko that begins next week. NCPG We so wanted to listen to Temple Grandin deliver the keynote speech on Thursday, January 30th. More than any other individual, Temple Grandin has beneficially influenced the handling of cattle in the United States and around the world. Her methods are humane, proven and profitable. The keynote should be uploaded to the website and YouTube by Thursday afternoon.
Or if we’re busy feeding at the time, other performances are always available at the NCPG’s Broadcast. Also available at the Gathering, thanks to the valiant efforts of documentary filmmaker Paul Moon, is my audio CD in absentia, ‘Streams of Thought’. Dry Crik Press
So all in all, we’re doing fine.
Posted in Photographs
Tagged 'Streams of Thought', National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, Temple Grandin
‘Elko once again a factor in presidential election’
Robbin and I are finally home from Elko, taking the two-day, long way across the Great Basin to reflect and recuperate from too much fun with old and new friends – the special reunion that the Gathering has become beneath the multifaceted offerings on its many venues. When I first arrived in 1989, it was pretty much traditional recitations with very little contemporary expression – half-dozen books for sale – but there was an amazing ‘lost and found’ camaraderie that inspired us all and sparked similar gatherings all around a disjointed, cowboy West of those days.
Mediums of contemporary expression are as varied as technology will allow today, going well-beyond its poetic beginnings, an explosion of all kinds of art, music and video as Cowboy Poetry has evolved, trying, I think, to offer and reaffirm an ethic common to us all, apart from the uneasy business of media hysterics. Breakfast with the Hungarians Monday morning, before the Gathering got into full swing, confirmed to us that this ethic is not limited to the American West, or to the U.S., as we discussed the details of annual and perennial grasses via Agnes Kemecsei, the translator. Jammed around a table in a corner of the Stockman’s coffee shop, the air was thick – and I was reminded of that camaraderie back in 1989, that shared feeling of finding others whose livelihoods depended on grass, who also took care of livestock. It was a wonderful beginning to the Gathering for us.
The rest is, of course, a blur with too little sleep – serendipitous highlights and diversions – ample inspiration for another year to be sure.
Posted in Photographs
Tagged Elko, National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, NCPG, Western Folklife Center
drycrikjournal 