i knew joan baez

i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,

no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one.



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My Girls

My girls,
those looks
beyond me.
A single
click
shudder.
A single
day
of three-hundred-and-sixty-five
in country
minus
a
seven-day
drop.
My girls,
those looks
beyond me.
Don’t explain.
Don’t describe.
Don’t forget
ever so
slight
sweet
smiles -
My girls.

Search and destroy

The bubble burst
through
patchy
puffs
of blue white
blue.
Below
soldiers,
look
over
their shoulders,
“33” rangers, Vietnamese
like the beer
and a few boys from Latrobe,
Pennsylvania forward observers
to call in fire
on
a
prick
29.
Two companies
search and destroy
pastel paddies.
Me and
my
Pentax
locked and loaded
in plastic with a spare 35
fatigue pockets
stuffed with reporter’s
notebooks.
Look over their shoulders,
soldiers,
blade
blows
long tall reeds.
They look over
their shoulders
soldiers,
“33” rangers
like the beer
with a few boys from Latrobe.

Landing, on a narrow dyke
nearly headfirst
stuck in the mud bottom rice
paddies
planted
from above 50 feet

Search and destroy.
firefight
pinned down
second company
big
woooosh
by.

“33” rangers and those boys from
Pennsylvania
gave me
a captured flag
split
soiled
yellow
star over
faded blue and orange bars.
“Texas?”
“No,
TET.”

Search and destroy,
VC flag,
pastel paddies
“33” rangers,
beer,
boys
from
Pennsylvania.
all
blood stained in the middle.





In 1967 and 1968, at the height of the Vietnam War, Mike Marcellino, while serving as a U. S. Army correspondent and photojournalist, took personal pictures of soldiers and civilians, especially children, caught in war. During mortar and rocket attacks, he would write stuff (aka poems) under a blanket by flashlight on a bunk inside a bunker. One such poem is “Lieu.”

The three photographs in Outsider Writers are among seven hand printed, museum quality mounted and framed in 1995.

This series was exhibited at Grays Armory in Cleveland, along with 100 photos taken by GIs, part of the collection of the National Vietnam Veterans Art Museum in Chicago. Fellow Vietnam veteran and friend, Leon Bibb, a television newsman, read his war poems at the opening. The next year for other exhibits, Marcellino had a second series of seven Vietnam images made as indigo water color prints.

At that time, Marcellino wrote:

“The pictures you see speak for themselves.

They are personal, yet universal.
The people in these pictures are, for me,
unforgettable.
They are beautiful
and courageous.
I remember them always for their amazing resilience and
immeasurable sacrifice.
I always think of their loss, but, in reality, even without these pictures, I would never forget the people on those negatives.”

After the war, Marcellino worked as a newspaper reporter for 15 years, winning national awards for investigative and community service journalism. Later, he served as an aide to Ohio Congressman Louis Stokes and held senior positions, including press secretary, with the administration of Cleveland Mayor Michael R. White. He currently works as a free-lance writer and consultant, but devotes much of his time to personal writing, photography and a couple of book projects.

Marcellino is executive editor of The Cleveland Reader, a journal of literature, print graphics, photography and the arts. www.myspace.com/theclevelandreader

You can find out about Mike and read and see his work at myspace.com/bondisurf68.

You may email him at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it . Yes, Mike surfs.

Lieu

In the silly beginning and the careless ending, lizards hung to the dim lit wall. Before he deserted, Thomas and I fucked around with her at a wartime country club, Sherwood Forest. She was our friend, the prostitute, smiling at us over “33” beer, fries and a now-and-then Saigon tea.

All of which put me back seated on a sputtering Honda 90 humanly propelled by a Papa San pimp through hit and miss - any forward motion thing, like foot, leg, peddle powering traffic in Saigon streets’ neon darkness of curfew.

At the Tahiti, a 20th Century brick-fronted, same on the inside as the rest, hotel, Thomas worried, tripping, while in the night outside I shivered, not really, but inside outside a perfect night for baseball.

Lieu, the first time I dug her and giving store bought. Her scrolling on a crumpled piece of paper, brown - "164 ½" some street. Self conscious naked legs gave me away in winding back alleys. My legs leading me to anyway and Ma- Muc, chew in mouth bulging with vegetable or other she crushed by a curious tiny ceramic set, stained old blood red.

She felt of my hairy legs, the rotten-toothed withered lady, Lieu’s mother, as I waited, watching lizards on walls from seated on the bed dining table. Coming, she was happy and made me eat while gobbling hers, Lieu, while Ma-Muc still grabbing hairs and giggling.

My first joy of waiting it seemed a simple thing now so tense and exciting. She made up showering from body tall vases on the grey pavement floor in a little back corner where I pissed.

The morning after love: It was more than my surfer t-shirt worn by her as a mini. She laughed and cried and gave really. And I kept saying I’d give her a can of spray to kill the bugs in her patchwork house.

Maybe she loves someone tonight with her oily face draped by straight black hair.

Not a fair maiden, but no whore.

Last update : 14-09-2007 16:26

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