MARIO CARASA
Mario Carasa was born in Havana Cuba and emigrated to the USA at 12. he is a Vietnam Veteran who served with the Marines in 1968 & 69; he earned three Purple hearts and a "lifetime of PTSD." He has been published in literary magazines off & on (whenever "me didnāt get in the way of me") over a period of 25 years, and has been featured by Performance Poets Association in New York. His full time job has been "to survive the peace, everything else has been temporary." He currently lives in Long Island.
ASSAULT
We await the sun and it's late,
weāll greet him through a chopper's
un-glassed window
and feel his tracers of light
seek and find
every past hole in the chopper's life.
We have Korean hounds
in the lead, and they howl;
not fed in days.
They'll live up to themselves
and uproot
the ground itself at the scent
of a bird's blood.
Black mountains spread
their thighs guiding us in--
to a darkness the sun has not seen.
"Men are not mountains and will
meet again."
These mountains are but devil's nymphs;
menstruating at the sound
of rotating blades and hounds;
spreading wider
the scent of flowing nectar;
till the hounds cocks are erect
and their mouths
full of each other's blood close
in a final frenzy of embrace.
Korea's snow covered peaks
bid good morning
bid good morning
and who says,
"Mountains don't ever meet,"
when men act like hounds
and mountains flow red like nymphs.
SURVIVING THE PEACE
For thirty years I saved it,
that last shot,
the one that gets you
when the peace gets too heavy
or the war leaps out of the night.
My white bluish feet are tagged,
worn ragged from too many
trips into the past.
I have ridden the pale, powdery horse
through horror, bareback, earned my solace.
I am the waiting eyes of the fish
on a bed of ice,
fill my veins with formaldehyde,
retrace heroinās hoof marks through pain.
The cold feel of stainless steel
against my shoulder blades
welcomes the horse-less carriage.
WOUNDED PURPLE HEART
Purple medals from one flag
or another, are all alike;
golden trophies honoring
the most visible sacrifice
but the real ruin lies dormant
behind the human eye.
Sometimes when its damp
and old wounds are awakened
the coldest of images
strikes the human heart.