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.



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.



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.



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.

Volume 8 Index