I didn’t read Here, Bullet.
I saw the movie.
I waited at midnight for choppers.
— I patrolled the dusty street
in an iron coffin
ready-made.
As it closed
I felt the pressure
— push my ear drums in.
I bought the movie soundtrack —
— the single bass drum strike
of a rocket,
staccato roll of a SAW,
— snare of approaching Chinooks.
I pined for the poster
— screwed behind a cracked sheet of Plexiglas
outside the boarded theater.
I spied the decapitated tanks
hauled by the lowboys
— pass through the camp
under cover of darkness.
— I remember detainees
sitting all night
by the Humvees
zip tied at the wrists.
— A combat bandage served as a blind.
— And when we were done
we packed up our toys
and went home.
— I lounged in the APOD,
listened to my IPOD.
I flipped up a screen,
whipped out a movie.
— I saw that movie.
I read the book.