From Klail City to Korea With Love
Rolando Hinojosa
The Evening Shift
(Move On)
When the firing stops, and the noise dies
on the last click
of the high trajectory gun,
we sit exhausted and high-strung
as unsatisfied bitches in Death Valley heat.
A fly zooms by, little knowing it risks its life
while it seeks the salty sweet sweat produced by work and hot steel.
Itâs been a long fire;
we neither see nor hear whatâs before us:
we merely lower the sights or raise them;
fire long or short; short and then long;
and then,
success! Got ourselves a bracket, we have.
And theyâre catching hell, they are . . .
We seldom see them now,
but we know they are there, and when they fire
sometimes they kill some of us.
It evens out. It all comes out in the wash,
as they say.
Two more cigarettes and then itâs:
     âPolice the area, boys;
     letâs keep our house and home neat as a firing pin.â
The fly calls in some support, but itâs too late;
the troops have settled down after someone passes the beer around.
And now, those flies havenât got a chance;
the betting is on to see who kills the most.
Clean up time. The brushes are worked
back and forth, the rags are introduced and rubbed
until the barrels gleam. The guns are really cleaned for luck, you know.
A just in case-maybe-perhaps
thereâll be no more firing until late tonight or
with any luck
tomorrow.
A Sheaf of Percussion Fire
(Move On)
Death is alive and well in our zone;
older, somewhat tired, yet up and around.
Early this morning, we opened up on Them;
tit for tat, then,
They opened up on Us, and there was Death,
out of breath,
trying to keep the count. Death is badly in need of assistants,
but the young and able are busy for the moment.
So, resourceful Death makes do
with a Burroughs for Us and an Abacus for Them.
No matter; itâs totting the numbers right what counts
at this stage of affairs,
and Death is having one hell of a time:
âYouâve no idea what Iâve been going through with these children;
I mean, itâs enough to make you cry;
hear them? Theyâve been at it all day and half the night.
And itâs all I can do to keep up.â
Eating on the run,
twice chowtimeâs come and gone,
and weâre still at it;
pieces laid and relaid, sensings made and changed,
lanyards pulled and the breechblocks clicking
home towards the targets
of opportunity.
Thereâs some smoking white phosphorous.
Who the hellâs firing that?
Alibi! Alibi! The gunners laugh;
the cooks and clerks are passing the ammo,
and they donât know H.E. from shit . . .
Death knows,
but did your mother,
that sharp from Heavy Explosive, at the instant of burst,
leaves the case at an increased velocity
(and correct me if Iâm wrong)
of approximately 200 feet per sec?
And that if the One Gun doesnât get you,
the Two Gun will?
Weâre really laying it on now,
and Death, dragging ass,
is being pushed to the limit.
Itâs so unfair.
These poems belong to the title From Klail City to Korea with Love (Arte PĂșblico, 2017)
Posted: August 10, 2017 at 9:00 pm
