on the eve of memorial day

dress blues.
fresh haircut.
scalp pale.
left hand holds a bottle of bud.
condensation beads large and circular on the bottle as the red/white/blue wraps around the distortion.
a folded flag.
tells me he's a sgt from new york.
slams down his bud. rips a burp.
buy him a shot of the cheapest shit in the bar.
jack.
tall.
shoots it. continues: a reservist, from a communications battalion (he dicked with radios),
on special assignment.
i look at his medals and ribbons.
maybe one row, i dont remember.
but no combat action ribbon.
a boot.
at least he ain't an officer.
so i buy him another shot.
gulp.
"this special assignment you're on, could you elaborate?" i say.
"dis flag," he says. "stood on da rooves of da twin towers."
"no fucking shit," i say.
"no fuggin' shit," he says.
we drink some more booze and i ask if i can touch the flag.
he lets me.
its a flag, alright.
folded tight. crisp edges. starched.
a funeral flag.
nothing profound really entered my head.
its a flag, alright.
i give him back the flag.
he passes it around the bar.
the dregs of society solemnly hand it to one another. set their drinks down.shut their mouths.
some half-assed bar song is playing but the bartender lowers the volume.
a neon coors light sign reflects on the flag as it passes from hand to hand.
the bar transforms.
was: shitty dive hole in san pedro, california.
is: contemporary place of worship.
a sacred relic of Americana has found its tabernacle.
so the sgt. bellies up to the bar, drunk as hell; oblivious to world around him and stares into the mirror.
one of those deep serious scary types of stares.
an intense summation of ones life; culled in the pit of a cheap gin joint.
walk up to him.
"you in the army, man?" i say.
he laughs, pulled back to reality.
fuck no, hes a marine. a badass motherfucking marine.
"what the difference between a soldier and a marine," i ask.
"about half a man," he says.
i laugh.
he laughs.
i buy another shot.
gulp.
proceeds to tell me how Jarheads were born in 1775.
tuns tavern.
honor, courage, commitment.
once a marine, always a marine.
the eagle, globe and anchor.
semper fi.
uncommon valor was common virtue.
etc, etc.
it was very funny.
i used to say those things. mostly at bars. or to broads. or old men.
but i leave the bar because the sgt. is getting a bit belligerent.
talking about ragheads and confirmed kills.
a life taker and heart breaker.
fucking tip of the spear, buddy.
i walk down the street, past the other bars; patrons stand outside and smoke.
a chunky mexican wears a pink mini-skirt, sucks at a cigarette.
blue smoke rise up, up into the darkness.
i walk more.
to the place where the ferry used to be.
years ago.
a big gun lays dormant there. filled with cement. a massive round sits adjacent to it.
an anti-aircraft gun. rusted. welded stiff. graffiti tagged on its base.
a cop drives by.
i wonder what he thinks.
but i keep walking.
fuck the cop.
to the water and its very quite.
fiddler crabs rest on rocks. their little mouth gyrating.
a coffee cup from 7/11 floats by.
a slight breeze wafts the ocean into my nose.
the moon is out.
i can see the longshoreman across the harbor unload a supertanker.
they move in slow motion.
silently.
bar people argue up the street.
the voices echo.
"fuck this..."
"fuck that..."
my hands hold tight the chain link fence.

the harbor is still.

the moon.

the men frozen on the docks.

the smell of the sea.

it is a beautiful night.

and i am still alive.