Nighttime, nighttime, what’s going on? he says
what’s going on, this vast convulsive snake, this
lilac panther with lilac flesh,
                the night, this factory
in the belly of the forest, in the valley
under sheets of mud, sheets of acetylene, the dawn,
the clock, dawn’s clock, beating, pounding,
broken, tangled in hair, in dead muscles, in putrescence
the crushed mouth no longer says the word “hope”,
                pounding . . .
Man, morning has it rough in Thun Thien.
                But morning always comes.

What’s happening in Hue? in Da Nang?
What’s going on in the
                Mekon Delta? I’m asking you,
this April morning in Rio de Janeiro,
                I’m asking you,
what’s happening in Vietnam?

Water’s exploding like a grenade, paddies
burn with phosphorus and blood
                between gunshots
                             and kids
run from gardens where lilies beat
like time bombs, jasmine trees
emit gasses, spring’s
                crippled
                machine
                can’t even manage
                a smile.

Too many dead in Moc Hoa.
                Too many dead
in the rice paddies, in the pines,
by the road to Camau.

Now Vietnam is a vast deathmill,
                in the fields of death the motor
                of life turns the other way, not
                to generate the color of your iris,
                the reach of your flesh, it’s turning
the wrong way, to dismantle life, the marvellous apparatus
                of the body, it turns
                against the constellations, against life
                the other way, inside
                blouses, inside trousers, inside
rough shoes made of canvas and straw, life turns
the other way and is made death.
                                                                 Deaf
                                                system of alcohol, turn,
                                                turn, rub out faces, hands,
                                                that young hand
                that knew how to grow rice and weave straw. Too many
                                dead, too
                                many dead
                                                childlike things, mint, the shocks
                                of love, that afternoon that bright afternoon, my love,
                                that bright afternoon         everything
                                                everything dissolves in brown water
                                and through waterlillies and sludge
                                the current plods to the sea the sea the blue sea

Right now it’s daytime in Rio.
Men with briefcases, blazers, clean shirts
are going off to work.
Women come back from market with bags full of produce.
Kids pass by on their way to school.
The clouds are clouding
and the water pounds naturally all along the shore.
No threat weighs the city down.
                                                        People
make dates, go to movies, nightclubs, make love
                                                        on the beaches,
in bed
in cars. People
do business, plan trips, vacations.
                No threat
weighs the city down.
Noises and whistles and thuds
are decoded without alarm. That plane in the sky
                is just going to São Paulo.
That plane in the sky isn’t a USAF Thunderchief
that comes bringing death
                like in Hanoi.
It’s not a USAF Thunderchief
followed by others
                and others
                from the USAF
carrying bombs and rockets
                like in Hanoi
that come dropping bombs and shooting missiles
                like in Hanoi
                like in Haiphong
burning the port
wrecking power plants
and railways
                like in Hanoi
                like in Hoa Bac
burning kids with napalm
                like in Hanoi
                like in Chien Tien
                like in Don Hoi
                like in Tai Minh
                like in Vin Than
                like in Hanoi
How can a city, how can
                a city
                          resist

The Americans are attacking all the time now in Vietnam
                Now Vietnam swims
                through gold fire and
                air bases and
                arsenals and
                ammo dumps and labs in the
                rocks and
                radar and
                rockets
Electronics invade the forest
                new gasses, new weapons
                Lazy-dog throws
a thousand steel splinters everywhere
                Bull-pup
finds its target with 200 kilos of explosive
                the eye of the snake
settles on a house and waits for the killing time
Now Vietnam’s full of barbed wire
                and blonde men who are
                barbed
                armed
                guarded
                surrounded
                frightened
it’s full of blonde young men
and young corpses
                of blonde men
                who have been
                fooled

Near the base at Da Nang
                that hears and sees all,
                near the base at Da Nang, a man
                slips through the trees
                near the base full of soldiers,
                full of machine guns, bombs,
                airplanes, full of electric
                eyes and ears, a man named Tram
moves through the leaves and trunks that smell at night,
moves carefully
                through the leaves of night, Tram Van Dam
                moves carefully
                through the flowers of death
                Tran Van Dam
                fifteen years old moves
                through the waters of night
                in the mud
                where dawn pounds down
                Tran Van Dam
                where dawn pounds down
                Tran Van Dam
                with his grenade
                through all the coiled wire
                through all the land mines
                Tran Van Dam
                with his heart
                Tran Van Dam
                where dawn pounds down
                for you and for me
                under enemy fire
                with a pin in his teeth
                and his throwing arm
                for you and for me
                Tran Van Dam
                where dawn pounds down
                for you and for me
                in Vietnam


Rio, 5.14.67