my uncle bernard was a ptsd vet from the vietnam war.
he was damaged from too much bloodshed, alot of substances and two crazy indian boys;
who were trapped in the city looking for a field to run or a wood to walk.
His voice all low and mean; with a sad look in his eye; like a one hundred yard stare;
his sperm all agent orange and what not;
maybe why my unknown brother has deformities and such;
like thalydamide and arsenic creating an aberration of flesh.
I sit in the driver side of my truck looking over at my little brother,
all fetal alcohol and dying, with a scar above his right eye from one to
many throws against the walls by uncle bernard
and the form it takes...like a petroglyph of a wawaskeshi
in mid leap; the reminder of uncles rage, a reminder of
uncles insecurity as a man etched in flesh and tissue;
and how my uncle died a prisoner of war...
a prisoner to his own fear and doubts about himself as a spiritual man;
a prisoner of being a slave to something he didn't understand when he was forced
to go....forced to be a killer or he himself go to juvenille home.
How it was so much easier to threaten and beat his brothers kids;
or beat his woman; my mother; by punching her in the mouth
till the blood and teeth come out of her mouth and on the floor
and sends us kids screaming to the next room...where we hide till he passes out...
or he gets sorry and takes us to buy candy; lemonheads at the store.
i remember too many times coming to visit in later years where he was all drunk up
and passed out on the toilet and me with my mairjuana buzz and long long hair would come and
pull him off the toilet to go to bed; mom having long given up on him; content to let him sleep on the john.
i remember looking at him with wonder and pity; wanting to know what it was that drove the man so deep inside the soldier;
like being a light that has been ON for so long he forgot how to turn OFF and just enjoy life.
and one day he got too hot...and...
mom said he stood up in the middle of the night and gave one big loud moan and collapsed in the bedroom...
a grand mall siezure and then an instant heart death....she tried to talk to him but he wasnt listening...then she yelled
at him to get up and he was not listening.
he was already doing what he done as a child so well...running...toward something new and free...
maybe his heart broke from trying too long to escape as a man...
instead of surrendering to his fear and being a child once again.
I talk to my brother now today; he has too much beer in his body
and he is crying, shaking, sleepy eyed and weak.
telling about the army and the psych hospitals; how he hears voices and wants to kill himself.
I say to him that the enemies that did this to you
are not here in this room and he opens his eyes a little wider;
he is cognizant for a minute;
and says "i need help...i cant stop my mind from thinking"
and then he goes away.
I look into his eyes and see my uncles hundred year stare again..
another victim of urbanization and militarization of the spirit...
and how that; coupled with fear and doubt
are the little killers that hold him (and others we know) prisoners of war.
my uncle was a ptsd vietnam vet. he has walked to the western door...and it is I who am still fighting the war.
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