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13 Weeks Can Be Unlucky

Updated on May 15, 2022
MFB III profile image

Artist, actor, poet, teacher, songwriter & actor with 4,000 poems & almost 1,000 songs written, performed recorded & published on line.

Just doing a sacred duty

13 Weeks Can Be Unlucky.

I dismember
boot camp often, 

when that sweet,
oyster rot, swamp smell

native only to Parris Island,
comes back to haunt me.

I sometimes hash
over the marks it left in my life,
both the good and the bad.

Driven in a Trailways bus
full of the odors of bologna and B.O.

in the wee hours of mourn,
then harrassed from our cramped 

upright sleeping racks,
by a trio of screaming banshees

in campaign hats, stampeding us out.

I was the *"shitfuck numbnuts"
*(direct quote by the way) 

who thought it would be O.K.
to take a drink from the
water cooled scuttlebut,

I payed for those three sips
with a clout across my stupid head,

plus I had stand at attention
for my major fucking malfunction 

and do fifty pushups everytime
the N.C.O.'s took a drink.

I never saw so many
parched instructors,
slipping me an evil grin 

as they slurped away,
and I hit the deck
for some more pain.

I was also a skinny body,
always given double portions of chow, 

and pretty much forced to eat it,

I remember eating the food
in four squared motions,
plate, to front of face,
front of face, to mouth,
mouth to front of face,
and back to the plate,
at all times.

Then they ran all the calories
off of me in three mile, full gear 

double time marches.
But I did like the drills 

in the early light

of dawn with the sing song,
chanted cadence of the D.I's
voice blending with

the scritch scratch,
left right shuffle of
hundreds of boots
all snapping together.

I can still hear his bass rumble
soulfully singing out,

"Eeeee, low rot letch,
rot cho letch

rot letch, right cho letch……."

I recall one sad recruit
who had the letters -F- U- C- K- 

tattooed on his right hand fingers,

Every time he saluted an officer,
he pissed them off,

He spent 39 weeks in boot camp
before he finally got out.

Worse thing they ever called me
was an illiterate scrotum,

That was a low blow,
as if it wasn't bad enough
to be a scrotum....but illiterate!

We had a kid die
on the rifle range, 

funny how you remember his face,
but not his name 

He was positioned at 200 yards,
that shot came from 500, 

hit him square in the back
while he was qualifying 

with an M-14 rifle.

The grass around him
was a scarlet mess

but whoever killed him
didn’t miss, and was never caught.

Then there were
the gooney birds,
Laughing at us in formations 

Outside the Quonset hut
during inspections.

"Weh -eh, Weh- eh, We- eh,"

One of them crapped on
my utility cap when the lieutenant
was two men away.

He eyeballed me and smirked
as that bird doo-doo ran down 

my cheek, into my lips and
under my chin, but I never flinched.

There are worse things to digest,
if you make any
unnecessary motion in combat.

I don’t see many of the guys
from boot, a lot of them died

claiming land we gave back,
But then came back
and claimed it again. 

But I think of them when
the August sun melts
sweat down my back,

and when the flag on my pole
in my yard flaps hard
in the wind like the colors

used to snap for platoon 237.

Fireworks make me melancholy,
so many look like tracer 

bullets going up.

And I still get an itch to
click some dope then figure
the elevation and wind

on a long shot I would love to take.

One hollow point gut buster
fired with glee into
the tiny balls of 
Monsters like Putin

and one more into his
garbage trap mouth thereby
ending any further offspring
or mocking of our nation.

Should send a Marine
sniper to take him out,
with no warning,
No asking the U.N.’s
frickin permission,

Just a clean, quick shot,
then maybe there wouldn’t be
invasions of independent countries

for a long time to come.

Just one dead scum
sucking maggot

Who got Semper Fried!

© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III


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