Robot.

He said that he remembered everything,

the mass of Terra-firma disappearing,

how quickly he failed to fully recognize,

the shores of home under darkening skies,

he said he went yonder and fought for his life,

and the lives of his people and his people’s allies,

he said he never knew what happened to them,

he came home to a family who had disowned him,

people that he loved looked down on where he’d been,

that was his first lesson as a returning veteran,

His heart seems to have always revolved around one thing,

he always had the goal of growing up to be a Marine,

he learned to do things early on that grown men still can’t do,

and he used those skills in the pits of Hell as he rolled through,

it’s no wonder he went back again to the same chaotic war,

the structured life of ‘do or die’ made sense just like before,

the structured life of Semper Fi was back where he’d been hit,

he saw no point in staying where his needs where never met,

I begged and cried when he said goodbye for the second time,

certain that his injuries had somehow warped his mind,

but he knew what he wanted so there was no argument,

one more time, after this time, did he volunteer deployment,

the military made a robot of my childhood sweetheart,

he’d go back even now, somehow, and it breaks my fucking heart.

Not In My Kitchen.

It’s hard to try to summarize, but in short – here it is: my roommates are each intelligent and dependable in his own right; they are unique in unique ways that are too minutely attached to the tiny details of one’s persona to ever take an accurate stock of.

In one of them (“Dice”), I can have complete faith regarding the maintenance of my car, for example; this same roommate would also be the one I would turn to with a jammed rifle, any kind of measurement, centralized heating and cooling issues, and/or the use or instructions for use of any power tool imaginable; I trust this roommate much more so than I trust 9 out of 10 human beings on a very generalized basis because of the years’ worth of water under our bridge as friends without any drama or bullshit at all; he is a kind person with a good heart, in spite of himself; his is also the sole hand that touches the BBQ grill in my household. We share things like The Walking Dead, LOTR, reggae music, good weed and being recluse in common. This roommate is Persian (Iranian) by blood, born in the US to parents who emigrated here during the 1960’s.

The other roommate (“The Orphan”) is the one who I can query at random with a wide ranging interrogative and receive generally sound answers from; he was also my sky-diving instructor, so there’s a very weird kind of trust between this roommate and myself despite our sometimes volatile relationship; he is a surf buddy, a swim buddy and as some of you may remember – got here as my adopted orphan, who was a suicidal train wreck on the other side of the globe when we first became friends. He has been here over 2 years now, has healed his spirit well, got his citizenship, has a good job and a cute little girlfriend; and is doing shiningly in comparison to what he once was. He is also a former French Military Special Forces Paratrooper who has an uncanny comprehension of all things tactical and military. We share things like the Unsecret Death Wish, the ocean, raunchy jokes and coffee in common.This roommate is Corsican by blood (which is French by nationality), raised in Germany, and is a French National with German and American citizenship.

The three of us can happily sit around our kitchen table at a meal and discuss pretty much anything in an amiable, if not jovial, manner. Typically, this is the case. Tonight, things became heated between them during a (take a guess) political disagreement. I came out into the kitchen and said,

“C’mon you guys…really, you’re gonna let Trump or whoever ruin our BBQ?” in a joking tone to lighten the tension (because that’s who I am, the peacemaker), only to find out that they were bumping heads about the tragedy in France.

It was pretty disturbing to me, as I proceeded to listen to the Orphan vehemently arguing his point to Dice with true passion; such a final and decisive reaction he is having that he feels as if it has come to the point where mass preemptive murders via the military would be the only answer. To hear the guy whose military experience has unfailingly spoken truths upon truths thus far say such a thing was deeply unsettling; and left a nasty taste in my mouth.

In The Wind.

I just can’t seem to comprehend,

the hatred defined by this downtrend ,

I know that politics and religiousness,

frivolous with human facetiousness,

leave me spinning,

my heart hurting,

aching to protect the innocent,

wanting to stand up and deal with it;

with not a single target to shoot at,

besides what’s blowing in the wind,

we are not acceptable,

as things that harbor self-control,

when we murder babes,

and the elderly souls,

there’s not a reason anyone can give,

it isn’t meant to be like this,

them against us – no,

us against them – no,

we’ve each been given the green light,

we’re each just trying to live,

keep your laws,

keep your Gods,

all your sectors and squads,

what’s so good about any of it,

weighted down with blood,

of babies, and more babies,

we should all be ashamed,

and let our heads hang,

words can’t even begin,

to make use of such names.

 

 

Hangman’s Blood.

He sat, legs out-stretched;
his drink, known as Hangman’s Blood…
he wore exhaustion…

“I’m a Jar-head, Babycakes…”
blue diamond eyes, a match strikes;
“Of course I still smoke…”

sports bright twinkly stars,
eyes: adorned by shrapnel scars…
lives for deployment…

he carries no clue;
beyond decorative brass…
of how deeply he is adored…

A career Sand-Tank Gunner;
my first Love, look at you now…
I still see so much fire in you.

Hangman’s Blood.

He sat, legs out-stretched;
his drink, known as Hangman’s Blood…
he wore exhaustion…

“I’m a Jarhead, Babe…”
blue diamond eyes, a match strikes;
“Of course I still smoke…”

sports bright twinkly stars,
eyes: adorned by shrapnel scars…
lives for deployment…

he carries no clue;
beyond decorative brass…
that he is adored…

A career Tank-Gun;
my first Love, look at you now…
I see fire in you.

Winner Takes History.

It was in the flash of a light,
in the blink of one eye,
in the crash of a thunderous wave,
by the shoreline’s firelight,
in the midst of the telling,
of a horribly painful lie,
with the ease of the sun’s,
rising once again, bright –
that I found myself wondering,
amidst the lows and the highs,
there I be: ever-questioning
and inquiring as to the solidity,
of the truth behind the truest things –
the tales of many kings and queens,
in rule over this primordial life,
who was wrong or right?
which was the winner,
of which meaningless fight?
a winner doesn’t choose,
who was wrong or right –
the winner tells the story,
of the loser that’s left behind,
and so – history is told,
letters – big and bold,
no matter, the accuracy involved,
just another perk for those,
left standing on their toes.

No Pockets.

Loose! – – –
the arrows fly,
there is no escaping –
this aim of mine;
I’ve practiced for centuries,
amidst many miserable lives,
there is no escaping –
the poison I’ve bled
into these darts that I let fly;
they say that our last garment –
is sewn pocketless,
I noticed no pockets,
forged in the design –
of your chosen, slutty dress;
and all that shitjob poser,
pucker, picturesque,
glam/geek this week –
photo-shopped, clipped
and chopped to death;
but see – none of that,
changes the sobering fact,
that you have already slipped –
and there’s no coming back;
yes girl, indeed,
you have your abilities,
to pretend to mend the broken,
and then leave them –
begging on their knees,
but I have my own charms –
tucked beneath either arm,
that easily outdo your own –
be smart,
don’t start –
tuck your tail
and get on home;
you don’t want,
to cross this stream,
and if you do,
then you’re full crazy –
it’s best you look,
a little more closely,
at all the things,
you know of me,
at the things that you –
want to steal from me.

Spiders and Snipers

Image

(Original Photo by Americana Injustica, 2005)

 

I do not know which way to go,
the signs all look the same;
There is no predefined – start or finish line,
no daybreak to the night.
 
I cannot figure my own grip on the trigger,
wrapped tightly into a metallic weave.
It’s hard to define which pieces are mine,
and when I can, I choose not to perceive.
 
Sniper’s spiders scatter like exploding dark matter,
upon the highest points, looking down at me;
My heart beats like a drum into dead woman’s hum,
and then darkness falls all around me.