Ego

Moments...
They define life
while experience serves but to dilute it.

The beauty of experience is fear,
a state of life
lost in content.

There certainly is emotion in forgetting.

Life is the ultimate advocate of entropy,
questioning its existence
brings order to the devolved.

There is order in pain.

The spite of hate
exists to question
the privilege of living.

As if luck has anything to do with it!

We taste fear,
see life,
and listen for answers.

Our ears and eyes may deceive us,
but the palate preserves
the palatable.

I've asked for more
because it tastes so damned good,
chewing always though the burn.

It is a guttural understanding-
The one you don't dare allow influence
because you can't. Fucking. Describe. Taste.

The taste that can motivate you
is the same that can't
offer any relief.

It is, in fact, a thing.

Passion personified
is only an answer
to a question of passion.

And taste is but another question upon itself....

Pain, it is an answer:
the Real where ambiguity stays afraid and
ostracizes fate.

Ease is facilitated by the simple.
Hate actually lives there,
but no one has ever tasted hate.

We only hate to taste.

Introspection

Just how long do I have to suffer
through this pain in my neck
before I decide that I've
been hanging my head for too long?

I'm an unsuccessful success:
The tears of happiness taken out of context,
the euphoria from a guiltily bummed cigarette,
and the drug store, closing time wine, enjoyed because the presented glass can't explain
    that it was filled from a box.

I'm the song that you love but can't, for your life, name,
a good deal bought from the commissioned,
the inexplicable awe and elation from an echo,
and the trepidation from a long awaited text message response.

I am the finger removed from the trigger,
reluctantly replaced,
and removed again.
Still living...

I'm together the fear and optimism of the unknown,
the infatuated "I love you,"
and the redundant cliche.
I am this once empty page.

Block(ed)

This. Empty. Page:
A result of such conceded failure
where success would stoically prove otherwise,
having left no evidence at the seen.

Not everyone deserves to know
the realization of your story.
But everyone has indeed earned the opportunity
to make certain that it has been told.

Knowledge isn't in the knowing,
but in the learning.
Depravity is the everyday, unseen proof
that the story goes yet unwritten.

Justice is realized on the face of precedent,
hence: Injustice.
This, even though ignorance presents as the
byproduct of stories withheld.

Words are the fight,
the struggle,
the proof,
and the answer.

Even when the answer is wrong,
there is no question left
but for those that were aborted
before they have ever realized that they had lived.

Let me,
no, find me,
pray,
be write.

Relief

I'm starting to think that I may never know what right is.
In that, I find no solitude.
But I believe, too,
that such incognition
may be anything but mutually exclusive.

We all feel pain,
and mine is worse than yours by rite.
By writ!
A solace as undeserved as the breath yet laboring.
Exclusivity earned in spite of its understanding.

Why then do we suffer?
Sharing is the first of the facades that
we are taught.
Overcoming intrinsic greed is the fallacy of
our collective hope.

We give only but because we want.
Love is the most selfish of acts,
paradoxically selfless in the same.
Which is how I fear how I love without loving
and maybe why I hate how I love.

Why do the answers so often go unquestioned?
Rationalizations are subjective,
perchance.
And so we spitefully expire while hoping to inspire
when perhaps found is in the finding all along.

To earn without earning
and to deserve absent entitlement
mocks reality.
But to hurt?
Maybe that is to be.

And if so, that means that just maybe...
I've been the wrong right throughout.

Translucent

It's pretty easy to start to forget who you are when you've been reminded so often of who you're supposed to be.

Subjectivity is the robber in the night, taking always from the unaware.

Until you find it.

And then you fuck it up.

Or, hope to at least...

Get it before it gets you.

Hoping always that you find no fear in the moment. Yet, still failing.

Unless, maybe, you train for it?

Give up. It's a trade off. Some might say a sacrifice. But only such if what you give up is more than what you get in return.

A fallacy.

It's a selfish act.

It makes you feel good.

But, goddammit, how do you make them feel good if you can't enjoy it too?

Sometimes...

They are worth more than you.

Sometimes you are worth more than it all.

The hard part is the question.

I suppose that the hardest part is that you are never so far from dying then when you are ready to die.

Those moments are so few and far apart.

And always jealous of each other.

But the fear.
The fear...
It remains.

Fear is the greatest of emotions,
because it compounds the day.

It mocks the pain and forgives nothing.

The same nothing that is always Something.
The something you long to forget.
The something that you should.
The something that should be something.

We understand nothing because nothing needs no explanation!

But, fuck. It should.

Don't we deserve that? To stand up to fear?

We do. But not if we allow fear the power it so desperately desires.

Which I do on account of me.

Probably because I'm scared as fuck.

In which case...

I deserve it.

Chapter 1

1.

The callous opening of the certain to be creaking door forces my eyes open again as the indifferent light of midday pours over the makeshift plywood barrier that some would call a wall and into my escape known as a room. I quickly shut it out with lightly closed eyes while I blissfully remember that I will actually sleep today. The welcome effects of the Ambien would mute my racing mind shortly, and finally I would rest. It has been over three weeks since I was last able to experience what most would consider being sleep, having instead fought with my thoughts in place of the more definitive enemy with whom I toiled on my previous deployments.

Yes, I am at war again. Well, I’m in a war, but that’s not what I mean. The previous struggles with myself didn’t manifest during the two years that I had spent in Iraq, but at homes in Tennessee, Germany, California, and Texas. Here in Afghanistan though, on the eve of our withdrawal from the shadow of the Hindu Kush, everything seems to be a little bit…different.

I didn’t hear the door because the Jaybird earbuds that I rely on to try to consummate my disassociating illusion were attempting to lullaby me with Anna Nalick’s “Breathe,” compliments of Pandora through my phone and the nearly unjustifiably priced internet service that AAFES had so kindly monopolized for us. I say nearly because habit now fully dictates that internet is better than no internet. That and I don’t really have a CD player anymore.

The fact that I even have the ability to take advantage of such things is just one of the myriad of reasons why this time feels different. I refuse to allow myself to complain about it, if only because of the music. Sure, the ability to know what’s going on back home and to be able to talk to the family if I like is nice. But forgo the music? I’d surely be lost without it.

My thoughts had just started to coalesce around my worries as I noticed the warmth of the very capable sleep aid beginning to kick in. Not yet, I told myself. This is more important than the respite that I had been so desperately seeking out. Norah Jones' sultry sweetness wasn’t helping me in this endeavor so I begrudgingly removed my headphones, only to suddenly experience the cacophonous racket of the military vehicles crunching through the gravel as they meandered by the building. I imagined the Soldiers guiding each one by foot, and could even discern their footsteps from the heavy rolling wheels. Stop it. Focus before you fall asleep.

I fought my way back into the conversation I had with the Command Sergeant Major as he pecked around his rationale for removing me from my Company to instead work for him, mere weeks before we deployed. Sitting across from him was the youngest First Sergeant in the Brigade, still yet after having aged two years in the position. I managed the great responsibility as a rare non-promotable E-7, who over my tenure, had built the finest fighting force in the Command. I knew this even without relying on the reverence that pride demanded, but he admitted as much to me while proceeding to delicately crush my current reality. There was no arguing against it. His mind had been made up and I wouldn’t be deploying with my men. It didn’t make sense to me, and I told him so.

Reverting to my second Course of Action, I requested a release to accept the highly coveted billet I had been offered as the Senior Operations Sergeant for the Commandant of West Point, a position that my well networked Commander had negotiated for me to get in light of his current frustration with the circumstances of my surprise removal. The shrewd, wily CSM smiled as he paused before he looked me in the eye and told me what I didn't want to hear, even if it was to be expected. “Why would I agree to let someone of your caliber go right before we go to war? No, I need your brain here.” Performance punishment. I was surprised to notice his sure voice tapering off, catching him looking down and away from the particularly insensible stare forward of my clinched jaw. I had been defeated, and despite the glowing evaluation and sympathetic words from my most senior enlisted leader, I didn’t even know why.

Regardless of my present frustration, I respected the man. He had always appeared to me a realist; firm, and willing to compromise when practical. Every sentence I had shared with him reeked for the want of development. He was a true Soldier in that he always appeared to put the needs of his organization first, regardless of circumstances apparent demand to the contrary. His impersonality was enough to embody the intrinsic vision of the highest enlisted rank, but he always ended conversations with a conciliatory pat on the shoulder and a spry smile that assured you that he was supposed to be right. The smile in this moment was momentarily absent before he caught himself.

Drugged and indiscernible semantics circled about the coming ether for what may have been a few more minutes before I recalled my annoyance at having been relegated to asking for some placatory measures. He assured me that I would be slotted in a Master Sergeant position, continuing then to be rated as an E-8. It was my only win of the meeting. “You deserve as much for the fine work you’ve done for us, First Sergeant.”

He extended his arm for a handshake as he rose from behind his desk. I couldn’t help but think that this would be one of the last times that I would be regarded with the title. “Anything else for me,” he asked as I prepared myself to hide the disgust that I was feeling with such extant failure to achieve my objectives. Withholding all the things that I had actually wanted to say, I simply thanked him for the opportunity, managing somehow to keep the inherent sarcasm from escaping in tandem with the words.

I surrendered the fight in the office and behind my eyelids while effects from the chlorophyll moistened rag that was the Ambien finally succeeded in encompassing my mind, drawing me further into its dauntless darkness. I opened my eyes one more time only to see the old style pineapple grenade gimmick on the CSM’s desk enticing me to pull the pin if I had a complaint.

Ardor

We might be sometimes terrible at life

but goddamn do we know how to live

We love so hard it sometimes kills us

Fuck how it thrills us

Wants for the lust

to weigh on the cusp of fringe hate

For love in its time is unknown

but realized just enough

When the silent fear disappears 

in the explosions of our chosen reality it is not an accident

Your life means nothing now other than in might prevent

another's from being quit

Another story to tell by those who brew in the shit

But we only tell amongst ourselves, or among our bottles

Which is why we are so hard to be loved.

And why we can find it so hard to love ourselves

We hurt others like it’s our job, earning our fog with necessity imbued

Can't stereotype ourselves, that's for others to do

The minority fold that just happens to be you, too

Rich and poor, but mostly bored

Lost yet optimistic, afraid and egotistic

Someday, someone might remember that, goddamn, we were fucking kids together

And then remind us that heroes are real, they just won't ever admit it

because everyone is more heroic than the facade that they attempt to conceal

Where the hate fades at the ends of our todays

perpetually delayed at the expense of a peace that's impossible to display

Owing to the reality of evil and lending to the credence of fear

We tell our stories to those who merely pretend that they might want to hear

because here is mostly too hard for us to bear

We just want to fucking go back there

Where decisions are so difficult that they are simple

and the persons that you so care about just so happen to also be people

Goddammit, we are not [pause] a fucking byline

We're the you that chose our life

a different one, agreed

Contractually obliged to learn how to love in a real way

And for that we gave up something

Or for that we just gave up

But not before we've given everything

because anything less leads to death

But through death we might finally live

in so much as ours is a life to give

Important in that moment we hope for our peace

Through the assistance or our happy suicides

at the hands of our chosen enemies

And, you know what? That's okay

because who the fuck are we to say

that we'd want to love in any other way

Our trials are yours, they're just different

But, though we're the same,

we've earned our differences

You can give them to us if you will

but we accept them in spite of the real

And through our stories we're sure to tell

that love exists in the promise

of our demonstrated zeal

Just promise me that you'll listen

Enmity

Severity of self,
postured not as depreciation,
is capable to so account
Where the sum chooses, therein,
to outweigh the whole
And the conservator of answers
finds no questions in chivalrous perquisition

Aflame!
Fearing not the burn,
but the consequent char;
Endemic of the apparent wanton
completion of requisite ruination
Alas, but for
sanguine semblance withheld

Statuesque as moonlight
dutifully illuminates the perhaps
assuming Nape which requires that
its awe be but only observed
Finding leave to allow the opportunity
in furtherance to the supposed dream
Found: Feigned

Where surmounting evidence fails
to preclude presumption;
Assume indifference to constitute fact
Perhaps entitled by excuse
of habituality
to accept such fate as
observation dictates

Contented to believe
that the anxiety of uncertainty
is forgone
Rationalized for want to maybe finally describe the self
Inhibited, at once, by disconsolate acceptance
Turned not away, but off,
for want of spuriously deserved respite

The essence of temporary beatitude
dare purport not finality,
but eschewed entropy
For those who say but differently
accept not only acquiescence,
but perhaps, still yet,
choose to live

Elucidation

This is it. My Masterpiece.

The words will come and the pencil will flow. They will even mean something to someone, somewhere. Some wear their emotions. My closet is like my Psychiatrist's office. Officially, I've found that my words are feminine. My passion is to always write her. Right here sits you knowing more about me than I do. But then I've known enough to give you the opportunity. You do understand that my name is ironic...unless you've slept with me. How YOU doin'?

Sarcasm is the key to honesty. Honestly, how could I not but give two shits less? Why is why the most unanswerable question? What happens when we begin to imagine that our reality is real? Thoughts are only real if you decide to express them. Unless, of course, you think otherwise. Only others our wise.

Safety is a falsehood perpetrated by lies honestly told. Perpetuation is the product of collectivism, overcome only by coming the hell over. Its so damned worth it. Apathy is the result of atrophy, which in turn is permissive. Permission by definition must be granted. Granted, we assuredly can be so. There is no Master but by the words that we choose to use. 

This is it, my Master. Peace.

Sin (or Atavism)

Only in the unwelcome experience of cold may warmth every truly be felt. Before you can be found, you must have been lost, with no search begun without so realizing. Hatred is fear. Nostalgia for the past disregards the future while foregoing now. Those who can find no beauty in war have most certainly never fought in one. The enemy of thought is words, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Harmony fails where melody is unsung. We are wise to buy stake in mistake. To learn is to forget how to forget. Contradiction exists where paradox is reality. Decision is made with failure in mind. To die is truly to have lived. Patience is relative. Unconditional liberty is anarchy. If I choose to  disagree, than surely we have agreed on something. The best tattoo is the one that you most regret. Yes, you never know what you have.

The feeling you long for longs for you. We've already told the story that we wish so to tell. There are no better days! I've found that work begets work. Thankfully, heartbreak means that love truly exists. Shadows are only cast in the light. The page is only turned when the last one has been read. Faith only means that we don't believe...in something. Home is family. I hate fear. Thanks goes to those who forgo.

Success means that failure exists. Should is a dirty word. Suppose that I should suppose. Where is there, again? There is tension in the tense. Anger is sometimes found in a bottle. You know why its called a sweater! Faith (again) is inherently blind, just remember that the blind cannot see. Sometimes, there truly is time. Never disremember pain, for only within will we all share the lucky opportunity to heal.

Pseudonymous

A slow drag. A promise, only because I said that I might be something of a writer. So many chairs stand around me, yet still I refuse their comfort. I listen to a song that I don’t want to hear, but can’t bring myself to skip.

But don’t I deserve it? Yes, ‘cause the next one takes me back to brood. I deserve it, for here I stand still. Despite the passed out status of those that I allow to be my friends.

I guess that I define introvert. Yet, still I attempt to defy the hiccups that I have so earned. For, again am I the last man up. I should’ve learned to write in cursive so that my pencil never leaves the paper. You and I would be better off for it.

I’ve come to realize that I love so many songs containing words that I have learned to hate. Paradoxically, if you will. Hate. That’s a strong ass word. I guess that that I have lied… again.

There’s a reason why, once again, I’m the last one up. Someday I hope to tell you (and perhaps me in the process) why the fuck that is. I suppose that I’ve earned it. If not, stop reading now. I might just be full of shit.

Sad how I’m reminded that I must remember to forget. But goddamn, please… Please don’t allow me to forget. Apparently, I have a story to tell. You might never see the tears that have fallen, but please know that your ignorance doesn’t allow those tears to have fallen in vain. My words may yet forever prove to be. But, fuck…the tears. Well, if you don’t understand now, you likely never will. And once more I suppose that that’s okay.

Shit, don’t feel bad. I’m not even sure that I know what in the hell I mean.  But again, I suppose that I’ve earned such juxtaposition. Have I yet been too vague?

That last stanza, it’s over, thank [your] god. Only because it is supposed to be. Really, I will it. If meter and rhyme can make me, than so shall I too. Again, a lie. Meter lives in these words. And rhyme… well rhyme is only suited for a certain type of bullshit.

Which, apparently I could give a fuck less about.

I guess that you could keep the meter, too.

I should stop telling people that I am somewhat of a writer. I guess that really I’m just a teller who so happens to write things down.

What a fucking asshole.

Conceit

There is no hatred. I know this, for here I sit with toil for want of description. Yet still I attempt to describe. Inefficiently am I ever inadequate. Inspiration, like a virgin, comes suddenly, and much to the same, is quick to tell you that they've been fucked.

The fierce desire to share colloquy is rebuked by thought. How I wish for the ability to write 'without applying a deliberate decision making process.' But that's for the life that Everyone gets to see. This, however, is the life which serves to imbue said life.

Does obscurity alienate, or encourage inquiry? Hope longs for the latter. Only the weary resist the urge for inquest. But sleep is the enemy of those who dare to dream. And forever may those who reprovision not allow the answer to go unquestioned.

Audacity

In longing for the temptation, is consideration ever given to potential affirmation? To animadvert upon the regaler is self preserving only with the conscience allowance for ignorance. The warmth of collective morality is replaced by the holocaust that is individual realization.

Taste is a sense best described through full use of the tongue. Social slavery exists where explanation eclipses experience. Polysemy descried is subjectivity shunned. Bias is for the unadventurous. Being and living are far from synonymous. Satisfaction is loath to affirm through dialog.

Is any love proven with speech? What color is an orange if you were blind? Pain is but a placebo. Temperance is temperamental. Exigency for reality is none more than apologue. A lesson taught equates never to the one that has been learned.

Fortuitous

Sitting wordless with cause to account is to succeed at not scratching at the pitiful, pus filled, scabs of an adolescent varicella infection, only to find that you will still be scarred. Sacrificing relief for the prospect of future gain has rarely proven to be of any virtue. But, hey, it’s the right thing to do.

Arbitrary torment, or to do so arbitrarily? I could L. Ron Hubbard this shit right the fuck now. Then I would be rich and dead at the same time. At least then I’d be rich, dead, and laughing.

I am my own trick fuck.

Temptation to temperance for want of abnegation. I do concur, at a minimum with won of those words. I know what I did right there. Do you? Mine is wrong if yours is right. It is. Like that.

You are chock full of allegory. Tell yourself why. Then tell me. I like a good story. I find that I enjoy bad ones too, so I guess that you’re good. Just be sure to close with a joke with no punch line, unless of course, that’s not you’re style. But it’s never about you now, is it?

Sometimes I hate, but I hate it when I do. Excuse me. I’d like to understand comprehension. Taste is vociferous. Loyalty is (a) relative? Pace may just not be cheap salsa. Perhaps more than your hand needs to be asleep to actually find the stranger.

Abandon

Who am I to say that these words accurately portray the tale I’ve found task to relay? Hand off the baton smartly lest the race be lost, relegated to history as such. Fuckin’ loser. Cry, for you’ve earned the opportunity through botched exchange. Lust not for relief, as victory after the what if’s will remain indefinitely elusive.

Ha, I have deceived you! There is no story to tell. Only one to ultimately understand, if comprehension can be tolerated by id. Faith in words is limited to definition relative to their pupil’s experiences amid. Liberate yourself momentarily from the dictionary app for want to feel real substitute. Participate. Do not fret and you will prove correct.

And so we will agree in the everything that is for want of the banal, enriched in the diversity of newly assumed fact. Submission to the temptation to conform will allow for the trite, a normalcy unspoken as distraught. The thoughts that you fail to transcribe are the adage that can never be written, a success absent indoctrination. Freedom remains confined, because otherwise it is but a word.

Pulchritude

Beautiful, without sarcasm. Anomalous per its underrepresented rite. Conviction, despite ineligibility to reciprocate. Warmth in its immediacy, disheveling upon effectuation. Genuine. Understanding, despite superfluous ignorance. Words unspoken, now unwritten. Gratitude for the spell, regret with its passing. Vague with recollection, lucid before the opportunity, owing of the want to reminisce. Palpitating.

Enviable, pure as the moment allows. Discreet to the individual, despite the seeming collective disregard. Chivalrous sans intent. The pursuit. Happiness defined in the short term. A respite, deserving after such toil. Crimson is attractive, regardless of desire. Look. Oh, to revel in the nondescript! To enjoy is to sacrifice, a welcome contradiction. Relative only to those who find it to be so. An inspired endeavor, coveting the inevitable loss. But only to remember. The slow gaze brings the welcome reward of acquaintance.  

And so too does beauty yet abound.

Simple

I am writing this now, because to do so otherwise would be to detract from the truth inherent in my immediate drunkenness. And you all deserve better than procrastination. If not, then I at least do.

Shit. I need to start drinking whisky again. It’s been damn near five years since I left Europe, yet somehow the taste of vodka remains my staple. Is it normal to step away from the pad to suck down some smoke? Sure, I guess if I don’t know what to say right then. Or right now!

At least I have my music. Some magician invented the random feature. Thank you. For I too, am random. The song ends abruptly. But it is not an accident, by design, or just ‘cuz. You can’t see it, but the words on the pad are bigger than the last. A consequence of inebriation, I suppose. Hell, I’ll be lucky to decipher this scratch to post.

God damn! How important is music? If only I could affect someone as it does me. Sorry, I just have to dance…alone in the garage. I momentarily had to think about not publishing this, due to my being drunk. But then I realized that I really don’t give a shit what you think. Mostly because in this moment I still am me.

Am I better than this? No. I am this. Take from it what you will. Damn, I love my wife! Passed out as she may be, I still know that she’s missing me while I shun her to embrace this page. Yet she supports me still, even in her disillusioned dreams. Much like you, she continues to make me. But she gets all of the credit. Not that I’m not lost, but I know that I surely would be without her.

I hate that she doesn’t understand all that I put down here, but damn, I love explaining it to her, mostly through my flaws. But she accepts them, as I hope you might. Yet still your opinion remains irrelevant. Much as mine is to me.

Usually by now I’d be reviewing what I previously have written. But at this moment I am satisfied. Though I may regret it later, I know for now that these words are true. So I guess that I better give them to you, and let me lament over them later.

The songs scream to me, ‘Be Yourself!’ But it is so easy to be you. Damn! I wish that you could see me now. How vulnerable the confrontation would be. Not to worry, I would project strength. If you would see through it, I would know that you were my friend.

I didn’t even want to fucking write tonight, but sometimes it just happens. Tomorrow I might know why. Perhaps, you could tell me? Good luck, friend, for I know not, despite my authoritative attempts.

Thank intelligence for the random, because, while you keep me as me, you also change up my pace. How it should be otherwise, I’d not let you play. Please allow me to type this before sobriety sets in, so that I can read back this truth!

I hope that these late night scribe sessions annoy the shit out of my neighbors, at least as much as their dogs do me during the day, so much as I can be there. If not, at least the thought might bring comfort.

This Jack Daniel’s has clouded me! But, hopefully it has brightened you. I can understand if it doesn’t, though. If you could see these happenings, you might think me crazy. And perhaps I am. But who the fuck are you to say.

I've got to end these ramblings now, else it go on forever, much as it does while I attempt to sleep. Know that there are far more to come. I’ve earned this right. I can only continue to hope that after reading this you can tell me whether or not you’ve earned the right to read it.

Avaricious

And then there are the moments where you are so wounded by the truth that it draws your breath to cease. You play exhibitionist with the scars, ever proud to have survived the piercing over laden adrenaline shock. The callous harden while time removes them all the further from their inception, an obvious reminder interminably displayed.

Profound as it may endear, never inadmissible, and rightly so. All the while hard earned and devalued in the same. You smile, because to do otherwise would be to allow the undeserving to experience such intoxicating plight. This is our drug, and it is damned expensive. Few can afford the cost, and sobriety continues to be free for our indulgence.

The significance of affliction is oft vilipending. A tragedy of sophomoric thought, ignorant in its naivety, the packaged gift whose surprise has been prematurely revealed. The tipped hat of mockery reveals the jealousy betwixt. Chivalry grants selfishness, yet unbeknownst to the reason for the strife. Shared only amongst the scarred while silently we aspire for those not tormented to understand. In this we will continue to pretentiously grieve.  

Immortal

It could’ve been me. Hell, the cowboys we were, at times it should’ve been. But fate chose to give me continuing life, while yours were relegated to internment within our collective memories.

You were leaders of men, lifters of spirits, a shoulder to cry on, an ear perpetually lent, friends, peers, honest and brave, our brothers, Soldiers.

You were a smile when, damn it, there was no reason to. You were skilled, patient, and just. You were someone to laugh with, often while simultaneously being laughed at. You were loved.

You still are, and so shall it remain.

Farao Letafuga, we didn’t know each other long, but the short amount of time we had was spent with laughter, the best of our friends. I wasn’t there when the roof from which you were protecting your buddies collapsed. I was told that you died without pain. I still choose to believe that. You are the only Uce I’ve had the pleasure to know in the Army. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Morgan Kennon, I hated the fact that your arrival marked a transference of my authority in the Charlie Rock Headquarters Platoon. Then I met you. You were ever the Company confidant and I had the distinct pleasure of working not just for, but with you. Somehow, despite your having grown up in a city of despair, anger, and frustration, you never learned to exhibit those traits. You dropped Tony and I off at the airfield in Mosul for us to return to the states. We said that we’d see you soon. We didn’t know that it’d be in a casket before all of Memphis stood by to watch your precession from the church to the grave site, a result of an RPG strike during an ambush. They loved you, as we do still. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Billy Zapf, you taught me a great deal about one of the premier tools of the Infantryman’s trade: Sarcasm. Few have mastered the art as you did. You were an expert at a job you didn’t want to do. Selflessness was inherent in your being, and not one of us could talk shit with such affection. No one will ever know how your pain lead to your death, but perhaps it was another gift you gave to us. Now we will be forever loathe to allow such action to be undertaken again. Your death has, and will continue to lead to lives saved. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Chris Cooper, the Marine turned Soldier. As your Platoon Sergeant, I was able to watch you mature into a fine young Leader. Our Soldiers respected your expertise and often sought you out for advice, not just on the job, but in life. You too called Oceanside home, a fact that many Servicemembers can claim, but few Soldiers. It wasn’t until two years after you took your own life that I learned of it. All of your obituaries explain how you died “of injuries sustained from a non-combat related incident,” a statement that could not be further from the truth. How selfish of me to believe that I may have been able to prevent it, had I known and been there. Not unlike Billy, may we take away something from your tragedy. You were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

Dae Han Park, you weren't my personal Team or Squad Leader, but we were all your Soldiers. It was no surprise to learn that you had earned that Long Tab. If someone so dedicated and skilled as you could attain the ultimate sacrifice, how do any of us still remain? Your mentorship no doubt resulted in countless lives saved and deserving enemies ended. Your death by the indiscriminate blast of an Improvised Explosive Device in Afghanistan has torn holes in far more than your truck. You too were a fierce friend. I, among so many others, miss you.

My fate may yet be yours, but the opportunity to associate daily with men of your caliber leaves little room to doubt such plight. I remember you today, as I do everyday. My life is a testament to yours, and my daughter has a better father for having known you. Your far too short lives have served the greatest of purpose; Others.

Trust

That conversation didn’t go down very smoothly. Maybe it was the shot of tequila that I had brought myself to couple with it. Don’t worry, I’m not a drunk, I only drink socially. Or while writing, though I have been writing a lot more recently. No, I’m not a drunk. I’m a wordsmith!

If anything, I’m an insomniac, confused, a father and a husband, restless, a Soldier. No cause to addle for the culmination of the antecedent however, neither you nor I must worry. Worry? Who? Me? You can keep it. Only please to leave me with remnant enough to stave off the worst of decisions: Indetermination.

I still know how to swim. Hell, I’m a veritable fish, thus my rationale to not cannibalize, sans taste of course. Those who actually know me will understand. They also continue to make me, and for this gift I presume to ooze gratitude. It can be done!

It’s good, the distraction from the kick rocks attitude I’ve been projecting of late. Much as if the feeling were a lap dance just ended. We paid before and so we pay after. Yet the true travesty is acceptance. And perhaps not riding my motorcycle nearly enough either. Amongst others, of this I am certain. 

Vague

The sanguineness dissipates quickly with ever encroaching pessimism, but fortune has allowed for its presence to thus become so dissolved. I’d like to allow it to remain. I quite enjoy the air of relief from my partially reticent state of disingenuous verisimilitude.

My obscure rationale may not be as such. Is it possible to emote paradox? Should I express chaste; untoward suffering alone amongst those who too suffer? So long as I fail to engender mine strife, I remain hopeful to assume. A failure which I will allow to impart pride.

I can only but allude to the ambiguity which gives opportunity for unfettered access to my bed. I could lust for nothing more than the ability to surrender my espousal of this pencil for the sleeping embrace of my bride. But these words would then give cause to further discomfort. We are estranged bedfellows, the three of us.

To whom do I owe compassion? The dues I have paid appear to have been assessed as insufficient, though I have taken great care to review my account. Strange this life and how we live. Realize that life means nothing when nothing is all we give.

Hark

I may yet be young, but life has been quite full for me. Not too full, I hope, for much living remains to be done. Much more if I can pull it together to quit smoking and drinking, put on some damn sunscreen every now and again, and learn to enjoy myself. But no battles can be won sans strife, and history does little to commemorate the bland.

I can recall a time when an unanswered phone call simply meant that you weren’t home, as opposed to dead or disfigured by some horrendous accident that has rendered you incapable of immediate response.

When I was a kid wars were Cold, lasted only one-hundred hours, were left unfinished, or were called a police action. My participation was limited to collecting Topps trading cards on the subject, not throwing spades using playing cards emblazoned with the portraits of the very enemies I’d been tasked to kill. Or capture.

My parent’s home used to be something that my parents paid for. Tijuana used to be a safe place for high school students to get fucked up. Pluto was a planet, for god’s sake! I didn’t have to buy it, but I’m certain that corn was cheap because it was consumed in stomachs, not gas tanks.

MP3 was two letters and a number. Terrorists were Irish, not Islamic. Cough Syrup employed codeine as an ingredient, and you used it for…coughs. Marriage was. Never mind, it was a failing institution then as well. You relished in the possession of any sum of money, where now we resent it.

Antiquity. I guess this could go on for another thirty years. But by then I’ll likely be writing about how cool it was when everyone didn’t possess matching tattoos on our foreheads. So long as cigarettes aren’t abolished, I’ll get by. And booze. And love.

And writing.

Fuck sunscreen.

Rant (20110412)

So…I’m drinking slowly, slowly only because I’ve yet to get drunk, a $4.00 1.5 liter bottle of some of California’s finest Pinot Grigio with an intriguing palate consuming finish of slightly overcooked mild Johnsonville Italian sausage. And I’m reminiscing…

I’m alone, yet still I realize that I look ridiculous wearing a beat up, acquired field jacket liner that a moment earlier sat atop my pile of Army  remnants which each, in turn, silently await the day  that they may be useful yet again. Field Jacket Liner, your peers stand jealous this night.

It’s worn because its chilly in the garage when the side door remains perpetually open to allow the Camel Blue cigarette smoke to escape into the brisk Southern California April air, while I scribble away amongst the scattered remnants of my latest unfinished project, which sits upon my latest finished project; the pride inducing work bench that I conceived and built. Nothing extravagant, but pride inducing, nonetheless.

The cigarette supply is running low, much like the booze supply, hence the choice of drink for the evening. This combined with only two matches remaining in the complimentary Circle K matchbook deepens the sadness which brought me to the garage and to the pencil and legal pad. I enjoy matches, yet will settle for the grill lighter to allow me to consume the remainder of my nicotine crutch.

I did say that I was reminiscing, right? We’ll just chock this up to ambiance and continue, shall we?

I say WE, as if you’re a participant. Fuck you, you don’t know me. I still barely know myself. And guess what? Most of you who say you know who you are; you’re the worst breed of liars: those who lie to themselves.

Anyway…

I’ve seen people die, and not like “Stand by Me” where the protagonists find someone already dead. I’ve watched men die, some by my own hand. You can’t purge memories like that. Like tonight, I sometimes turn to the bottle to lose myself. But the fuckin’ bottle must’ve been there with me, because, shit, it keep telling me the stories that I long to forget.

Not that they didn’t deserve to die, but who gets to determine that? I guess yours truly, in this instance. Better you than me, I suppose. And definitely better you than my men.

Music, save me again! My phone acts as my musical redeemer, as many devices have in the past. Sure, I’ll skip the ‘Surfin’ Bird’ track that I merely downloaded to annoy my wife after she voiced her displeasure during a “Family Guy” episode. But the title track from the chick flick that I secretly downloaded, likely illegally, from a film we watched at home together, it gets to stay. In fact, I’m going to play it again, maybe twice. She doesn’t know that I walked into the kitchen that night to hide my tears. Guess she’ll find out when she reads this.

Shit, I’m starting to sound like an old Country song. Guess it’s a good thing that I learned to enjoy Country Music after I left California for the first time. Does In ‘N Out have anything on Waffle House? Whenever I partake of one I lament for the other. Yet, has either of the purveyors of the paper hats indulged in a basket of Pommes mitt Ketchup und Mayo after leaving the discotheque? Or the savior of freshly baked ‘samone’ bread after an endless diet of Mr. E’s in Iraq?

My mother will likely be homeless after this week. [long pause] Maybe it’s my fault. She’s addicted to pain killers. She capitulated to them long ago. I love her, endlessly. I sacrificed time, space, habitat, and ridiculously hard earned dollars for her welfare, often at the expense of my wonderful wife and daughter. Then, I passed her responsibility onto my fiscally strapped and indentured to the system brother, who I love like no other and am so very proud of.

But it’s my fuckin’ fault that she made horrible decisions that I knew at sixteen were wrong. That I left her house, so very young, because even now I realize, upon retrospect, that the floor of my friends bedroom was better than spiraling down with her endless necessity for anyone to care for her. Even a shitbag welfare ridden single parent of two, whose wife left him for another woman would do. So long as he gave her a daughter, right?

I’m not bitter. Not at all.

I only feel that I’ve worked damned hard for MY beautiful daughter to have not only everything that she needs, but most everything that she wants, Same for my beautiful wife. Even at the cost of my continuous strife. Because, really isn’t that what life is all about?

The wine glass is nearly empty. Wouldn’t be so bad except that it’s a Tuesday and even if you have learned how to handle your liquor after a decade of service to your country, a liter and a half of shitty wine will get you drunk, yet still won’t allow you to sleep.

A demon that I suppose I’m willing to live with. You wondered about reminiscing? Read back ‘shueya,’ ein bisschen, a little bit. Perhaps I’m bitching. Got it. This is a rant; do with it as you will.

I love being a Soldier. This life is difficult, but I chose it. No one forced it upon me, as it hasn’t been done since 1973, when compulsory service in the U.S. ended. It is hard, as every martial service is. My life is my own, as well is yours. But when the shitty wine is gone, it’s time to go to bed. Here’s to dreams of no bitching, sympathy to those less fortunate than ourselves, courage to figure ourselves out, identifying right from wrong, love for our families (regardless of the cost), and forgetting our transgressions. Only remember that in the end, these are dreams.

Reflection (20110424)

There exists a thin sheet of reflective laminate that for its protection has paired itself with a pane of clear glass. Every morning, promptly after I arise, I encounter the contraption in the bathroom on my way to piss away the restlessness that had imposed its will upon those hours where I should have been sleeping.

I leave the light off as I conduct my business; no need to risk awakening my peaceful family. Myself leers after me in the dark, casting shadows and angles with intentions of drawing me more near to its truth. Eventually I will tangle with you again Mirror. For the fleeting moment I will escape you in the darkness.

But now the twilight ruins my serenity as it encroaches through the frosted veil of the privacy enabling window, bringing me eye to eye with the very person I’ve been trying to avoid. My reflected eyes are grey, because the crystal blue eyes that all the girls used to compliment when they still held the ignorant optimistic sparkle are still masked by intentionally low ambiance.

I spit out some toothpaste and look right back and straight ahead. No denying me anymore this day.

We won’t speak. Don’t need to when the other can hear thoughts. Besides, the look in those eyes tell me enough already.

He’s the man I want to be: Proud, successful, indifferent. I offer up my blatant insecurity.

I hate staring into those blue eyes that define me. We stare not knowing what to say, telepathically of course. I always feel as if he has a message for me. “Be you today!” Too bad he never informs me of whom the fuck I’m supposed to be.

We embrace…

I walk away with more questions and with fewer answers. Guess I’m going to have to pretend again today. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to look across the mirror and tell myself that I know who I am. But he owns me, yet does nothing to improve his plight either.

We suffer together, the two sides of the one, in the easing darkness.

Blank (20110430)

Were I able to dislodge the torrent of thoughts from within the protective layer of bone that sits upon my shoulders directly to this paper, it would be black with full pencil strokes, overlapping to the point of futility. All available space would be consumed by graphite, choking the yellow that is the legal pad, rendering it unrecognizable, and imbuing the appearance of old school carbon paper, likely with functional traits as such, as well.

I must write to expel the thoughts whose ultimate goal seems to be to chase the normal from my psyche. There remains so much to be said. But the thoughts fight against the pencil, much like I fought against Iraqis, and much as I continue to fight amongst myself. How can I persist to be at such a loss for words, when words exact their punishment on me indefinitely, rendering me incapable of the respite of sleep even?

I consider quitting, but I didn’t give up my thirst for alcohol when I discovered that my refrigerator was void of the substance earlier. I somehow found the motivation to rectify that injustice. Yet, as I sit well prepared with the tools of the writer; Music, solitude, booze, and ample subject, my pencil continues to act as a magnet, fascinating the child me with its invisible repulsion from its equal, which always was its opposite.

I can’t help but reminisce about the words that come so easily to me throughout the course of my daily conversation. They manage to drip with my particular brand of humor and sarcasm that inform their recipient that I am who they’ve always known me to be, honest and rich. Still they remain a distraction to their brethren which remain so imprisoned behind my tongue, while their superficial peers escape the confine of ambiguity.

Should this prose be about words, it has yet to satisfy its requirement. Despite an abundance of language, nothing has been said. The many points eager to be shared have found no solace in their audience. And my pencil will continue to await the opportunity to represent its owner with truth once again.