Lullaby

Lullaby

Tonight, I sit and burn lean tissue, throwing my mind into the farthest reaches of this meditative near trance. Writing from places I don't often look. Sometimes, Self Observation is harsh under such bright light and scrutiny. Tonight, I managed to look at the moon with ambivalence. No longing, no fist shaking. Nothing but noticing it existed. Tonight, I open the doors to that place within where so few few have tread, much less know of.

Forever and Always is a bitter pill. A knife I helped put in my own back.

Sometimes, I just want...
A hot bath and coffee.
Hands on my face and no words.
A warm hug in a coffee shop, and all the excitement that came with it.
Playing in the snow.
Laying on a couch taking in silliness and being perfectly content.
To be well and truly KNOWN.
The smell of perfume in the desert.
A heated moment, a time that lasted forever and for minutes only.

Most times, I just know...
That I brought all this on myself.
That this is my Fate.
That Destinies can be lost.
That I remain alone.
That this is how it should be.

The Devil will find work for idle hands to do...

The Devil will find work for idle hands to do...

It's been a while since I've had the time to sit and write. I just spent about 2 and a half weeks locked down for the most part with nothing to do but study and think. I had plenty of time to ruminate and reminisce. It was not a super fun time but it was plenty of time to sit and think. And sleep whenever I could which was about the only good part.



The boys are finally in Texas. Hopefully, I'll be able to see them more often, but seeing as how right now, fresh out of WLC they have me slated for Staff Duty on Christmas Eve, I'm not really hopeful. Well, not so much hopeful as less than optimistic.

I spent a lot of time thinking about my friends and all the things I miss. My family too. I think all the time spent living away, deployments and stuff are finally catching up with me. And already deployment is rearing its head again. But, as in all things, I chose this. So what can I really say or do about it?

I've been thinking a lot about how I'd like to sit and talk to people that I can't now. I'd like to just sit and talk to my mother for a bit and hash some things out. I'd like to talk to my Papa about the deployment, about War, and the choices I've made in my life. But I can't. And that sucks, but it is what it is. I'd like to grab a bottle of whiskey and sit and talk to my brothers. Well, sans the whiskey, but the sentiment is there. I'd like to talk to a lot of people, but they are either gone or far away. Technology be damned.

Irony.

"And it was these hands that pushed the pieces together. It was this voice that consoled and reassured."

What a lovely mission. May I have another tomorrow? And tomorrow evening? Can we just do this one mission over and over and over? So...that's work.

Customs shit. Ready to see the boys. Just about everything else I am ambivalent about.

At this moment I am shaky and smoking too much. Considering some coffee. Looking for answers. But you know me... always afraid to ask the questions. Or am I just afraid of the answers? Perhaps, I predetermine what the answers will be and just fear being right. Who knows? Certainly not this guy. At this particular moment I'm trying to not let this affect me. I'm short time. I've got things I need to be focusing on. Other than this drivel. I've arrived at conclusions. I've done the math so to speak. Cause speaking is one of those things that while not completely fond of, I do. I see the music and get all the wrong messages. Then I look at the reality and get something else entirely. It's what I do.

I would carry on my 1000 worlds but this week they are all a bit too raw and a little too.... weird? Possible? Enraging? Whacked out? Something not to reprint here. I'm' sure there is more to say, but I'm on edge from mission and everything else and kinda scattered and all over the place. I can't really think straight, I've been awake for twenty four hours and my first instinct right now (that's actually doable here in Iraq) is to go lift weights. It's a fucking mess. Nothing else to say. Have a fucking night. I surely have.

Welcome Home.

Another 24 plus at the COP. Go team me. Handsome Rob and I stayed in the truck and engaged in Verbal Combat. Not slander mind you. But varied deep discussion about many varied topics. We touched on Nazi Germany, communist Russia. His new girlfriend, all my ex ones. And that was where we settled for a bit. Reminiscing about old instances and varied sun touched moments with the gray of lies and bitterness only touching the edges.

I resolved after sleeping that my mind will be the fist that shatters the mirror. My truth is the steel toed boot to kick your teeth down your throat. There are so many things I've discovered that I am angry about. And being older it's not the raw boned rage of my youth but more of a simmering hatred. And it's pure. It's like waking up finally. I can't say that I don't have regrets. There are certainly a few.

But, beyond all that I've discovered that beyond myself, there are quite a few folks I am quite perturbed with. (Another trick of age. Instead of saying, "I'd like to take a tire iron to everything you cherish in front of you, before stoving in your rotten skull." I say quite perturbed.

And that's okay. It's not an urge for violence so much as a reckoning of everything I've let slide. At some point your eyes refocus and you see all the little daggers and arrows stuck in you,the things that were hidden or stolen, and well... you get a little..perturbed. Some of these people, events, etc. I'll never be able to rectify. Others live right at home. So...maybe something will get fixed. But, seeing as how if nothing else, I've learned that you can't trust anything or anyone. I highly doubt even the easy to reach ones will see a viable solution. So where does that leave me? Exactly where I was I guess. Just a little more cognizant of who and what I'm dealing with on every level.

Smudges

Smudges

Indelible ink and fingerprints,
What's left now lover?
Is it all smudges and emptiness?
Is there more?
Is there more than this?
Do you still dance in the hallways of my dreams?
Have I imagined this all?
Who's ink is this on my fingers?
And who's fingerprints?
Is it just me finger painting alone?
Photos of pictures of moments of the past.
All dancing behind my eyes.
"Endlessly", she said, as her voice trailed away into nothingness.
Nothingness?
Or just a corner where the softest most unguarded bits are?
He thinks to himself, "Perhaps, perhaps I lost my name."

It's only family that calls me that anymore. Perhaps out of habit.
Perhaps out of memory for who I was.
These days he looks for Solace behind his eyes rather than in a bottle.
But Solace is hard to find and harder to come by.

Chances pass. Dreams Fade. Perhaps this is the lesson Everything was trying to teach me. Flailing and kicking and destroying all hope.
Blow a kiss to the stars Boy. That's the only way to kiss them these days.
The Moon is far, far, away. So distant, so cold, so similar in memory, but so staggeringly different in practice.

Raise Forth Lost Cause

Lately, I've been thinking about what it means for someone to know you. What does it mean to really know someone? I tell myself, that I just want one person to know me, and to love me for that knowledge. But isn't it supposed to be loving someone else for that knowledge? In all these years, it's still something I wonder about.

And so the wondering continues. Some days, it's easier to shrug it off. Other days, I think everyone just wants someone to be there, holding them, and telling them it'll all be okay. But what do I know? I get paid to kill people. I'm a monster for work. I just try to avoid being a monster outside of combat. I think that's the hard part to balance. As we were warned.

"So give me Justice and I'll have Paris in flames."

So in other news, my oldest boy is in a children's psychiatric hospital. *sigh* I'm struggling with that and trying to determine just how I feel about it. There are two things I've been told about the situation. Accept it as it is and that my boy has "issues" or don't. I've never really had any problems with him or his behavior. I think he has a lot of anger about some things (the divorce, living with his mother), but I think those are specific things and sometimes, we as parents, maybe might blind ourselves to those things and just find it a little easier for him to be out of control.

So, wrap those two together and there I am. That's what's on my mind. Throw in some hope, a little wishful thinking, a little nervousness, and some deep thought and here I be.

The Going Price For Home.

The Going Price For Home.


"They don't hear the serpent that burns your ear,
Or the coward that sits alone in your head with itch...
Baby look out!
Because I'm so sorry that you could ever,
I'm so sorry for you, you'll never love again..."

He is sitting silent. He is walking in the rain. Looking to the sky for answers that never seem to come. He has known this for years. "Time changes all things.", he muses. A look on his lips that passersby wouldn't understand. He returns to the four walls he inhabits with himself. A room so empty, but so full of ghosts. Time continues to pass. He stands in the shower, scalding water turning his tired skin red. "How", he thinks. "How do I purge all that is unnecessary within myself?" Over time he has come to fear talismans as objects of attachment. The weight he is sure that will settle upon his heart with full force were he to glance or wear such a thing. "The emptiness is bad enough," he thinks.
"Why would I try and make it worse? Why is self-destruction sometimes so much easier?"
The water runs down red flesh into a drain; taking everything from his skin. His attempt at cleansing his mind at an end for another day.

Occasionally when not looking into himself, he looks outward. Looking at others. Sometimes entranced. Sometimes disgusted. Sometimes it's like a spear to the chest. A call to turn back inward. Or blind himself.

Write Your Dreams....

Write Your Dreams....

She said, "Write your dreams."
He looked at his hands and into the past and said, "I'm not sure that my dreams are the kind of things I should write about."
She smiled and said, "The Muse remembers the past, the Muse believed in you."
He looked at the ground and spoke softly, "The past is a strange thing Angel. It can leave tears of joy on your face when you look upon for the first time in years, but those tears can be wiped away with bruises and blackouts. The past is a funny thing. It's always glitter coated and wistful, but the are bad times in there too. The past is rarely selective, unless we wish it to be. But then, it's no longer the past. Just a dream, a memory clouded in forgetfulness and wishes."

She smiled crookedly.
She looked beyond and around the dreamer, seeing everything that was, wouldn't, could and couldn't be. Everywhere but his heart.
She said, "Dreamer, you have a monster within you. A demon. A host of them. We could call them Legion for expediency. She smiled crookedly again.
He looked into her eyes and spoke clearly, "Listen to me Angel. You are no Muse. You know the Monsters in my skin, but you also know the Hero in my heart. Occasionally, even Hero's give in to despair. Even the bravest and Boldest are weak. That's what makes them human. You were never my muse Angel. You were my Salvation. He only looked away for a moment; but she was gone. Vanished into the mists. The Dreamer was alone. The Dreamer Awoke.

When Eye Meets Eye, Be Calm

"Will your fingers find my back?
Familiar?
I fit in the question I had to ask.
Did you, think maybe I, was doing quite well, without you, in the frame?"

So many times I think, that I may in fact think too much. Or conversely, not think enough. Wondering where I will find the happiness I'm after. That I've sought. Wondering if I lost it somewhere or if I just haven't found it yet. Do you do the same? Do you shut your eyes to the truth?

Do we all maybe shut our eyes and push blindly into the future hoping for the best or at least something that not worse than where we stand now? Or perhaps, do we look inwards and hope that maybe just this once, a choice will yield the results that we want. Or maybe, we shouldn't hope for results at all. And just step forward. Backwards? Somewhere. Movement.

And so now in the time that remains here, I sit and think. Sit and not think. I prepare to be unprepared, no expectations, other than maybe finding something good somewhere down the road.

Taking Back Sunday

In Combat there's a point that hits everyone, where day after day, the bullets, the screaming, the crying, the monotony, the intense drain on your endurance, your psyche, and your general sense of being leave you at a point where you just want to sit and sleep. To just drop it all walk away. Everyone gets this way. At least everyone I served with. But, at the end of the day, you have to reasses, wipe the dirt of your gear and yourself, get up and fight. Rage against the next day and everything you know will come with it and what you don't know might hop along for the ride. Life is a lot like that. You get knocked down. You just want to lie down and sleep. Let the kicks keep coming as long as you get a little rest. But eventually, you open your eyes and realize that if you don't fight, nothing is worth it. You have to fight for it. All of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly all come around anyways, so you might as well fight. That was todays' major thought. That and percocet make me sleepy. And my bed sucks. So, I'm gonna fight it.

Toy Soldier Revisited.

Once upon a time there was a little toy soldier. And as time passed and he grew, more and more people played with him. Some played too roughly and broke pieces big and small. Others held him too tightly, bending him and leaving fingerprints all over his shiny paint. Eventually he was big Toy Soldier and off he went into the big Toy Soldier world.

The Broken Toy Soldier met the loveliest Doll in the Big Toy Soldier World, and she saw that he was broken in places, and mad about being broken, but had accepted it as is the lot of Toy Soldiers. And she tried to fix him. And his little tin heart beat and beat, because no one had tried to fix him before. They would tell him where and how to stand, who to shoot, when to talk and not talk, but never took the time to add a little paint and a lot of love to his broken tin body.

And somewhere, in his little tin heart, it frightened him. He didn't remember how to not be broken and so he pushed back, breaking himself, and bringing his war out for everyone to see. Especially the Doll who tried so hard to fix his little tin heart, that had only ever beat for her.

But, some breaks and bends are too hard to fix, if a Toy Soldier struggles. And then she was gone. And he sat around his empty shelve and wondered. Why would she leave? It never occurred to him that his war was an ugly thing, that came from his little tarnished tin heart. And he broke himself further in a little Toy Soldier Rage.

Time passed as it does for toys. The years spreading out further and further. The dust settling in and the Toy Soldier realized that after all this time, he hadn't been played with and no one who would would ever care about picking up his pieces once they were done. And so he walked and walked, looking for his Doll. Carrying his little Toy Pieces and hoping he could show her and say, "Look! I need you." But the Toy World, much like the Real World, doesn't work that way. And so off to War he went. And it was a dark time. And his little Toy Tarnished Heart grew darker and more full of Toy anger and Despair. And when he came back, many things had happened while he was away and this made his little Toy Heart grow darker yet.

But, he found his Doll again. Off in a faraway land, but willing to help him with the directions for putting himself back together again. And so he tried. And then he'd fail. And then he'd drink from the War Fountain and his war would come boiling out, burning everyone it touched. And so The Toy Soldier again drove away the pure thoughts and the extra attention it takes to repair Toy Soldiers and their little, Dark, Tarnished Hearts. He let his Despair and his Anger beat him, as he always had. This time not out of fear, but out of carelessness. And What no Toy Soldier realizes quick enough is the cost of their wars. And of letting them out. How it won't kill them first, but everything around them. The things they wanted to protect the most. Silly Toy Soldier. Always Broken. Always Hoping. And finally struggling, pushing, destroying everyone around him, until in the end it is one Broken Toy Soldier, with one Dark, Tarnished Heart, rusting. Alone.

Struggle.

He is sitting on a hill. The cold wind is like a slap to the face, but he doesn't mind. He's watching the sun slip below the earth, waiting for the moon. Just like Always. Just like Forever. He stares at the burning orb slipping lazily through the clouded sky. He wonders, "Does the Sun know it's Beauty? Does it know that unless I knew better I'd stare at it until I went blind. Just taking it in. Weeping and and wiping away the pain, unblinking, holding that image in my mind forever as my retinas burned away." He sits and stares, waiting for the Moon. Just like Always. Just like Forever. He knows that the Moon and the Sun are two different bodies... They are the same. Just different parts of a day. Or a night. All the Same.


He sits, holding a bottle. Wondering what the whiskey sour will taste like. If it will taste like relief or defeat. If it will improve his day. Or worsen it. Will it drive the loneliness away? Will it change..just..one..night? When it hits his lips will it taste like a lover's kiss? Or will it taste like ashes in his mouth? He doesn't know. He contemplates the bottle.

He sits in the dark. Thinking. Wondering about where the many roads ahead of him will lead. So many paths, so few real outcomes. All roads lead to Rome they say, but he knows most roads while scenic for a bit all just lead to nowhere. Loops and beltways and freeways and broken asphalt. All going nowhere. Everywhere leads Nowhere he thinks, and when you get there, the passenger seat is always empty. What a ride. He turns on some old country, some old southern rock, and lets himself go to a quiet place. the roads are empty tonight and he has a long way to ride.

24 hour duty does not make for good writing.

So tired. So lonely. So tired of hoping for the impossible. Of longing for
the unattainable. Of denying the inevitable. Not tired of the subjects. Just
Weary. Drained from the effort. Of hurting so much. Of feeling so empty. My
arms holding the same dream. Rocked to sleep at night by the same ghost. I've
tried to see the big picture. And having now discerned something, have to
convince myself to let it go. Which is a whole lot tougher than I imagined.

Would you trade one dream for another? Could You? Is it fair to you? Is it
Necessary? Does one include the other? Preclude it? Disprove it. Show me how
one is possible with the other. Show me how to choose. Show me how either is
possible. It's never TOO hard. Someday it will be past time due to achieve one
or the other. But that's an age factor not one ever due to a lessened desire.
Tell me what you would do. When you feel your memories given life. Flesh under
your fingertips. A Heart not your own, but intimately recognizable beating in
your chest. When you see people. People holding the crux of your dreams in
their arms. And you can only watch. Wonder idly if with blood on your hands
and sin in your past if you could ever deserve something like that again. In
that one image, Two Dreams. Two Hopes. Two Impossibilities. One infinite
Sadness. Years of remorse. A lifetime's worth of regret. And from somewhere,
one innocent, naive hope. Never quite sure of the source. Some inexpressible
need to just. have. things. work. out. right. Even though more often than not
life shows us that the dice are loaded and the house always wins.

But somewhere there is a man. A man watching and waiting for the Moon. Staring out
over freshly fallen snow. Wrapping his arms around the pale orb in the sky and
keeping the boots of dirty cosmonauts off it. Watching, Waiting, Wondering.

Smoke and Mirrors.

I started my day off completely wrong trying to figure out what the fuck is hurting so much in my abs. Other than that, pretty messed up dreams. which is never fun.

He is reaching and reaching and never grasping what he wants.
He is holding his dreams in his hands, watching them slip through his fingers like sand.
He is watching them cut his hands to pieces like broken glass.
He isn't sure whether to hold on tighter or let go.
He wanders and wonders.
He thinks about Trust.
He thinks about Circles.
He dreams about the past, present, and future.
He sits and smokes and thinks about the "Big Picture"
He thinks about the ends of the many paths he sees ahead.
He sits alone, in silence, thinking of words and deeds.
He always wants to be someone's Hero.
But more often than not he remains the Monster.
He is tired. He is searching. He is closing his eyes. He is standing in the snow searching for the Moon.