I see the full moon beginning to rise.
Crap.
This stuff is getting old.
I'm ruining my clothes
every thirty days.
It's getting riskier,
the people in town
are always chasing me
with torches,
shooting at me
with silver bullets.
One by one,
pretty women
are disappearing,
occasionally a small boy.
They are using hounds now.
One of these days,
they're going to bag me.

I've chewed the leaves,
lots of them
to ease the pain.
I've guzzled chicha
seeking a vision,
danced
the traditional
spiral
to pan pipes
and a trumpet.
And I've seen
piles of bones
as far as the eye can see
out on the Altiplano,
bleached by the sun,
basking in the rain
for a millennium.

Soon I'll be scaring the Blue Herons
fishing on the shore
as I ride around the lake
at lightspeeds
watching the sunrise
and listening to Zeppelin.
Alleluia...I can't wait...

It's crazy how sometimes
we'd lay there forever
gathering intel.
The bad guys
would move around
as if they owned the place,
scurrying to and fro,
moving ordnance,
an RPG or two,
lots of AK's.
Most of the time
when we saw them like that,
we'd bag them in an airstrike.
Game over.
Camo works.

The trail stretched serpentine
above the azure lake
with the rising sun
beginning to peek
just above the horizon.
In that beautiful place,
I walked along
in solitude
with my heavy pack
surrounded
by fields
of endless beans.
And in the early mist,
two tiny
smiling children,
silent,
swiftly
passed me
with overflowing baskets,
destined
for the market,
and you,
and me.

I saw the damage once.
The entry wound
split his mouth.
The exit wound
shattered his skull,
taking half of it.
Red, white, and gray
brains were splattered
on the wall behind him,
where he sat crumbled.
I ask.
Would you ever
be the same
again
after witnessing
crazy **** like that?
Pray tell.