Whirling of blades, clouds of dust
Screaming, suffering, litters of men
Crimson covered deck
Water of red flushing
Rinsing away the horrors of man
His uniform is ***** and wreaks
Dirt that isn’t dirt
He stumbles into the showers
Dazed in a trance, shock
Dropping his rifle, pistol falling to the ground
Standing under the cold rain
Dust and dirt, wash away
Water of crimson
Mud that isn’t mud
Guilt so heavy, he cannot breathe
Death all around him,
Yet he lives Why?
Brothers and sisters, gone
Yet he remains, why?
Guilt overwhelming
Pain, searing pain.
Yet he lives.
Unworthy, full of guilt
Crumped in the shower
Unworthy
He weeps for the fallen

The cadence of the drill sergeant, a ghost in the present,
echoes in the rhythm of my pen.
Discipline forged in the crucible of steel,
now fuels the fire of my art.
The enemy then, the fear, the loss,
a distant memory, yet the weight of loyalty remains.

My love, an artist, paints with colors I cannot name,
capturing the essence of the soul,
a symphony of emotions, a dance of light and shadow.
She is the muse, the inspiration,
the reason this heart still beats with a fierce, protective rhythm.

The scars run deep, both physical and unseen,
reminders of battles fought and won.
But the greatest battle, the one that truly matters,
is the fight for her, for our love.
This fragile, precious bloom,
deserves the fiercest protection.

The Marine within, dormant yet ever-present,
would rise, a silent guardian,
against any threat, any darkness that dares to touch her.
His loyalty, once sworn to the Corps,
now belongs to her,
a love that transcends all boundaries.

In the quiet moments, when the world fades away,
I see her eyes, reflecting the stars,
a universe of emotions, a love that knows no bounds.
And in that reflection, I find my strength,
a renewed sense of purpose,
a love that would die for her, a thousand times over.

The poet and the Marine, two sides of the same coin,
bound by a love that defies definition.
A love that heals, that inspires,
that gives life new meaning.
And in that love, I find my peace,
a solace that surpasses all understanding.

In memory of the fallen heroes, I stand
A US Marine who bore witness to war's hand
Bravery and sacrifice, are etched in my mind
As I carry the weight of the ones left behind

Medals shine brightly on my chest
But they feel heavy, a constant test
For I did not earn them, not truly
The real heroes are gone, so unruly

Gallantry, Valor, Honor, Hero
These words now feel so hollow
For it was my brothers who truly deserved
To be honored, respected, and preserved

I fought in battles afar, and I survived
While they lay on the battlefield, deprived
Of the chance to come back home
To their families, where they truly belong

I am unworthy of these accolades
For I live, while they lie in their graves
Their memory lives on in my heart
As I carry their legacy, I am never apart

So here lies a US Marine
Proud to have served, yet still unseen
For the real heroes are the ones who fell
Amid the battle, where they dwelled

Rest in peace, my brothers in arms
For you are the true heroes, with all your charms
I will never forget the sacrifices you made
And I will honor you, until my final day.

The sentinel stood
on the stone parapet
under heavy storm clouds
that stained the stone wet
and as the sleet fell
he turned his collar high
and, stoic, did his rounds
with the faintest little sigh —
His simple task was this:
keep watch over the town
no matter wind or weather —
the corporal earned quiet renown

Reminding myself that I am not alone
in thinking there is a collective conscience
library that has been made accessible, but

to readers, only, and within that set,
to readers who read for life, to live,

letterly, let be, let see, let say, what if,

or wonder if, let us see, let us say, today

where you were when I was in process
as an explanation
of an adversarial approach, a strategy,
accessing a push that has come to shove

me into your comfort zone, to force a will,
a will submitted to that thing you profess
to know is too true to think two ways,

trick is, digesting suggested gulps taken,
earlier in our mindstreaming, thinking sure,

the good, the good
in being alive, good for nothing at any rate,

making no thing, seem likely how as spirit
feels, loosed, to seem likely why we think

we breathe, half time in, half time out,
day by day, we live and breathe, and assume
the position we were led to believe, ours
to hold as true, for the rest of ever after,

our purpose on earth, laughs in our heart,
and wipes a grin across our face,
and once more
-wordflow slows, so back up,
can occur,
yes, imagine the loss,
back up, clogs old reasons
arterial distinctions excused
as essential legacy worth sets
where your treasure lay unseen…

earnest as any disguised gay Nineties
entertainer on the society pages,
lo, long after Turing was made example of…
- rude gay abandonment, so sad, liar
dies to convince some school board,
we all make up minds, we all may let such be,

scriptural, let it be written, thus it becomes,
for those who know it, this is it, do as we say,
or die, as seen when tyrants are dramatized,
on TV for all to watch, minimum reading cost,
to bring the masses together in one mindframe,
withing our gestalt Earth earth mindshare,
through wishable otherwise moments
we make bend with a laughing what,
twist, and spin, and twist and spin, thinking
ifery was were ours, see, we agree and think
a free minute,
and let it fly, to become another just
in time right move, made with no prejudicial
estimation of the attention cost needed to use

a free minute.

Called to the word, duty.
- three poemlings -
- for American Memorial Day

Memorialized worth weighed.
-- what would I memorialize?

Duty weighed
in the commons
this due debt each reader obeys,
leaving any original touch alive in logos
used to fit reasons why and how for now,
using memorialized excuses for active wars
calling ceaselessly hero wannabes
to hold true earnest faith in wars reasons
being  a duty, an aliegiance,
only that which must be done,
while young in wordless wonder of mutual nonsense
if sense and sensitivity persist past understanding.

Look up. Imagine ever, imagine now, ever
after all we think or ask is made apparent,

an artifice, a made thing, not made by hand,

the heavens and all that in them is, like us,
too complex to guess self formed, as if
no reason, no rational balance law
enforces re-ality always,
in our own time.

------------------

After all, now, is what we be
as sensing sanity beings
in cosmic chaos bound
to spiral ever more ceaseless.

Learning life's way.
Spinning enforcing will…
per hap and chance ifery.

According to a whim,
whether mine or another's,

I venture not to say I know,
for in this time I'm bound in,

I am bound to ever learn and
so, to confess the process,
ready made, pre-installed,

whimsical reification of wha-tifery
we may imagine without words.

Symbolic jestures, gestating
waiting. Making up secret signs,

lo' I see, you know, that I am
naked, first idea tasted
raw ality init run on
gaseous, formless
we, us ones, awe
forms framed in lucid

lackadaisical tension loosing.

------------------


Phased perrenial philo response,
sponsored by the guy who lied to you.

Truth beknownst, as knowledge
and understood wisdom,
wissen wishin' kennen
kennethed upto me,

may, is my word today.
I may say I think, and think
I may.

Enter, if you will, you may, here;
for to hear a wink reminds us, we;
persistent sophistries relax ourselves,
into the one thing we all think we are.

Yes. There and then, we think we are.
I am of a mind to accept the similarity.

I am out acting out-ist-ence, seeming
something informationally nebulous,

a thought, unfit for children's
undeveloped world stage character,

- in the software under our skin
- we are gaseous by simile being
- breaths used time and again, sigh
signs of all the stages, phazes of us, this

we who seek and find delight,
in learning who lied and why,

when truth telling gets you kilt. Dead,
memorialized with a national holiday
a day set apart to acknowledge duty
done gone
totally off kilter,
tipped too far,
to fill the vessles, not a few,
as duty to the professor.

- as one ever learns one is
- nothing but a bit of it,
- reality as we imagine.

Under the umbrella of religational
authority, we tie our mind's axe
in a bundle of barrel staves,

and offer liberty means to set minds
loose enough to imagine freedom

from authorities existing in the paradigm
fitted to the model citizen, for when
a memorial day comes to our we mind,
we finish realizing this is Spaceship Earth,
our only home,
star orbiting, gravitational bloom of life,

in which, remember, we
join mind in mind,
using recyclable whims, thinking
peace given once, can never be untaken,
like breath, grace for grace, Chabad -
made mock of only
by those who hold lies true, fools,
seeing themselves
chosen warriors
for justice,
military minded solo scripturants
led - re educated
to believe
in the bayonet spirit
during duty programming for killers,
for killers are what duty calls heros,
pledged, soul deep
to hate others, all lying daemons
of the destructive mindset calling Christmas
either
a whole cloth fabrication
or
a message which must be authorized,
to proclaim accomplished, once
for all. Under 501-3C tax freedom
only certified
saints disciples can claim
to listen, and spew anointed mass,
listen, repeat in vain the rosary chant,
hmm. hear the apparitions told the children,
to say we see, only leave being true this story,
for the rest of your lives, or
burn in faithless shame
for not relaying the message
to be carried into battle, believed

as taught, accepted as heel-stomp proof, troof.
-on Earth…
When one becomes a true citizen… one imagined
as having peaceful access
to all the freedoms promised,
when dead to all intents and purposes,
upon successful passage through mid-life.

Breathe,
remembering indeed.

It is one's duty, in the form of gaseous we,
to breathe and remember being one,
among the current crop on Earth,
breathing  members involved
in letting peace be realized as us,
whose task is mocking gods of war.

I gotta ask

myself, am I mad, or is this that day, again,
did we make a plan to finish something again,
and not do it, again?

I do believe, we have settled that both ignore and
believe are verbs in a modality, meaning

if you do not do it, yourself, it does not get done,
I believe ignorance is an active state, sold as faith,
evidenced by things unseen,
substantially manifested
in the peace you hoped
to find, being yours
to make up, in your mind,

and let it drift into reality, as we breathe our
insides out,

there could be a word for that.

Too bad, he only

does his duty, I would like --


him to be a saint.

Reluctance wants to

be alone, unobserved not --


doing what you want.

Peace & love
And safety, security.


The art of war,
Is the portrait of justice-
The picture of peace.
The liberty to live free,
As we choose and want to be:
But the duty to defend what we believe.