You asked me to write more poetry.
"Remember that one you wrote for me when we first started dating?
I read it all the time,
It was so beautiful."
"That was an anomaly,"
I retort.
"I do not write poetry; I get tattoos and haircuts. I stretch my earlobes and dress funny. I buy signs from homeless people; that is my art."
My eloquence is nonexistent,
I do not carry the right kind of pain with me
Nor do I have enough beautiful thoughts
to write good poetry.
The only thing I could spurt out for you
Is only 15 lines long.
A pitiful piece of work.

I wanna be contigo
And live contigo, and dance contigo
Para have contigo una noche loca
Y besar tu boca
I wanna be contigo
And live contigo, and dance contigo
Para have contigo una noche loca
Y besar tu boca

South Pacific 1944,
Our ship under attack,
Men at the guns,
Zeroes coming in.

Smoke and bedlam,
We three at our turret
Loading the gun:
Projectile.
Powder,
Fuse,
and slam the door
to belch explosives
at the sky.

Man the post
Keep on firing

But then I knew I had to go
And turned toward the hatch.
"Good-bye, Paul,"
I remember someone said.

Half in - half out the door
We took a hit
Direct
That blew Jim's head
between my knees
And on the deck.

Two died instantly
And there I stood
Wondering
About
Higher Orders.