their lungs, their lives were cindered....burn pits afire,
our troops came home, can't breathe

the lunar light ascends.....deathless elation, celebrants, the Godhead

pearl string moonlight on obsidian tides.....lovers linger
on boardwalk

The souls of the seas will be
committed to their maritime dwell,
and the reflected moon tides
shall have stars on silent waves
that mourn-
when my grieving will leave
from my earthly body,
as the mermen attend my
seashell bier in the vast of
the Atlantic.

In the rituals
of the life of struggle,
they work the blue collar jobs
of their parents-
grilled cheese, fries,
a shitbox used car,
scratch tickets duds,
so many of no frills,
so many barely getting by.