There is no need to dwell on the exterior cliche of an injured soldier, the propaganda is superficial. Civilians have only plastic green men, heavy dusty movie set costumes, and Army-of-One heroes to populate stereotypes. Keep your images larger than life, no use touching up a paint-by-number. Mine was banal, foolish, and 19; enough said.

One fence is the fraternity itself, the next is brain injury. No other way to understand but be there. A Solid-American-Made-Dashboard cracked my forehead at 45mph.
Crumpling into the footwell,
unaware that the flatbed's rear bumper
was smashing thru the passenger windshield above me
the frame stopped just shy of decapitating my luckily unoccupied seat.
Our vehicle's monstrous hood had attempted to murderously bury us under,
but the axle stopped momentum's fate and ended the carnage under dark iron.
Shards of my identity joined the slow, pulverized, airborn chaos.
Back, Deep, Gone.

Unconsciousness is the brain's frantic attempt to re-wire neurons, jury rig broken connections, the doctor's desperate attempt to re-attach, stand back and say, good enough. Essential systems limply functioned, but unessential ones were ditched. Years later a military doctor diagnosed an eventual triage: Hypothalimus disconnected from the Pituitary Gland, Executive Function damaged, long pathways for emotional regulation interrupted.

I woke up still kinda bleeding, crusty blood in my hair, a line of frankenstein stitches wandering across my forehead.   My sense of self had literally dissolved into morning dust floating in a sterile hospital sunbeam.  My name was down the hall, words and the desire to speak were on a different floor.  Life became me and also a separate me under constant renovation, a wrecking ball on one half, scaffolding and raw 2x4's the other.

Waking up in the hospital, I realized I needed help to get the blood cleaned up.   A nurse came in, largely glared at me in disregard, and quickly left… for an hour.   She returned and brusquely dropped a useless ace comb and gauze on the blanket over my feet and abandoned me again.  This was my introduction to the shame of a VA hospital.  I minced my way to the bathroom, objectively examined my face in the mirror with shocking stitches above one swollen eye.  Gingerly rinsing my hair, the water ran pink in white porcelain.  I remembered the sound in my skull between my ears when a doctor scraped a metal tool across my skull, cleaning debris before stitching.  I recalled that in the ER I was asking Is he ok, repeating it like a broken record, knowing I should stop but I couldn’t.  There was also perhaps a joke about an Excedrin headache.

It was morning, and since there was no such thing as time or purpose or feelings anymore, I wandered to the hall with my only companion, the IV pole. One side was a wall of windows, and I was, what, 10 or 12 stories up from the streets of a much larger city than where I crashed.  The hall was warm and sunny.  I wheeled my companion to a blocky square vinyl chair to sit next to a pay phone.  I didn’t have any thoughts at all, or care about it.   After about an hour my first name floated up from the void, then with some effort my last name.  It took the rest of the morning to remember I had a brother.  After lunch we resumed our post, and I spent the afternoon in concentration piecing together his phone number.  God had pushed the reset button.

Thirty years ago the doctors didn't understand head injuries; they only recognized the physical symptoms. At first there was good reason to be permanently admitted to the hospital.  My blood pressure was unstable, sometimes so low that drawing blood for tests caused my veins to collapse even with baby needles.  My thyroid had shut down completely, only jump-started again with six months of Synthroid.  I had to learn to live with crashing blood sugar and fluctuating appetite.  For years afterwards, any stress would cause arrhythmias, my heart filling and skipping out of sync, blood pressure popping my skull.  Will the clock stop this time?  

There is always at least one momentous event in every person’s life that becomes punctuation, before and after.  The other side of Before the accident truly was a different me.  I have a vague recollection of who that person may have been, and occasionally get reminders.   Before, I was getting recruiting letters from Ivy League colleges and MIT, a high school senior at sixteen.  After, I couldn’t balance a checkbook or even care about a savings account in the first place.  Before, I had aced the military entrance exam only missing one question, even including the speed math section.  They told me I could chose any rating I wanted, so I chose Air Traffic Control.  Twenty years later, I thumbed through old high school yearbooks at a reunion.   I saw a picture of me in the Shakespeare Club, not recalling what that could have been about.   On finding a picture of me in the Ski Club I thought, Wow, I guess I know how to ski.   A yellowed small-town newspaper article noted I was one of two National Merit Scholars; and in another there’s a mention of a part in the High School Musical.  

This side of After, I kept mixing right with left, was dyslexic with numbers, and occasionally stuttered with word soup.  Focus became separated from willpower, concentration was like herding cats.  The world had become intense.

(chapter 1 continues in memoir)

Once upon a midnight, dreary,

Top Hattie twinkles, lipstick smeary,

...spinning girls like Mischief Managed all glittery on the ball room floor,

I was taken, most completely.

...Batting lashes indiscreetly.

D'lilac lips that pouted sweetly, a Circus Girl that knew the score.

I pinched myself, could i be dreaming?

Of this Nymph, this Empress gleaming?

was her Diva charm misleading? Shoe Addicted Troubadour.

A Siren in Styletto thrilled me,

Abracadabra wish fulfilled me,

......Medusa eyes that drew, yet stilled me- Retro-Futuristic roar.

Like an Airborn Unicorn descending,

advanced upon me unpretending.

my heart of Dragon Scales extending for this Cupcake Thief I'd cover for.

"Mirror Mirror" she whispered, smirking.

Countessa Fluorescent had caught me lurking,

and sent my Great Pink Planet jerking, Cosmopopping, Centrifuchia war.

My Beautiful Rocket was set to swinging,

No She Didn't hear the ringing

in my ears the Twilight singing, to the Limest Criminal on the floor.

The alarm stole Byron from his sleep at 5.30 am, a mere 2 hours after stumbling in from one of his so-called little drinks with Jake. Looking down at himself, he'd noticed he hadn't even managed to undress, and , the lack of boxers and an open fly, told him he'd had ***. A pink stamp on his hand, and a faint smell of perfume confirmed his suspected visit to the ******* he visited in the early days with Jake. Before Megan, obviously, but also afterwards, when the anger took hold, sometimes he would stay for hours on end, just soaking up the ***, drink, beautiful girls, telling his story to anyone who'd listen.
Strong painkillers and a full english breakfast saved him from the brink, so much so, he decided to log on, see what was happening on Beautiful Words.Various feed back comments, the usual slight flirtations from some of the female writers, and 7 messages from maiden. He typed in the search for poems and his latest batch were a big hit. "Phantom has 7 new messages from Maiden".(My Torment) had 14 reactions,(she is gone) and ( Megan) was gathering quite an audience, and Holly was slowly realising the pain in these pieces, real, solid pain.So much so, she joined the group. Byron scolled down to the last message  from Maiden. "Dearest Phantom, i feel so much empathy for you and your current situation. Please feel free to talk with me any time you want".Byron wondered if she'd still be as interested if she could see his scars, if she knew he had blindness in one eye, a scar running down the whole of his right ****** area, down to his collar bone.
"Jesus! Aw Jesus!. Byron grabbed his mobile and practically punched in Jakes number, he'd remembered something form the night before. He dared not go there, not without confirmation from Jake, ring ring ring ring "Answer the ******* phone, you divvy!!!!!". The reciever clicked,"Jake, Jake, get your ******* *** over here! NOW!!".Jake knew what he had coming." Just don't shoot the messenger mann". Shoot the messenger?, shoot the ******* messenger?, byron was likely to beat the messenger to death with a beer bottle.
The next 20 minutes was a blur, starting with some brandy, followed by a few smashed plates, an accidental smashing of Megans picture, and some sobbing.Turning the door handle, very very slowly, Jake crept through the door, taking in the deluge. Byron was sitting on the floor, exhausted and crying. "Look pal, she swore me to secrecy, **** it up. It's done! "Ah , **** it up!, that's your advise," Byron felt the blood rise in him, his temple veins were bulging," **** it up, my fiance was pregnant, you knew, you ****, and you want me to **** IT UP!!".
A glass flew in the direction of Jakes head, connecting perfectly, causing him to run for the kitchen, "You said you wouldn't **** the messenger", "Agreed BUDDY" Bryon said sarcastically, "But i didn't say i wouldn't kick 40 shades of **** outta ya!". Byron caught up with Jake and connected a punch, right in the sternom, enough to tear a huge grunt from him, doubling him over. Jake stumbled to the floor of the hall, half running, half dragging his feet. A few more smacks round the head and an airborn candle stick was all it took for Jake to finally plead enough already. The lifelong friends lay on the plush hall carpet, Byron wondering how the hell they would get past this, Jake wondering how many stitches he needed, and if that fit blonde chick was free tonight for a lap dance, and some ***,....

I am an hour away from you
And I am nervous
Scared that when we kiss
There will be no spark like before
But tell me
Does that even matter anymore?

We were all anxious about the takeoff. With one faulty engine and a short rough runway, we neded all the airspeed we could muster to get airborne. We hung on and braced ourselves as we roared down the runway. The bouncing suddenly stopped. We were airborn! we seemed to skim the wave tops for ages before we started a slow climb to our normal cruising altitude. This was another boring featureless flight, over the sea towards Darwin. I don't know what I was expecting, but whatever it was, I was dissapointed. Darwin was a mosquito ridden dump at  that time. We ate slept and took off after refuelling. Still with a faulty engine. The other aircraft did not come with us, this time we were alone and heading for a well known town in the outback. Alice springs. Now we were flying over some great country, it seemed so crisp and clean- even if most of it was desert. We landed at alice springs to refuel, and then took off with full tanks, heading for the Australian Air Force base near Adelaide, I think it was at Edinburgh Fields. Gordon was sleeping, or trying to, I was sitting by the window gazing at the countryside below. I began to see what looked like a vapour trail coming from the wing, there was one similar coming from the wing opposite too, it was very slight, was I seeing things, perhaps it was moisture in the air, I sat and watched for half an hour, it was more noticeable now, and it seemed to be coming from the fuel tank filler pipes. I thought it was worth a mention, and I went to the cockpit where the pilot and radio operator were talking to the fitters. The Pilot was thumping the gauges on a panel. I told them what I saw. Christ! the pilot and the fitters looked worried very worried.
He patted me on the shoulder, "Well done, we thought the fuel gauges must be faulty. He turned the aircraft around and headed back to Alice springs for another refuelling. The tanks were filled again, the filler caps were ******* down tight, and we took off again!  Twenty minutes later we were back for more fuel and the filler caps were checked and rechecked and finally ******* down as tight as possible. We took of again, and landed again, took on more fuel,and  tightened the filler caps. "It's too late to continue with the flight now, we'll stay in town tonight and try again in the morning. "That was easier said than done, we had no money and no credit, we managed to get a room at the pilots expense , but there was no food but a packet of biscuits.
I lay on the bed beside four others and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Airborn and flying
Falling and rising
Sky high
Water below
Tears falling
Sobs growing
Heart aching
Stomach churning
Silence in the wind
Catching those tears
Soft touch
Warm feeling
Your here
At peace ………..

The tide abates
As the storm rages on
Slowly the shore reveals itself
Assaulted by the waves

Twenty years ago
Here I would sit
Upon this rocky outcrop
Watching the ancestors of these waves

The rocks and shingle roar
Growl to me from below
Why don't I jump in and save them
From their steady,slow erosion

A long, piece of driftwood
Is flung airborn by a wave
Part of a long-lost craft
Only now finding landfall

The light begins to touch me
Through the tangy, salt-sea air
I retrace my steps once more
Leaving home behind me.

“He wasn’t even your brother”
“Why the **** would you want a tattoo?”
“You know that ****’s permanent right?”
I don’t want a tattoo
I want way more than a tattoo
I want people to see it and ask who he was
And I want to say he was the little brother I never had
Until he became the little brother I had for only 7 years
I want my eyes to fill up with tears
I want the world to know that pain is temporary when you shove a needle inside of you
But its not temporary when you lose someone who was a part of you
That **** lasts forever
It will last forever in my brain
It will last forever in my heart
Is it so bad that I want it to last forever on my skin
That pain in my heart that pain in my brain that's the forever I’m scared of
That's the forever I don’t want to have
I crave the forever of this aching ink stain
It's a stain that has been in my brain for four years now
If you asked me I couldn’t even tell you HOW I’ve lived these one thousand four hundred sixty one days
Without him the world quickly turned grey
The thorns overpowered the beauty of the flowers
The shade got in the way
The rain burnt out the fire of the sun
Where Weezer used to play
The moments became pictures
The pictures became memories
The memories became moments I took for granted
And it took four years but the picture frames eventually fell slanted
These pictures were handed and planted on this wall just to become slanted
These pictures of the miracle that ran out of miracles at only 10 years old
I was 13 watching his body go cold
You think I’m too young to put some ink on my skin
You think I’m too young to be smelling like gin
But am I too young to be dying?
I close my eyes every winter just to see miracle boy lying while my best friend is crying over his miracle powered body
I see others tears drip down his miracle bald head
I see that rubber tube giving him air
But he’s already dead
You ******* fools you thought air could bring him back to life
He breathes miracles *******!
He lived on prayers
He never ****** in your airborn *******!
I can’t stop staring at that little chair where he used to sit
It’s been 4 years no one can move it
It weighs 2 pounds but the memories are a ton
We just look at it cause he was the only one
That could make something special by loving it
He was the only one worthy of the **** that he loved
He was ******* miracle boy how hard is that to understand
I want everyone to know his life like the back of their hand
I want a tattoo at 17 somehow I’m sick in the head
But 3 years is old enough to be sick and 10 is old enough to be dead
I write this **** down and realize this is what I should have said
Not “oh yea you’re totally right I’m an idiot sorry”
SORRY that this time I’m not throwing my opinions AWAY to be agreeable because november 29th marks the DAY my brother died in front of my eyes
Try to tell me he’s not my brother you’re full of ******* lies
Id tattoo MF in the center of my face
He was my brother and he can’t be replaced
By this little trace of permanent ink
But maybe if it’s there I’ll finally be able to THINK about something happier than watching miracles fall 6 feet under
During these winter months of depressing rain and scarring thunder
Ill know I’ve got bad memories on my mind but good ones on my skin
And I can sleep with a little pain on the wound but no more pain within
With this little symbol of love
Ill be spreading his story till the day I die
Like hell I want the people I love to be on earth
But miracle boy belongs in the sky.

i know what i want to hear and i know what everyone is going to say but i can't subdue this heavy feeling in my chest and he was so different than anyone i've ever met i ******* miss it so much he made me feel like i was floating and he was holding me up he made me smile when i was angry at him and i was ******* happy to be angry at him i was happy that someone could hold up an argument with me and not back down when they were wrong i was happy that he was happy i was happy that when i told a joke he would laugh and he would remember and i was ecstatic that his life revolved around me just like how mine revolved around him

our love wasn't stupid and pointless like everyone elses, it was rooted thick in our veins and stuck in our heads to the point where it filled our dreams with chiche quotes and airborn fruitflies,

our love meant something,
it meant more than anything and everything,

it wasn't a game, but it was, we were always competing and complimenting each others personalities,

and i can honestly say that you made me believe in love, because my heart forever belongs to you and i cant wait until you come back and claim it..

it's waiting for you,

so please

find me

I squeeze the sodden rags of my psyche for the last droplets to wet my parched mental
I cast my gaze left and right
frantically searching for the thief of my words
the giggling cackling vicious
snatches thoughts from my cradle
whisking them to never
and my thief her sister
whispers to me that there was nothing stolen at all
that this absence has always been there
and the many many messengers
had always the wrong addresses
my missives go to nil
they were not packaged and shipped
they were not stolen
they were not

Bo walks with me
his dark eyes hold a spark
the flicker of a candle in a pool of oil
his black gilt cane grasped with a firm jeweled hand
the thief and her sister in the corners of my vision
always so while I turn my head
amidst the deep green wood
where my dear Bo walks beside me

In angel training we had an app…
a mantra… koan-kinda thingy doo
mathematical as hell and **** turning to asterisks
via iIiantelligent sorting, artfully done, for fun
in 2019 social mediumsaxin' all deniro
is who human?
A sort rant on the worth of living
right. Like a cog ona wheel in a wheel…

An I'll go all-gonwritmic see-quence be
gun, go-** word's
heir of airborn ranger danger
war minded old man
traits- message
messenger
sent
Sorting by likeness to true blue,
in Tengri- iteration of waiting-is
come and see
If, one sure
must not ignor rule, exists,
it may be this, here, my realm

life goes on until you quit functioning
automatical-ish, like magic
the words appear and
you're not, dear reader, near if
it seems
I'm right

enough

alone, or not.
life goes on.
Right. Otherwise, it doesn't. And we
are idle words affecting
whether patterns in
random fandom of
AI whet-dreams, with an edge on
effectual stretchings of the old
imagineer's skin in the game.

Deep id, kid. You ever imagine war?
You can do that here,
it's a game. My side won.

When walls become your imprisonment,
A no win scenario with a raging sickness,
You miss your camera capturing snapshots of life passing by.

You are one in a collective of people, holding each other metaphysically to barricade the vulnerable, this is more than just you.

You pace, you pass time, and you precise your ideas of freedom,
You may even do a painting or two,
A Tik Tok while the clock ticks.

Reflections of your most inner turmoil surface,
Pressures of life continuing with you boxed and it builds
Deadlines
Deaths
Destability

When you just can't take it any more,
You bash against the door, striving for that one touch, one feeling of hope you will break free of the airborn seel

The door opens

One

Point

Five
is  sprayed on your steps, and in your mind.

You would  do everything to chase the sunrise as it greets you again

Late afternoon April 14th, 2022
meteorologic destiny manifested...
rumbling atmospheric thud,
promised natural exultant
the sky opened up
cascading wall of water
created instantaneous flood
sound and light show
subsequently within minutes
dully rightly appraised as dud,

yours truly forced himself awake
way before dawn's early light
all for naught, yet...
thus hours later summoned,
perhaps lame poetic material
(think) potential Earth shaking
literary cause not lost

expressing disappointment
'pon absent dramatic booming anticipation,
electrifying fascination, injecting glorification
atavistic beastie boy within me
awed, charged, fascinated, jarred,
witnessing (i.e. seeing and hearing)
humbling experience beholding

dynamic latent forces unleashed
intense earsplitting, blinding
spectacular singular sensational
magnificent natural phenomena
far surpassing, née dwarfing
extravagant pyrotechnics wrought
courtesy innovative **** sapiens.

Time and again
without fail - exuberant delight
always gushes forth,
no fanfare for
totally tubular common man,
whose feeble insignificant powers
laughable and lamentable

puny human specimen
easily flicked (think
humongous sized fingers
particularly middle digit)
sending me airborn
pirouetting head over heels
at mercy of Mother Nature's whims

among brethren and sistren
constituting fray'n chipped
foo fighting ship of
motley crew zing fools
metaphorical human league
bajillion **** sapiens
even if/when global

standing military combined
be they: armies, marines,
navies... fighting force
nope, still no match
against tectonic and volcanic
potential and/or kinetic energy.