Eventually....

  

 

Eventually it'll throw a rod.

The transmission will grind to quit.

A head gasket will blow.

 

The tires are bald.

Suspension's sagging; mufflers shot.

 

The interior's gone to hell....

filthy and torn.

 

Nothing left, but the rust that holds it together.

 

It's a CARcass. 

 

Handsome once. Elegant, even. Bright. Gleaming.

That was then. This is now.

 

It's a hulk. A junk.

 

Yeah.................and the car's in bad shape too.

 

       

Between Heaven and Hell

                 

 

A drawn line of battle is a heart-stopping thing.

 

An object of dynamic power kicking you in the gut

causing a man to not be able to swallow

burning the back of his throat

incapable of hating such massed, latent energy.

 

It fills you with awe.

 

Across the field, sun glinting off bared steel

glaring from flags and banners

doubtless in acknowledgement every weapon is prepared

to not simply kill

but maim, tear, dismember, disembowel, decapitate

in blood to a horse's bridle.

 

Better to die than be wounded and abandoned on the field.

 

No warrior speaks, there is no murmuring or cursing.

Absolute silence washes the field like a winter wind

 

Hundreds, thousands of human brains understand this view

is the most beautiful, horrible thing they will ever see.

For many, it is also the last.

 

They stand on the blade between heaven and hell

and cannot tell which is the best.

 

And they wait

for the command.

 

                        

Boots For The Burning

 No more shall we lace these up

for to journey to the kill.

Never again to thirst for blood

for the glory or the thrill.

 

Lay we down our instruments

our rifles and our bombs.

We will find no joy in body counts

and the filling of the tombs.

 

Our clothing we'll take off

and roll them all in blood

we've gushed from gory wounds

that poured forth as crimson flood.

 

These boots we cast in fiery mounds

and burn to cinder all.

No longer will we march in force

to cause other men to fall.

 

Times of shock and awe will cease

no more the marshal song of war.

Death will finally die, that day

and we will glory in blood no more.

2 Old Pals & A Cup Of Joe

 It's just a cup of coffee

in the cafe, down the street.

But it comes with a trusted friend

a place two pals can meet.

 

He usually has a piece of toast

but I'm an omelette kinda guy.

Sadly, the one that eats the most

is the one that has to buy.

 

No matter that, we talk and laugh

and drink a whole pot of Joe.

For a couple of retired guys

we drink, and then gotta go!

 

We figure the bucks we spend

is the price we pay for rent.

We pay for more than food 'n Joe

we pay for the time we've spent.

 

It's just a lot of coffee

but really it's for the joy

of two old guys that for 20 years

on Fridays turn back into boys!

Prison of the Present

 the prison of the present

prevents the dreamer from
reaching beyond their keyhole
into a world of
marvel!

just beyond the key plate
is all manner of delight!

marvels that tantalize the mind
exhaust the body
stimulate sexual passion
offer success and acclaim
tease the future
all shimmer just beyond
the keyhole.

ah, but the prisoner laments
the verdict
sentenced to a life of......

What Might Have Been
What Never Will Be

all because
the prisoner of the present
never held
the key to tomorrow.

The Inhalation of Skies

 i am Wind!

i am the inhalation of skies
lungs of terrible draft
and willful fury.

i am Tornado!
i spin with hell's
centrifugal anger
and i will sweep far
your most worthy foundation.
i will lift high and dash your infants
with more ferocity
than Herod
stripping away every
cherished
prize.

i am Hurricane!
i will level your cities
break your levees
and forbid your populace
to return
rebuild
re-begin.

i am Wind.
i am deaf to
cantons of mercy.

when you believe you are safe
build monuments to the slain.

        But
I WILL RETURN!

I am Destroyer Wind.

Your True Friend

 LISTEN TO ME! Evil awaits. You, Rabbit, of all creatures

must know this. How many bled out
trusting in the confidence and
tender sensibilities of known enemies?

Little Red Riding Hood believed a wolf!
The Three Little Pigs thought themselves safe!
The Boy Who Cried "Wolf!" was so smart, was he not?

Where are they today, I ask?
They are Gone! No More! Disappeared!

You believe yourself immune to disaster.
No trouble will intrude upon your peace.
More highly evolved are you.
Your rational mind perseveres always.

When will you listen? I have your interests at heart.
I alone am your best...only...friend!
Trust me, Rabbit. I am nothing like my cousin, the Wolf.

I am your true friend.

I am just a Coyote.

The Harsh School Master

 War is a harsh School Master. You must trust me on this.

I learned that armor helps the warrior feel safe. But, it is heavy.
The trade off is, it slows you down. Leaves you vulnerable.
If your vehicle catches fire, there is no egress.

That big gun on the turret of tanks is impressive.
It, too, slows one down, and the supply of shells, if they catch fire
will cook-off, explode, kill the entire crew.

Perhaps you never witnessed a flame thrower
take a round, charring the wearer to ember?

What lessons, these?

Every fabrication of your true self is, at best, risky
and, at worse, tragic.

It will, eventually, slow your progress, or halt it altogether.
Sooner or later, that mask you insist is necessary, convenient
will completely diminish your true personality
and you will only fool yourself.

Your image is flammable. It can be reduced to ember if nothing
but a poor facade, incapable of rescue.

War teaches you must eventually walk in your own boots
know your capabilities and limitations
exercise your wisdom and forsake your foolishness.

Masks limit your vision, impair your progress, and limit
your potential.

Masks are impossible to maintain. The time will come
you will be discovered a fraud.

As hard as truth is, it is the only path to hope.

I speak this to your benefit.
Ignore me at your peril.

I am war.