Eat Sand

So. I was over at my brother Mike’s and I saw a photo of soldiers huddled, squatted, probably praying. And I remember mention of a phone call of a phone call at 3:00 am from Iraq. My cousin Ritchie, he’s a young pup in a big dog’s war. I warned him. But he heard only the sound of freedom, freedom from his parents. Now. Now he’s in a war. The phone call. He was distraught over a friend, a friend that had been by his side through training, through battle, through it all. And now he was gone. Walking into the room. He stood by the window, took a drawl off his cigarette. Said something to Ritchie. And jumped out of a three story window to find his death lying on the ground below. He said he wished he had listened. That his views had changed. That people are people. And that they shouldn’t kill each other. But to this young man, death was preferable to life in a war in Iraq. Be strong soldiers. Be strong. Eat sand. Reflect when the time is right. But for now. Just be strong. And eat sand. But come home alive...with your mouth parched. Ready to drink your freedom...from war

Everything is Broken up in Dances

smile in the sunlight of a beautiful
Mother's
Day

Paper

Glowing white accepts me
my words

for whom we are
realizes

how far I’ve come

that it will take a lifetime
to overcome these memories
of crying, barely able to count

bleeding by......mother’s hand.

Rubbing tears
and hate
with blood
onto my tiny beaten face

I stare into the bottom
of pain
of the kitchen garbage can
through this shapeless blur

and there, staring back at me
my new-to-me white shirt
lies crumpled
and torn
streaked with red

On some level, my sympathy
allows the man to understand

but he will never.

The child remains
on the floor
with another nosebleed
because he didn’t wind

the vacuum cord up properly.


"Mother did it need to be so high?"

To Be Eaten By Worms

Click on the title to read my latest
academic (for the most part) paper.

I had but one true criticism:
In the last line of the first paragraph,
"A bit too poetic, James, for a formal academic paper."
~ Philosopher, Becky Meadows-Wilson (this I can handle)