I spoke to Sgt. Johnny Whykill,
on the phone.
He has survived on earth since our war use, as lives
bet, but not lost,

but barely. He lives in a VA hospital in Miami.
He can't even imagine dying elsewhere.
"Can't wipe m'own ****, but I can think about it."
Sad state, yet there is no undoing, there are
redo situations,
ment'lly
rethink the reaction to any pending next that seems

familiar, like a spirit, the kind not spoken of kindly,
speckled and spotted…
sorted by genetics with a
genius for splashes and whorls forming

one-off cattle of many colors,
mind me I am wasted with effort to empathize

via voice across the continent, over the gravity
under the weather
into the madness
through the rambling nonsense
which starts
settling down, when the nurse comes to wipe him,
He says,
"had to go, semper fi, bro, love you, thanks for callin',
you always make **** happen".

ONE GOOD DEED -exchanged
for all it's worth.

I recall many years ago...
An acquaintance who through misfortune and misadventure had severed three toes from his left foot. Although he eventually recovered and adjusted to this misfortune he always walked thereafter with a pronounced limp.

Several years after this incident he had the further bad luck to be involved in a cycling accident and this time he lost four toes from his right foot. Once again with the aide of professional help and prosthetics he was able to adjust.

Although he made physical adjustment he could never let go or refrain from telling of these two incidents on every possible occasion. In my mind it became his key to acceptance and seemed to be his way of gaining some sympathy for his hard done by life. I became aware and felt quite ashamed of my lack of empathy and was alarmed at just how irritated I could become whenever around him. I determined that I should seek help of my own... to discover why I felt irritated so irrationally.

I consulted with my GP and explained the circumstance in detail. I related how over the years the more I witnessed his actions and attitude the less restrained I could be in his presence. I would become both agitated and borderline aggressive when he would enter the room.

My GP listened and after brief pause to ponder upon the story I related to him he reassured me that my reactions were quite normal and were not as uncommon as I thought them to be.
I asked him if it were a defined medical condition and did I have need for concern.
He replied.... "you are quite simply lack toes intolerant"

You gave me a thousand reasons why,
You made it a mandate that I be with you.
You showed patience and care,
How Could not have believed you.

You painted a perfect picture of tomorrow,
A priceless canvas that would draw so many stares,
I fell for it, And I got glue.
How did I not see that it was all just an illusion.

You drew the curtain, and I saw the dark reality
Although you remembered every word I said,
You never tried to know me,
You 'crammed' your way into me,
Just so you could forget when you had me.

Surely the joke is on me,
You got me so fooled,
You made me think this was a happy ever after,
Clearly that kind of love only happens in fairytales.

“You take everything too seriously.”
“You just don’t have a sense of humor.”
“No matter how I react it’s wrong.”
I take things too seriously?
I’m sorry that I’m not always cracking jokes.
I don’t have a sense of humor?
I didn’t know to laugh at jokes at my expense.
Why am I always the punchline?
Why is my mental health a joke to you?
No matter how you react it’s wrong?
It’s always wrong because you always react the same way.
You never make an effort to change how you react to me.
Yet I’m always the one that’s sorry.
I’m the bad guy.
Put me in handcuffs and lock me away.
Why aren’t you ever sorry?
I guess I missed the memo from God stating your perfection.
My anger is never justified but yours is.
I just need to accept the fact that you will never admit to being wrong.
Accept the fact that I will never hear you say sorry.
I wrote you a letter saying sorry.
But now all I want to do is rip it up.
Burn it.
Throw the ashes into the lake.
Maybe I’ll jump in while I’m there.

Once was only abuse, fear, neglect
burst into a legacy of faith, free will of intellect.
She knows men, her pain is fleeting
She has learned rejection thy objectify her shamelessly.
We were never equal, fighting seems hopeless
Ruled by a system, no courtship towards justice.
You never know you can only speculate
Your depth is shallow you can no longer intimidate.
Food for thought they say but her brain space is full
Obese with so much junk it has left her uncomfortable.
What is this? A joke? How can it be?
Reality seems elusive, a mixed insanity.
Her fingers tremble, like a cold bitter night in the desert.
Nothing in sight but the rolling hills of parched earth.
She is an enigma laying there stunned listening to the mix.
Her soul is a paradox because of all the experience.
Everything is slipping away and she knows this.

it just could be

all I'm sayin is it might be me

you and me
because
once
you agreed with me that if we
could agree

we might settle some confusion
and make some lasting peace.

It could be you and me, in the end,
who had such power
all along.

Don't get me wrong. I'm just sayin'
we could all agree that death
is part of life and nothing

we do in life will help us know f'shore,
but I bet it has no punitive purpose,

life teaches lessons, not death. All's I'm saying,

we could agree but, we
just never considered

this might be our own determined free will
doing some never done deed heroic, like
binding the sweet influences of Pleiades,
or re linking us
to a hope hidden in fear of death,
retying the shades of liberty to our souls.

My side wins when we agree, so
if I surrender my will to thine, freely, see
we win.

Death has no course that led to victory.

Fear of death is the lie that holds men
slave to the market
and to war. Lose the fear, lose the dread.

3rd Poem
This is for you
Dear human being
Cos we don't like
One another not one bit
Read and enjoy
You forgetful cad.

We spend our days watching, by the hour,
The Kardashians in their ivory tower

Fifty-one million one can make,
And yet from the poor we continue to take.

With another tape, they could make more
Here men are, paying, preaching; “she’s a *****!”

Punter, performer; why is only one disallowed?
Sexes sin equally; Mz Davidson would be so proud

But a role model she is! Some also bark.
What about Wu Zetian, Zenobia, Joan of Arc?

They are lost, not as important as ingot
Instead we’ll recall Weinstein, bigot.

Stories of their tweets dominate the BBC
But where is the plight of the LEDC?