been beating a dead horse for several years now.
- the War.
- the Marines.
as if i were still an integral piece of the puzzle.
a cog in the wheel of international relations.
stems from my writing, i know this.
these are things i just know.
struggling to remember, to document, to create.
alas, there comes a time when a Marine's gotta drop his pack.
i'll spare ya the many apt metaphors, but ya gotta just put the whole damn thing to rest.
remember those years of boozing and brawling and globe-trotting, with a fondness only time can present.
otherwise ya might just end up a joke.
a punch-line to some skit on SNL;
a one-beat character on Gray's Anatomy
- choking out the lil' lady, spooning gone terribly wrong.
hoarding spilt-peas and bullets;
trip-wires in the backyard;
begrudging every last civilian who didn't serve.
so it's rest.
night-nights.
- the War.
- the Marines.
a piece of time that defined;
that guides;
that reminds.
- look in the mirror.
sun-burned and leathered.
far off eyes.
hands grizzled.
- connect the scars and remember when and where and how.
and why.
the .50 cal thumb;
the forced march in boots three sizes to small;
blisters faint now, smoothed over by cashmere socks, but so deep you couldn't walk;
toes numb, frostbitten in some fighting hole as ya hamstered sunflower seeds.
back sore, unremitting, nagging like am eastern european mother-in-law.
- 150 pound rucksacks hitching a ride for 20 miles or so did that, i think.
those are the "when's," the "where's", the "how's."
and the "why."
well, you were a kid.
that's why.
real simple, Timmy.
take a deep, deep breath.
chest huge, puffed up.
pulmonary alveolus wide open, flooding the bloodstream with oxygen.
and wait.
just wait.
it'll come.
feel it.
warm and tingly.
hold it for a moment.
just a moment.
a fleeting wonderful moment.
and exhale,
like whisper...
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