Riot Act

And so it was…

…An incurable scourge…

         …Happed to make its stand…

…Upon our patch of soil…

              …In this once proud land…

Panic

Disorder

Chaotic Applause

Predilections Rise

In revolt of an unjust cause

Infamy

Atrocity

Tyrannical Pause

Insurrections beget

In defense of pawns

Protect

Fortify

Symbolic thaw

Volitions speak

Riot acts upon

Rigid

Static

Empirical scars

Elevations threaten

The way things were

Conflict

Discordance

Iniquity calls

Inflictions augment

The way things are

Collision

Fray

Cascades draw

Perditions whelm

In the support of man

…And so it was…

…Carnage crawled back into its depth…

…United was the common man…

…Deflecting treble …

 …Distracting spawn…

…With the will exhibited by all…

…Shielded from the shame of failure…

…Through which…

...A once desolate village…

…Became quite strong

Mortar Fire and the Sound of Independence (Soldier Chronicle Volume Three)

Mortar fire and the sound of independence

Sky lit in brilliance

Reminds me of our endeavor,

As if I would ever convince myself otherwise

I forgot the names by now,

I wish I would have paid attention

Gave camaraderie a try,

Yet then, well I would also

The beaches coveted the brush,

This jungle from all sides,

Thick entanglements of plants, trees, vines,

And bugs, so many bugs,

Footmarks led pathways I would fear to see,

Who, and what would they steer towards me,

Estranged, weeks perhaps,

How the body changes when left unattended,

My escape was a stumble upon,

Some lucky hacks hidden in the brush,

Tree supporting their covert lifestyle,

Scared kids with ink long gone,

Waiting for a bus to fly them home,

At that point, then,

I offered nothing but a plea to join their crusade,

Most accepting those writers were,

Having me around set them at ease,

Guess they felt safer with a man like me, around,

Appearances cast deeper images than our words suggest,

And the weapon,

I enjoyed their spirits, albeit reminding them it really was myself against,

But their spirits were higher than when I arrived, therefore I didn’t have the

Heart to tell them I was out,

I met them by luck,

But luck is not what got me to them,

It was disobedience that saved my life,

The lieutenant announced we’d be coming in from atop,

Surprise that morning, glory all night,

I explained my ears were keen,

And I know familiar sounds over the hill,

My gut instructed me to disobey what I knew was right,

What I was trained to do,

And so I dropped below as they rose above,

Seconds later I heard the firefight,

I heard the enemy swarm past me, as I hid myself away,

I returned and buried the dead, all of them but myself,

I heard it then I hear it now,

If only I’d listened, the families claim I could have saved them all,

I know better, which is not to say obeying was the wrong command to follow,

Each day now, since then, I see their excitement in their eyes,

For by their hands some unnamed assailants would die,

I tried to explain, I told them, but again I say they were close to one another,

I was merely a clinging shadow, they didn’t care to know, one they avoided

If only I made an attempt perhaps a different ending there would be

To this horrible tale I live to tell.

Cleaning Crew (Soldier Chronicle Volume Two)

Validation

Rise, be quiet but rise, rise soon

The sun is cradling the hairline

Of the wheat fields and moments we must prepare

Radio crackles and sky ignites

No fleshless crop survives the fight

Cleaning crew

Common courtesy to allow living clean the fields of their dead

Spriteful eyes commandeering from above

Yet they cannot see what is not shown

Apparently it takes a special kind of soldier

To walk among his friends, or those dressed like you

Who one day could have been close to you,

And push aside the items of least concern,

Scoop up bone, typically barren and cold, results not from

Cannibals to my knowledge, but carrion circling the sky-line

Searching for its next meal

Collect, do best to identify,

This duty seems without merit, but families need to bury family, yet that alone cannot compensate for the desensitizing you’ve endured, you hate your position, nothing could they say, and then you find, amongst the chipped bony processes, the dangled, mangled remains of a best of friend, you see a chest rise and fall, bloodshot and outlook not good, but if it weren’t for you and your crew, chance for this soldier would not ever be in play.   Days like this I thank God for this position, this role I play.

Relics of the war past lost (Soldier Chronicles Volume I)

Relics of the war past lost

Lives worn, erode like caustic

Dream, a reality polar opposite

Vision is not an option

Limb to limb,

Man to a Man

Devaluation, perhaps

The collateral

Snake skinned and venom-less,

Our opposition deposed of pride,

Crown, Throne and a possible

Side effect most takes away as the only

Benefit to the thrust forced upon the sons

And daughters of the now childless, or less children

To coddle by hand,

Death was, is, the only salve to a wound never heals

Death pictured in voluminous detail

Replaying again and again, between

The rainy procession down the lot and in through

Stained glass,

The vision haunts, as the body is yet returned

To this matter the parent holds responsible the president,

Chief armament to a desperate many

Master motivator, manipulator, ignorant entirely of the fact

This highest honored American had no part in your child’s fall,

The previous did no such propaganda either, perhaps you see things

Different, difficult to paint a proper portrait when you only see in a solitary color,

It is your prudence to allow your mind it’s time to heal,

It needs coddling itself at this, the grimmest hour,

Not to taint my stream of conscience, with a viewpoint so personal,

But for those enabled skill sets aware, in whichever place your eyes meet word,

Read between the linear, obtain the non colored space and the shade it colors the spine,

Their position, their telescopic lens, periscope into and out of, will reveal

And what it reveals to you, the individual reader, inclined toward poetics,

Yet will not feign eyes from truth, what you feel, however you see it, those and more are my positions

But I shall induce one last transmittal

Soldiers are a special breed

Selfless, martyring if I should paint in such theology

They deserve more than they have earned

Celebrations should be on display, outside

The pat on the back, glad to have you home parade,

Each owes them, whether visual or not, look long enough come will the thought

On The Lamb: Art reassembled

Preaching to the converted many,

Is like a venture into varied conversation with a chosen few,

For all the malice you’ve subdued,

One wrong word, a dissenting sound or awkward vibe,

Shall have constituted the execution; providing no defense of your good name,

One gun may be all that’s pointing, but in truth the victims shall be plenty,

You knew the possibilities that this could start,

But in the irony of this tale, you crawled to me regardless,

A suffering bastard, staggering, in search of arms outstretched,

You offered, through suffering extension;  In your own words reciting:

“Omerta, my truest friend,

A devil is here in God’s country now,

This fake messiah awaits 11^th hour , when both pariah and

Saracen unite in arms, preparing to die for this prophets’ name,

Omerta, my dearest friend,

 Everything shall soon be nothing, salvation lost & reclamation laid to rest,

In the absence of the sacred, not a warning, no remorse for the wicked or the dead,

It all will fall, each of us dying alone, as forgotten men, lost angels rotting in unholy graves

 As the palaces burn above the sky, the earth descending beneath

 Another nail set for pushing,

 In your case, perhaps the final, in the coffin,  a place you once called home.

Hurry and decide, the hourglass, it empties quick,

 Swifter yet, is the faded line, that withered thread, keeping us entwined,

Let us arise again, let us rekindle youth,

 Do not force my lips, to remind your ears

The damage the lies of autumn revealed” 

You are correct in this assumption, but do not travel back that far,

Do not make me retrace, all the steps we've wandered from,

Do you forget so easily, Do you not remember Kansas City?




Never, did my brother's tongue lay dormant before me; A nuance reserved for prey, the last words they would not hear.  Apparently it has reached that point...

So it’s clear then; Your foot desires placement upon my throat,

If that is your wish, then be done with it, crush the larynx mute,

I’ve nothing left, nothing in me worth to give,

Look at me, standing lame before you now,

I am pathetic, really it all is now, 


To think of those men, those warriors, we both once were,

Those Gods could not be defeated, yet we cast them aside, 


All because of embers, the ashes at her wake

“We swore as brothers, never again, to speak of Grace, ”

Yes, yes we did, and now you insist a reclamation of those thrones,


Like these puppet shells, can be willed away so easily, 


No! I won’t help you now. I cannot, no longer do I know how, 


This Was all I could muster, before salty remnants burned down my face,

With lamenting swagger, all pacing ceased.  A somber pause to lift his head:

“What I’ve become is undesirable considering all notions prior.  Was it a poor life choice?

I do not know, however, Incessant whining will not return those years.

We were men of honor, living  by code, a creed between man & god; kin to kin,

Do you remember the simple pleasure, in waking early, providing more time for the kill?

Omerta, you know all this, it lives within, but listen, listen now, 

We may be lesser men than our elder selves would boast to be,

However, we are still mighty, mightier than those to perish if we fail or refuse to try.

The two of us possess a unique skill-set; we are well versed, in the subtle art of murder

and persuasion, we know full well, how to blacken the cursed sun, and we are most adept 

in the letting of blood.  I extend my arm to you,  one final time.   Let’s take our broken 

hands & ravaged flesh, becoming Contractors once again.  Let us take fever in the passing 

that shall surely come; Let us walk to deaths’ door and beat it down.  I can only wage war 

upon demons, if you stand by my side.  Together, we are invincible, I remember & still 

believe.  We are capable men, able to sow with dead seeds alone,

Purify tainted rivers & swim the drowning safely cross its shore. 

We alone are capable, to issue a warning; to instruct the scribe to pen the tale, convince 

him to ink with his very blood.  Let us now complete our tale.   Dust off your armor, un-

sheathe proud blade, tonight our final vigil begins.

Walk with me in hell, one more time,

Omerta,… Now you’ve got something to die for.”