The lonely

I am not good at friends, at people. I am only good at this...pen and paper.

Who knows me, but you?  My plethora of books, generally leather bound and chicken scratched like all the others. In each one you will find the same angst, the same pain, and the same loneliness. 

It seems to be me, the lonely. Many times I love it, welcome it. It is where I can be exactly me. It is when the lonely is no longer lavender to my being, but salty leather and rusted chains that I must reach out. 

New Coffee Spot

I sit now, in a new place. The music is weird to me and the people order strange coffee I have never seen before. 

The coffee is beautiful, more sophisticated. A steamed milk heart swirls the top of my maciato, which here is a different drink than my old place. The cup is so small that my enormous hand swallows it. My dainty pinky looks so out of place when it lifts as I drink. 

I am handed a second glass, sparkling water, which is to cleanse my pallet following my maciato. It is refreshing. 

The baristas are not emo kids or random band mates working between gigs.

This place is marked by its passion...you taste it. 

Oklahoma

I must turn the station
as a mother weeps
for her child.

The lost souls swept
unremittingly
in the blast.

My own woe bleats,
as Miranda’s sublime cry
bray’s out to the crowd.

“Mid-February,” and “only December”
slice into my quivering
disposition—
Miranda and Blake “remember.”

They remember Richie
just as I remember Brandon;
two brothers lost before their time.

Blake is only able to vocalize
one verse, with eyes shut:
“You went away.”

The victims anguish is conveyed,

(the one left to mourn):

It is not clear in his voice,
his strum of the guitar,
nor his words.

It is his intimacy,
and the internal grief
that proclaim his conviction—
and personify mine.

It is not just about a 24 year old young man,
or a 17 year-old boy.

This night,
it is sung for Oklahoma
and the lost children
of the tornado
that took Moore.

Miranda betrays the lyrics,
eyes shuttering
as she releases the words:
“when it’s so close to home.”

The “home” she sings for
is not just a geographic state—

It is also the pith of abandonment.

Maybe it is in the melody,
or the Southern twang:
it could be the simplicity in the lyrics,
or the memory that rests in Christmas day—
that make their voices feel like mine.

The truth, at the core—
the damage.

Unlike a passing tornado,
the fractured foundation
remains.

Agino

He swirls his burgundy  glass, 

tears fall back 

like they always do. 

A sunken, foreboding moan 

release from his lip.

The spice of the abrusco, 

trifle his tongue--

palpitating each pore

of his epithelium. 

Brain receptors detonate,

like tannerite 

to his passe palate. 

It is that bittersweet memory

:the toast,

from the same burgundy glass,

with Elsea Corbin

(who died last November).

Every May 12th 

he would uncork a bottle of Agino.

For 57years

they shared the last sip

on their lips.

The notes linger: 

like a peppery bouquet,

held by a young girl in white lace.

The notes linger:

 like the end key to Canon in D.

The notes linger: 

like a samba 

across a robust, crystal  canvas.  

The notes linger:

 like the shadow 

of an empty,  burgundy glass. 

Nicki Manaj and Si Robertson Meet in a Bar

My next assignment is to pair two known people who you would generally not associate the other with and create an encounter. 

Nicki Manaj and Si Robertson Meet in a Bar

“Aren’t you that Mickey Ninja lady rapper?”

“Oh my gawd!

Crazy Eyes Si?

Darling, darling let me finger

your beard.”

Nicki rakes her long talons

through the brush

of the duck mans

facial mass.

“You know back in Nam

a man’d hafta pay a hooker

5 cents to stroke his beard.

Now ladies be payin me.”

“It’s like a fuzzy, matted,

nappy,

straw set weave.”

Nicki starts dancing around Si,

pink and jade beard hair

bouncing on her head.

“I feel like I am six years old

in Tobago.”

Si grabs the ladies hand,

twirling her bouncing body

off of his desert tan

crinoline tutu.

“I used ta live in a

Winnebago—

Daddy made me dig my own crapper.”

“Me too Papa Smurf, but I said Tobago!”

Winnebago, Tobago,

Tai Chi, Sweet Tea,

same difference

don’t ya think?”

Peace and War

Peace and War

She was a girl, 18 years old.

It was an innocent question:

“Where were you for 9/11?”

“I was in second grade,” she replied.

The hair on my arm

penetrated my frail sleeve—

the breath in my lungs dropped

like and IED.

The tear of my sorrow

remained dry.

I was 20 years old the day the Twin Towers

went down.

I watched Flight 11 at 8:46 am

crash into the North Tower

behind Katie Couric.

I drove to Ravenscroft Beauty Collage

where I attended school.

The TV in the commons

at 9:03 am

broadcasted Flight 175 crashing 

into the South Tower.

All of the differences

that once separated people

diminished

as we held hands in prayer.

Camille and her sister Avril sang

the Hymn— “There’ll Be No Dark Valley.”

I stood, hands clasped, head bowed

too petrified

to sob.

I came from peace.

I came from the Clinton administration

and Bush comedy reels on SNL.

This girl, 18 years old, has lived

mostly during war time

not peace.

My friend’s fathers did not die in Iraq

when I was in second grade.

When I was 15, brothers

didn’t fly home in aluminum

transfer cases

with draped flags.

When I was in second grade

my friends step-father had raped her

and her sister.

I held her as her mother

chose a molester, a rapist,

over her own children.

When I was 15

my friend held me

as my brother

flew home from Mississippi

in a 20 gauge steel-box

draped in my mother’s tears.

My hairs prickled on my arm,

and my voice quivered in its desire

to mourn

for this 18 year-old girl—

because all she knows is war—

what I honestly want to cry for,

is me,

because in that moment it occurred 

at 18 

all I knew

was war. 

The next poetry assignment is a free write... Let me know which one you like best.
I am trying to get more confident in my language and more in depth with my meaning of each piece.

Last assignment I turned in "The Fallen"

I am always thankful for what readers have to say about my work and it helps me in my final decision on which one to turn in. Thanks all!!

Also I believe I did not tell you which word list poem I ended up picking.. I turned in "Release" and it was workshopped in class. My Prof. had a lot of good to say about this one and it really encouraged me to start being bolder with my language.




Poem #1—
Generational Likeness

Riddled in perplexities—
lost in mid-stream.
A voice, not his, calls to me
from the current
of the Mississippi.
The prismatic clears,
the abysmal blues,
and the pine staked greens
ripple across the driftwood
like anatomy.

The ice of my plea—
lost in mid-stream.
A girl of innocent lace,
threaded in the rigor mortis
of bloated wool,
attaches herself to the touch
of his last clipped curl
between fingers
of living flesh.

My identity—
lost in mid-stream.
A place holder
of pages—ripped from his anthologies
float in a basin of sulfuric acid
eating the meat:
of each word,
of each moment forward,
and of each lucid flash back.

The sparrow, perched alone—
lost in mid-flight.

I am awakened 

by the salty touch
of a child,
and the face 

of the deceased.


Poem #2—
Variegation

The variegated yarn,
worsted wool
is like the seasons
of my soul.

A multiple ply
combined to make
one whole skein.

The muddy rust
bleeds into the cauliflower cream.
The turquoise pops
next to the dying grey.

It is the ring I wore
at 15
the year
my brother died.

It is the exact textile
of his curly nap
brushed
into a soft fuzz.

It is the lilac purple
of the receiving blanket
my daughter was wrapped in
when I was 28.

It is the muted blue
over the brown
of her
baby eye.

It is the auburn
of my husbands hair
at my grandfathers funeral
when I was 31.

It is the green of his Class A’s
and the pink of his eye
when the tear trembled at the brim
during taps.

It is the Antiqued
sequins
last year
in my sister’s bridal gown.

It is the black
of my mascara
meeting my quivering lip
as I toast

for peace and bliss.

The crimson reds
fade out of the flesh tone tans.
The greys
liven
the whites.

A skein
broken into plies
to piece out
the threads

of my soul.
My seasons
like worsted wool
are the variegated me.



Poem #3—
John

“It didn’t take much.” John said to me.
“Just a moment, when the fibers frayed
and life became fabrication.”

“I just left, mid-shift:
my job, my wife, my kids.”

The lunacy flickered in his callow eye,
the twitch of his lip, roughly twisted into a smile.

He
stands
in
line.
Counting
tin
foil
pans
by
ten.

The “clients” around him—
mentally disabled.

Mary—
rocks back and forth
muttering inaudible words under her breath.
Her eyes cast about, assiduous, diligent
untiring,
like a spy?

Rubel—
repeats my name
“Amber” 3 times.

“Did-you-know-Amber-is-a-yellowish-brown?
Amber, Amber, Amber
is-a-female-name. Tiffany-Amber-Thiessen! She-played-on-Saved-by-the-Bell I-saw-her-on-the-bus she-said-hi-to-me-she-is-so pretty-I-love-her-do-you-love-me? Amber, Amber, Amber is-a-fossil resin and-it-is-in a-song…”

He sings to me,
no longer
running on
“…amber waves of grain…”


Ray—
with poor English whispers
“I Love you”
3 meters from my face.

“Be careful,” they told me,
“One innocent gesture
can become
a love affair
in their world.”

Doc—
at 12:03 takes cover under his work table
“It’s Charlie!”
He screams
holding each palm
of his hand
to each ear.
At 12:21 he emerges
as if he had bent down
to tie his shoe.

Mark—
sits alone
with a black crayon
slashing
slashing
slashing, through barcodes
of crest. His face pinches,
contorts, as his eyes disappear
into his wrinkled
quivering
cheeks.
Salty droplets from his nose
crash
onto his work table.

“NO! I can’t do this!”
His bellowing sob of angst is like a whale song
to a mother’s breast.

His cries cease.

He is slashing
slashing
slashing
once more.

John interrupts, “They count,
they sort, they slash
I supervise.”


“Just one more promotion,
then I can leave.”

John’s smile
in his voice,
tells me—
“I can just leave, mid-shift:
no longer a ‘client’ of insanity.”


Poem #4—
Memorial

The Southern Red
and Scarlet Oak trees,
are nothing like the Weeping
Willow
of my memories.

The Lavender
and Wormwood herbs,
are nothing like the crystalized
hash
of his pipe.

Hannah Street
and Duane Drive addresses,
are nothing like Greenlawn
Memorial Park—
Plot number 74865316.

February 15th
and April 1st days,
are—
like the child birthed,
and the teen found dead.

Poem #5—
Mollification

My thirst
for the poisonous spoilage
mollifies the suffering

of my tongue. It does not quench
my pain. It does not stifle
my thirst.

The penis between
my thighs
mollifies the suffering

of my womb. Still unable
to moisten
my thirst.

Ink blots of mascara
cascading my shower wall
mollifies the suffering

of my depredation. Like my delusion
of a bourbon tongue
my thirst
mollifies the suffering.

Poem #6—
Reticence

My reticence fades
as the candied skull eyes
fix on me.

Cashmere quills
morph into flesh
my reticence fades

with bleeding words.
My own lip
fixes me.

A caddy Hatter, with childlike
chatter, with my vomit—
my reticence fades.

I am the slayer—in defense.
Words of abuse
have fixed me.

I believe
I am nothing.
My reticence must fade
to fix me.

Grey and Death

Grey and Death

There was no color
on the 93rd floor
when those bastard boys
abducted me.

The other’s
like me,
6 years old
in their desks.
The teacher blind
to the heist.

Those bastard boys
placed a ladder
from my window
to the next,
across the way.

It was me
on the roof
when those bastard
boys
pushed me.
Didn’t you see?

I fell
to the ground
without a touch
to the brick
streaming
concrete.

Those bastard boys
gone
the school kids
looking
to the ground.

Those bastard boys
killed me!

No, I am alive!
I am right here!
Don’t you see me?

The Fallen—Poem

Tell me what you think... This weeks poem. If you are/were a service member and have anything to add ( like if I did not represent something correctly) please give me your feed back. I write this stuff because I love you all and would like nothing more than to be able to honor you all in my writing :)


The Fallen

That funeral is tomorrow.
I pull out my Full Dress Whites,
and fold his mothers flag, like an infantry man.

He was in my brigade my first tour.
My Class A Greens are wearing thin,
that funeral is tomorrow.

I remember when he was eleven
he said, “Daddy, I want to be like you,”
as I laced up my boots, like an infantry man.

I heard it on the news,
he was a boy from my own town.
"That funeral is tomorrow,”

I cried. Where are my Dress Blues?
I shaved my face and stood at the gate
holding the American flag, like an infantry man.

Others came too, each with their own flag in hand.
We were silenced and striped in white, green and blue.
That funeral is tomorrow.
We all lace our boots like infantry men do.

Poems of the week!!!

This week was a word list poem. We had three different lists to choose from so naturally I tried my hand in each list. PLease comment your pick for this week.

Poem 1

Heritage

Her grassy lip
and olive flesh,
eye the town,
her hearth.

Maybe Manarola?

Like a fox
at the edge of a throat
or
a panther
in the clear of the moon—

no longer is she the bridled wolf.

No longer is she
the misfit of an American factory.

Her face,
next to theirs,
is as casual as the oak of Italy.




Poem 2

Muted

Like a foggy rock
anchored to the torrent,
her iron umbrella
was shelter no more.

Her mother, the badge of water
and the inferno to her glass quilt.

The sock of thunder,
transparent,
exploits the maternal canopy.

Her doorknob no longer baggage to a world
foretold.
His whiskers sharp on her yielding thigh
eradicating mother’s fasten
on her lips.

The clock at the chair
keeps tapping.

The muted girl—
no longer restrained.



Poem 3

Release

Her eyelash batted at the windshield
to her marrow.

The Opulent Reverend cloaked in Amethyst
anointed her lips
with the oil of Jerusalem.

Hail like the thorn of a dove
imprisoned her
to the stern of her station.

No axe
nor stone
could release her—
from the balloon
of her chasm.

No crane
nor cabin
could make her driftwood—
in the brackish brook
of her rein.

only the amnesty
of her last inhalation—
could set her bond
to flame.

Her grasp on his hand released
her beating heart quieted
like a silent symphony.

Her eyelash as still as the mucus
in her lungs.

This weeks poem is a free write. As promised I have two to choose from... Please just remember this is art as you read them.



Poem #1=My House is Not My Home

My husband and I
pulled sea foam green carpet
from your floors.
We picked color swatches
for our babies rooms.
We stained your oak mantle
to match the trim.

For seven years
we slowly made you our own.



Inside your walls
our young faces found wrinkles.
Our tears fell upon babies’ cheeks
and their lips suckled upon my breast.

I rocked our children in that chair
that now sits broken at the curb
by the trash.

I’ve made love on the mattress
that is now in the dumpster in your drive.
I’ve had sex on that table
that I gave to a stranger.
I was a naughty girl on that washer
that sits out back.

I cried tears of anger in your garage
that is now filled with boxes.
I found comfort in your bathtub,
that is bleached to perfection for show.
I made firewood from that tree in the front yard
not a trace of it’s to be found.



Your walls now echo like a dead man’s voice
at the bottom of the sea.

The void fills your spaces.
What was “us” is now gone.

You are brick and mortar,
plaster and beams.

You are just a house
we are what made you a home.



Poem #2= Red Daisy

I am just a lonely wildflower
blowing cold in the breeze.

How advantageous they would feel
to know me.

I am not the tempest
just blessed with the bane
of beauty.

I grew up to know myself as homely
and defective.

I am a red daisy among
the jealous whites.
I sway alone as they snicker
at my despair.

The frogs, they come
casting their tongues
at my fair petals.

The hummingbirds gander my way,
before retreating to the whites.
Their fleeting looks leave a stain.

The swallows, the bees and the grubs
nose at me,
prod at me
caress my stem.

Ally or adversary alike,
I am still a forsaken wildflower.

A red in a field of whites.

Me

She carries the luck of the opal,
and the red satchel.
Till now a mundane martyr
lost in oblivion.
She prays for mercy;
for the release of her visceral angst.
Her draconian hunger haunts her.
She yearns for peace.
He says she is a prodigy
but she is a paradox.
Will crimson cashmere
wash her melancholy?
I watch her beyond all misery
for she is the epitome of me.

The Bond of Brothers

This is an ethnographic study I did last semester on a real group of people and my observations.

The Bond of Brothers

The Disabled American Veterans (DAV) is a group of men and women veterans who are rated at zero percent or more disability and are registered members. All members must be military veterans with disability ratings or attempting to gain disability rating through military compensation and pension. Their group has been around since World War Two.

The group has formed a kinship together as well as with other military veterans who may not be rated or members of the DAV. This group of men and women call each other “Brother” and regard each other close, if not closer, than their blood brother. Commander is an Iraq veteran, James is a Navy Vietnam veteran, and Pops is an Army Vietnam veteran. These men are very influential and highly involved in the DAV and in outreaching to other veterans in need in their community.

Each Chapter of the DAV focuses on a particular area, mainly their own community as well as a few small communities nearby. The goal of the DAV is to better the lives of veterans and their families. This goes hand in hand with the brotherhood they share together. My relationship to the group is a marital relationship. Commander is my husband and the leader of his Chapter in the DAV. I am not a “Brother” or member of the DAV for I do not meet the criteria, but I am a welcomed, trusted person within their group. My position helps me in understanding the language used inside the veteran culture and my knowledge and ability to witness firsthand permits me more information than a complete outsider could gain.

The military was born out of strife and alliance. Men and women of all generations became children of the military, trained and raised by the same rules and morals. Each member of the family was taught even the simplest things like when to shower, eat, and shave. There were extreme rules that the family had to follow as well. Members of the family were taught how to work and fight together as a team. No family member was left behind and together the “Brothers” united to achieve a common goal working toward freedom for their home and salvation for their other “Brothers” fighting with them by their sides.

In the living veterans of today you could view this family all as “Brothers” in these terms, yet they do seem to set them selves apart by wars in terms of generations. The grandfather “Brothers” are the Korean and World War Two veterans. The father “Brothers” are the Vietnam veterans and the remaining “Brothers” are from any war following Vietnam. The bond between generational “Bothers” has strengthened for Vietnam and younger veterans. Vietnam veterans have taken younger veterans under their wings after they were not supported when they came home from the Vietnam War.

When I asked several veterans how they viewed the term “Brother” they responded not in terms of their own biological brother, but in terms of relationship. Bushsteel (an Army Iraq veteran) answered, “Blood doesn’t cover it. It’s an unbreakable bond between two men going to a situation and one hundred percent of the time having each other’s back. Even ten years later you can pick up a conversation with these men like it was yesterday. They always got your 6.” This term “6” is a military term meaning back. When the men would speak to each other out in the field they would refer to the placement of things or people in terms of time.

In my observations at the Veterans Day parade I saw the deep respect and love these “Brothers” have for the flag. You could see the difference between military, family of military, and civilians as the flag passed people by. Veterans and military members took their hats off and saluted the flag; standing in perfect form (Attention) showing it the most respect they know how to give. Family members of veterans put their hands on their hearts and their stance was a close imitation, but not an exact stance of a true military member. Civilians clapped, waved, and yelled “thank you” to veterans walking in the parade. When I asked several “Brothers” about the flag Kenny, a Navy veteran, told me that the flag is everything we (Americans) stand for, “I taught the boy scouts in my son’s troop how to retire out a flag. In this process you must cut the flag into four pieces. When we did this I hated to see it.” (Kenny’s tears fell from his eyes) “I know it is the right way to retire it, but it still just felt so wrong.”

In the parade I rode with Pops, we drove in Kenny’s Jeep. The jeep is blue with an American flag on the grill and four flags blowing in the wind off the back. The first is an American flag; the next is a POW-MIA (Prisoner of War- Missing in Action) flag, a Patriot Guard flag and lastly a flag to honor military members. Kenny had a CD prepared with some music he picked out to have blasted during the parade. As we drove along Pops asked me how Commander is doing, honestly. I couldn’t lie to Pops so I told him Commander has been rough lately, but he is working through it. “If you ever need a break call me,” he said as he kept waving to people walking on the street. Half way through the parade Pops spoke again “this parade gets to me every year,” he looked at me and his eyes glossed over. “Me too,” I said as we both looked away from each other and waved at some more people.

At the end of the parade we parked in a parking lot and waited for the rest of the parade to filter in and the roads to be opened back up. Kenny told Commander he could drive his Jeep back to the staging site. I went to get out of the front seat. “No ma’am, I will sit in the back.” Kenny hoisted himself up and over the back tire and into the back of the Jeep. Commander was sitting in the driver seat. Pops walks up to Commander and puts his arm on the ledge of the window. “How you been doing Buddy?” He asks Commander. “Fine,” Commander says. Pops looks to me for a flicker of a second then looks back to Commander, “go on home, take your medicine and get some rest okay.” Commander nods. When we left Miss Maddie, an Army Vietnam veteran, waves to us and asks who’s kids are who’s sitting in the back. She looks to Commander and Kenny, “you boys stay outta trouble now.”

Every month the DAV meets to discuss logistics, check in with each other and see if there is any veterans in need in the community and if so they discuss what to do, then vote on it. In the meeting the men and women are serious when it counts but seem to razz each other and joke quite often. When discussing new members Commander calls off names and branch of the members to be voted into the DAV. “Jack Smith, Navy,” he calls. “Good guy,” James says laughing while gaining a few chuckles of others in the room, “We need more like him.” Members start to joke about which branch is better Navy or Army. This type of joke is the most popular amongst the group and at times may seem pretty harsh, but in the end of the razzing everyone is laughing and telling stories about when the other branch saved them from some mishap or even more, from some explosion.

During the meeting Commander asks if there is anyone hospitalized, sick or passed away. James stands, “we just found out last week my wife has cancer.” A hush from those quietly talking in the room washes over the group. “I am sorry to hear that James, your wife, you, and your family will be in my prayers.” The meeting moves on as other logistics are discussed. After the meeting a group of men linger in the room and another group lingers by the smoking area. When we get into the Jeep Commander shakes his head, “that is just awful that James’ wife has cancer.” He shakes his head again and silently drives off.

D, a Coast Guard (Katrina Relief) veteran, tells me about when she first got around “her guys” she wasn’t treated like she belonged. The men would play jokes on her and try to get a rise out of her. One time they placed a spider in her locker (she is very afraid of spiders) she calmly removed it and went on about her day. She decided to get them back by sneaking into their bathrooms and putting Kool-Aid in their shower-heads, which would dye their skin when they showered. Over time many gags and jokes were played but one day they stopped and she was trusted like the other men, like family.

In this family not only is there a common bond to each other through blood shed, creeds spoken and willing hearts to sacrifice all that they have for the betterment of mankind, there is also a deeper kinship. The men share in supporting each other through whatever they are struggling for. If a brother has a fight with their wife, the family works together with the couple supporting them and helping them trough the hard time. If a brother doesn’t have money to buy their children Christmas gifts, their family food, or their vehicle parts they pull together and give financially. If a brother needs to talk or vent about something a brother is there to listen with an understanding ear. These “Brothers” are a family brought together and raised by the military. They have a deeper bond with each other than their blood kin because of the experiences they have had together. The bond is unbreakable and it sees no difference between rank, war, branch, gender or race. It is the one family that so many unlike people come together and are forced to form an allegiance with each other toward a common goal. In this allegiance they must fully trust each other to succeed in their goals and many times to live another day. This family literally must put their lives in their family members hands and trust they are safe. The extreme circumstances that bring this family of “Brothers” together are also what keeps them together.

The River

The River

Water had always flowed through my soul, but the death of my brother seventeen years ago drained every last bit of it out; replacing the water with a new kind of liquid smothered in darkness and pain.

His body flew home on April 28th 1995. He was buried on May 1st, exactly one month from his disappearance. That is when the dreams started.



I could smell a combination of black willow and river birch trees as well as the damp musty smell of the soil. Leaves crunched under foot and branches snapped. My skin prickled as the sharp chill in the breeze bit at me. I stood in the middle of the woods taking nature in when I heard a faint cry. Something tugged at me to follow the sound.

It was twilight so I had to feel my way cautiously. The cries grew deeper and the desperation in them pleaded to me. I wanted to run back the way I came from but I couldn’t. I felt morally drawn to help whoever was in need. The sound of water ripping downstream caught my ear.

I stopped at a drop off to a river. In the center was a young man fighting with the onyx hands of the stream, which were tugging him under. The sapphire sky met his cries and like a magnet retracted him from the rivers grip. His tight-lock curls and deep penetrating russet eyes stole my breath away. I was frozen to the earth, willing and ready to jump in to join him. The current was too strong to survive it. I wanted to be with him, I couldn’t just stand there and watch my brother die. My body betrayed my desire and held me there, as his cries grew silent and the onyx hands won the fight.


This is always how I saw his death in my dreams; already in the river as if to remind me of the truth of the unknown circumstances of his death. The autopsy report suggested it was a “possible” suicide. There was no foul play and a glass pipe was in his only remaining pocket. My brother Brandon walked off from a campsite at one in the morning on April 1st. He never made it to the Grateful Dead concert he traveled to see. His friends told us his last words to them were “God’s calling me, man.” I think about these words often, what did he mean? Did my brother really kill himself, or did he go to the river to “cleanse himself of his sin.” He was a strong believer in God, he preached to his friends and carried around his King James Bible with him everywhere. Sometimes I even think maybe the truth is better left unknown.

In my dreams I had hoped often to find an answer to cling to even if it weren’t true, but even my unconscious mind could not find one to offer. Still to this day this dream is a mold to many other dreams that find me. Generally the image of my brother drowning no longer haunts me. Now a little boy carrying his name stares at me from the bottom of a pool.

When I was younger I would go to Shoaff Park and I would walk to the edge of the woods where it met the Saint Joseph River. I would think about my brother as flashbacks of him drowning in my dreams came to life. It always felt so real to me, but as the image faded the water would gently trickle downstream as if the world were incapable of disaster. At times I would scream and cry raging my hatred out to the river. Other times I would watch how peaceful the river was and dreamed to be able to welcome this part of me back in.

I felt like I lost two friends, my brother and the water. I had grown up loving water. My family traveled to beaches and spent weekends on houseboats. I had fished since a young age and could scale and filet a fish to perfection by age nine.

Water was the place that brought my family together and made life seem right.It seemed that no matter what it was my brother, the water, and I. It was the only thing that was constant besides each other. We would spend alternating weekends at two different lakes. One lake we would sneak into the strawberry patch and make jam for mom or swing from the weeping willows like Tarzan. The other lake we would anchor out in dad’s houseboat baiting hooks in search of dinner and swim till the sun came down on the waters edge.

I heard the story growing up about the first time my brother almost drowned. He was a curious toddler trying to catch bugs by the family pool; both of our parents thought the other was watching. He wasn’t in there long and dad pulled him out saving his life. I was there but cannot find the memory of the second time; he was thirteen and he knocked himself out while jumping off of the dock into the lake. By the grace of God a paramedic friend was there as well. He saved my brother from drowning again. Looking back on it all now it only seems right that he died by drowning, as if he was destined to die in that way. It was the third time that was the charm; no one was there to save him then.

My brother’s funeral was unreal. I was frozen in a nightmare as the preacher’s words barely touched my mind. I could not move. I could not feel anything, as if I completely stopped breathing. Then a shockwave shot through me as my weeping released from my lips, from my heart, from my soul. I could not bare the thought of losing my brother. It was real though, he was really gone, and I was really alone.

That summer after the funeral I turned fifteen and I met a girl named Becca, she was new. She didn’t know me as the girl who had lost her brother. She just knew me as me. She had baggage like I did, but we didn’t talk about it, instead we drank her mother’s wine.

One day on our way to the store to steal some new lip gloss Becca talked about a youth trip at her church her parents were making her go to. The youth leaders were going to drive a bunch of kids to West Virginia where they planned to camp and white water raft. I began to tremble at the thought of a strong current lashing its will through a river. The fear rose in my throat like sour stomach bile. My tongue felt as if it were dry and brittle, thirsting for my soul to be quenched once more. I froze like I did in my dream. I hated being the girl frozen by the riverside.


We rode in a stinky passenger van with no seats in the back. There was a sleeping bag sprawled out and a handful of us teens playing games like Truth or Dare and Never Have I Ever.

We arrived to the campsite, pitched our tents and were told to go to sleep.

The next morning we all woke up, brushed our teeth in the dingy restrooms provided for campers, then hurried off to the bus that took us to Gauley River.

We arrived to the site where we were given safety education, strapped into our life vests and put into the water in teams. We were the Monkey team.

I went through the motions; I did as I was told. I felt disconnected from myself and all of those around me. I didn’t want to freeze up. I had to do this.

The raft glided delicately through the river. I felt the emptiness of air in my lungs; I drew in a breath and repeated in my mind “breathe.”

My rafting guide started talking about the spot around the bend where we could get out of the vessel and body raft the milder rapids.


The water was a few degrees cooler than my flesh, the humid air danced on her surface lightly rippling unique designs as she flowed. My only safety was a life vest. I closed my eyes and placed my body like a board into the Gauley River.

I saw his tight-lock curls and smelled his Patchouli mixed with crisp fall leaves. His deep penetrating russet eyes looked out at me in horror as the Mississippi sucked him under, claiming his life. My body jolted as I opened my eyes; I was still floating down the Gauley. I grabbed the straps of the life vest tightening them until I could barely breathe. The current picked up enough to control my small teenage frame, lifting it like a white feather floating on top of the sleek dark water. I closed my eyes and felt the natural pull of the onward motion of the Gauley. I became the Gauley as she washed through me. I felt the last words of my older brother burn through my heart like acid: “God’s calling me, man.” I opened my eyes to the ascending whirlpool clutching me to its ritual. I tightened my arms to my chest, gripping the mesh of my vest while digging my fingernails into my ribs. I clenched my eyes shut as I felt the sapphire hands cradle me like a mother to her child. The vortex pushed me deeper and deeper into her womb. It was there that time escaped me and death no longer gripped me. My breath wasn’t there but I didn’t labor for it, I relaxed my body and let her take me even deeper and deeper into her soul. I was thrusted forward, rebirthed out to the surface of the sapphire liquid meeting the blue hues of the sky.




Each fall as the leaves turn and the scent of my brother ripples through me I am brought back to the rivers edge. Like a little girl I tremble, briefly, remembering who I was then. That seventeen year-old boy never grows any older, but I do.

Today I hold my son, a little boy named Brandon, carrying the same deep penetrating eyes as his uncle’s. The boy has a genetic mutation that disrupts the salt to water transfer inside his body. I place my ear to his chest and listen for a wheeze or a crackle in his upper and lower lobes. I check his stomach and his throat for signs of his body laboring for air. I connect him to a compressor that vibrates his chest and I place a nebulizer cup in his mouth filled with salt water for him to huff. I do these things in hopes of breaking up the thick build-up of mucus slowly drowning his lungs.

The boy named after the boy who drowned, drowns slowly everyday—not a day goes by that I do not think about this irony. As tragic and painful as it sounds on the surface, it seems to remind me that some things are just meant to be. You cannot stop it or force it, you may be able to dodge it, but in time it always comes. Like the river life flows through us like living water to our souls.

Abuse of You

I was an awe struck child,
wielding wedding vows.

With a razor blade and a mirror,
you cut up your cocaine—
you snorted up the powderof your destruction.

I was a naïve little girl building crosses;
searching peace and yearning change.

A visceral lunacy flickered in your eyes
as you looked right through me.

“Look at me!”

Who are you to me:
a killer of innocence,
a rapist of sanity,
a deceiver of truth?

“Dear Lord, let him die!”

I prayed it. I meant it.

“I want to live”—
tears burned in my eyes.

The door slammed shut,
you were standing in the rear view.

The empowered young girl you abused
finally left your side.

Miles Traveled

Miles Traveled

Black out. White in. I squint through the haze to the sun as it blinds my bleeding eyes. The high pitch ring pierces my brain. A distant man’s screams meet my ears and connect to my voice. The ringing fades. The pain starts as reality hits. My flesh feels as if it’s on fire and my legs crawl with deep numbing needles. Miles’ harsh grey eyes come into sight above me; wait, that can’t be, Miles is dead.

My body jolts and my heart pounds as I wake. The cold drips of sweat chill me to my core as the fan oscillates on me. The down comforter is drenched but I strip it from my body as I accept the rest of the shock to my flesh. I breathe in and look over at my wife sleeping, oh the beauty of peace, a beauty I will someday know again.

I remember the last time I had a flashback, you were in that one too. It was this last Fourth of July. My wife, Anna, and my kids begged me to go to the fireworks show. I told myself I could do it; I could make myself go this year. This year would be different. I could be a good dad. We made it down the road when I heard it; I was back in Iraq, gunfire popped repeatedly. I jumped when I looked over and saw Anna driving. “Pull over, take cover!” I screamed as I unfastened my seat belt and dove into the back seat on top of the kids.

The rapid fire started again when I looked up to you, reaching out for me. Your eyes pierced mine but I couldn’t leave the kids.

“Tell Grace I love her Andy, promise me, take care of my girl.”

Tears of rage poured out “No, you are not going to die, you hear me!”

Calmness seeped from your eyes and spread across your face. “Promise,” you whispered.

“I promise,” I managed to choke out.

Screaming was all around. Next thing I knew I was on my back suffering my own pain; yours and the children’s bodies lay lifeless around me.


“Daddy, daddy! What’s wrong?” My son cried out.

I looked up again and was in the backseat of the car, on top of my children, they were alive. I looked over my shoulder to Anna and saw the tears streaking her face. “I shouldn’t have pushed you, I am so sorry honey.” She shook her head.

“It’s not you fault, I am sorry, I wish I could do this, I wish I could just be a normal dad.” I bit the inside of my cheeks till they bled. I hated myself and I hated the Army for taking moments like that away from my family.

I swear Miles, it is always something: flashbacks, fireworks, and thoughts. I look out of the window every time an out of place noise arises. I check the locks on the door ten times and still must check them again. I have hid weapons in every room of the house, just in case I need them. I guess that’s the good thing about being dead. You never had to know what coming home was like.

It seems as if just yesterday I was seventeen years old and feeling the meaty claws of the barber scraping the clippers up the nape of my neck. The anchor on his forearm blended into his dark skin. The scar on his face stretched from his ear to his chin. The life in his wrinkles seemed much more than his years.

“It seems like you boys just keep gettin’ younger and younger, must be those baby faces ya’ll got.”

He smiled and batted his eyelashes at me through the mirror.

“I’m early entry, I’m gonna be a Ranger.” I said, straightening my shoulders and puffing my chest.

“Yeah, good luck with that kid.”

His silence stormed me with a chill as he continued digging into my scalp with the sculpting tools of high n’ tights.

When the fresh leather of my boots hit their first training soil I thought my shit didn’t stink. I ran my mouth to the Drill Sargent and was put on shit duty, that’s where I met you. You remember that shit? Ha, how could you not. You told me I had shit for brains. We couldn’t stop laughing and gagging.

Over time I adjusted to military life. I bonded to you and some of the other young men; we called each other “brothers.” I had always thought it was just a thing military guys say. It took becoming a brother to understand the intimate bond you develop, and the deep tie to a culture no one else but you and your brothers can understand, to truly get it.


“Andy,” Anna’s whisper reaches out to me as her hand finds my chest, right above my heart.

“I’m here,” I whisper placing my hand on hers. I stare at her face remembering her high cheekbones streaked in tears eight years ago. I touch her soft pale face. I lightly brush her hair behind her ear. A faint smile crosses her lips as she settles back into her slumber.


A week from turning twenty-seven I was medically discharged from the Army. When I came home I knew no one, not even my childhood best friend. He said I had changed. I had. My family didn’t see me as the young boy who left, nor did I see my family from that boy’s eyes.

I learned to be alone. I would limp through the trails at the park breathing a world once familiar back into my lungs. A young woman would park everyday at lunchtime and sit in her truck. I would watch her from the tree line. She sang, she wrote, she wept. When she smiled it was amazing Miles, but I just couldn’t look away when she cried. I could see that she too was broken deep into her soul like me. I had to marry her.

Anna likes to tell people I am her hero; she tells them that I saved her in that park. She also tells people that I am a veteran. “Andy’s a war hero.” Its hard to hear those words, I am not the one who died for my country. I know, I know; you would tell me not every man stands up for something, and not every man’s price is the same, but damnit—I am not the hero! Getting blown up means nothing after all I have seen, after all I have lost.

I love my wife and children, but this bond is very different. I can’t tell Anna about the man I shot without worrying about stealing from her what was stolen from me.

Killing changes a man.

I reach to the nightstand grabbing for my tattered watch. I push the familiar button to display the time, the green LED light flashes 2350, it would be 0750 in Iraq. I rub my thumb across the head of the watch and feel the embedded sand still stuck in its grooves; I am on a rooftop in the middle of Baghdad, my sights are zeroed in. I looked down to my watch, 0750. I concentrate on taking in slow steady breaths. Hodgee pops his head out from the side of the building around four hundred meters away. I squeeze the trigger on impulse; I watch him as his soul leaves his face before he stops breathing. So many men live as that man had in his last seconds, soulless and breathing. I can never become one of those men.

I am handed an Ace of Spades. A silent gesture given with a nod from my commanding officer—confirmed kill. You were so proud of me, who would have thought just hours later Hodgee would be holding his own card for you.

After the explosion I was able to come home. I remember the smell of American soil like it was grandma’s apple pie. They unloaded me from the plane as my senses were submerged in the fresh linen sheets of home. I was taken from Ballad, in Iraq, to Walter Reed in Maryland. The shock of the injuries alone was hard enough, but to see civilian Americans and recognize a life in their eyes that no longer existed in the men I served with, or mine, was devastating. They were so foreign: their language so complacent, their food so hot it would burn my tongue. The smell of their immaculate flesh smothered in fragrance and freedom scraped at my heart as the dirt and filth stained on my soul seeped from my pores.

I can still smell my mothers lilac bush and connect it to the young, blond haired girl fresh out of nursing school who led my traumatic brain injury group. She would wear pink and purple scrubs that fit her body and her eyes would be lined with heavy-handed turquoise.

“What color is this Andrew?” She held up a card with a color splotch on it.

“B-b-b-b-blue.” Shit, I can say blue just fine in my head.

“Good job!” She smiled at me as if I were a child, “and this one?”

“I-i-i-i-it’s b-b-b-blue too!”

“Oh so close, its turquoise.” She smiled again as she reached for a new stack of cards.

What is the difference? Turquoise or blue; it’s the same damn thing. I looked over to the other men in my group. They rolled their eyes and shook their heads. The younger man sitting next to me leaned over and whispered. “I hear ya man, don’t worry, you’ll have your voice back soon. Remember, it’s all in here.” He pointed to his head.


My memory fades with my daughter’s cough from the other room. The cough from her asthma isn’t as bad as it used to be. After losing my job I couldn’t provide for my family the way a man should, that’s when Julie began coughing. I had to do something. I had to sign up for the toughest war of all, military compensation and pension.

I fought tooth and nail for my benefits.

Julie was enough to push me into admitting I needed help. I was nervous when I first went to the VA.

“How are you today Mr. James?” A dark skinned man with a heavy Middle Eastern accent wearing a white coat asks.

“If I am to be honest,” I begin.

“You are.” Dr Kakish says.

“What?”

“You are to be honest,” he doesn’t look up to me, doesn’t meet my eyes. His tone didn’t change.

You can do this shit for brains. It was your voice in my head, or maybe my voice, so often they blend. I closed my eyes and took in a slow drag of air. “ I am a mess. I can’t sleep, I can’t remember anything, I hear shit, the dreams, the flashbacks, the anxiety never stops. I can’t be in a crowd and I have to sit in the far back corner of a room. I get head-aches all the time. Every time I eat I feel sick and often I throw up when I do. I get dizzy and have to catch myself from falling. My legs give out.” I took a breath. I rambled on and on getting it all out. When I was done I finally opened my eyes. I did it.

I sat in a waiting area and looked for my name to appear on the pharmacy list.

“First time eh?” Asked a short stumpy old man with massive eyebrows.

“Yeah” I said as I looked from his dead eyes. He chuckled.

“Best grab you one of them magazines over there.” He nodded his head towards a stack on a broken down table. I got up and looked through the magazines and found one. When I turned to go back to my seat it was taken. The old man chuckled again. I shook my head and went and sat further away.

“Those assholes always play that shit, its like its all they’ve got to do.” A dark haired man close to my age said.

“I guess it is all they’ve got to do, hell that will be us in a few years won’t it?”

“I hope not,” he shook my hand, “Grey.”

“Andy, nice to meet you. You here on your benefits?”

Grey shook his head, “I wish, they keep denying me.”

“I just went through all that, I could help you if you want.” I looked at Grey, waiting for an answer, and saw the first smile of the day.

“That’d be awesome man.” He pulled out his cell phone.We exchanged numbers and I felt something inside me say that this is what I could do. If I could help one of my brothers, maybe I could help more; maybe I could help Grace.

I was given the gift of time. I was retired, unable to work and only thirty-one. It felt nice to have a purpose again. Civilians sometimes ask me what I plan do with the rest of my time, and then they cut me off as I attempt to answer. “You’re so lucky,” they say through lying smiles and gritted teeth before they rush off. I want to tell them my answer; I want to tell them they are wrong. I desperately want them to see more than anything that war is not lucky, and too much time can drive a man insane. Tomorrow they will go to work, and never know what it is like to scan rooftops for snipers. Their children will go to school and recite the Pledge of Allegiance to our nations flag. I bet they didn’t teach them that the flag means much more; red for the blood shed, white for peace, blue for infantry. All that really matters is that I understand the sacrifice I took on as my burden to the world. I try not to wonder if civilians truly get the sacrifices of war, or what is left in the world because of it. But how can I forget the miles traveled? How can I forget the helmets hung from rifles in dead men’s boots?

I hear Muslims call me “infidel” and I hear Americans call me a “killer.” I try to smile as I remember I must judge myself before I judge others. A Ranger. An Infidel. A Hero. I am none of those today. I am Andrew James; just a man. When the world wakes they will only know me as that. I will hide my disabilities; I will speak not of war. I will look only on good times, and speak of the future, for I am a wise man.

Seven years now and I know some things will never fade. Small things make it easier though, and victories make everything worth it.

Anna’s carmel eyes smiled at me last night when I hugged Grace. She wept in my arms as I held her, Anna came in and hugged us both.

“You’re taken care of now, I promised I would take care of you and now you will never have to worry.” I whispered into your wife’s ear.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” She whispered back.

“It’s not about thanks, its just money. Nothing can replace Miles.”She nodded with more tears and buried her head into my shoulder.

It seemed like an eternity as Anna and I held Grace. I thought it would heal me to get Grace your benefits, and in a small way it did.

I don’t know what I would do without Anna. I could not do the things I do without her, she calms me down and grounds me to this world I live in now. As much as Anna thinks I am her hero, she is my hero. Every Brother and Sister I help tell me they don’t know where they would be without me, but it is I who doesn’t know where I would be without them.

When I leave this house I seek them, my unknown brothers. They know me as I know them, for we wear the same mask. Civilians do not see our disguise, but we know it like home. The battle scars of the mind seep out from our eyes. We see a small limp and slow pace only a broken body mended by duct tape can walk: our posture, clothing, and high n’ tights all give us away to a knowing eye. A lonely man, newly out into society sees me, a brother, and feels his heart beat for he will know his family once more. I will find my peace the day I die. You will greet me in Heaven, my battle buddy—my best friend. Then your face will no longer haunt me, and your voice will no longer connect to mine.