Real War
Real WarI learned how to drink too much bourbon too often. I learned the smell of a dead body; vacant flat eyes, an empty weight, like the earth from which it came. I learned to function for days with no sleep; weeks with almost no sleep. I learned the sweet knowledge that opens when I inhale marijuana. I learned what it's like to be unarmed, unprotected, unable to stop my own death while I listen to mortar rounds walk closer with each blast, then miss me, then walk away with indifference. A whore myself, I rubbed my flesh with whores. A dying boy, I died with other dying boys and dying men. I stood outside in torrents of soothing, drowning rain. I dreamt of home; then when I went home I dreamt that I was back again and saw and heard the blasting blood, screams, blistering wood, bullets singing and no exit anywhere except at the end of the dream. The dreams lasted for years. They're long gone now. I'm standing.
copyright poetography/MP 2009
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