Our mood brew a storm,

stirring up formidable debris,

leaving us...

Treading still waters as you drown us both,

pulling me sweetly,

sinking me deeply,

into your shallow and humble grave.

Your bedside manner,

doctored the pages of my decadent and hollow soul, lying…

waiting...

On the lush and wanton back page.

My flesh, your manuscript,

was coy and deviant

Playing off-key...

But you're just a crystal ball,

making scenes

Holding me down in fabrications and heavy-handed copyrights.

My pride, humble and agile, was dewy fireclay,

Your china doll has cracked,

and is beckoning...

But you're just a crafty stonemason,

piecing me together,

by picking me a part,

in an ivory tower stockade.

~A.B.K.~ ©2016

don't make a sound, fingers dance, stretch those arms, move those hands, glide through the surface, breathe in the air

not symbolic, not a sign, just some love, don't name it, don't call it, silence in the matter, songs under the heart_ no sound, no voice, no me, no you

fingers dance in the air, move your body until your soul cracks, eyes closed, glide in the open room, doors wide open but no one to walk in_ floorboards don't creak, birds don't sing, gentle flutters of a burning heart

it's just a muscle, don't make a sound, back bends to the side, arm lifts, fingertips searching for a tune, move them fast, they're creating the world_ palms shift, elbow to the right, knee to the left, sing out without a sound

hold the whipers, forget your breath, dance in circles, reach the sky, move the ceiling to reach your needs_ walls fall, universe ceases to exists

keep on playing, rocking to nothing, baby your dislocated, with craks in the bones, spirit sticks but the body flows

so move your fingers, palms up, limps bending, hush...

___

On the Feast of the First Morning of the First Day, in the Year of the Monkey, 1968, North Vietnam’s wildcat soldiers—many dressed in pale shirts with pleated pockets, button-downed trousers, and wearing sun-helmets or jungle hats—attacked South Vietnam.

Bullets and tracers cracked the silent sky; grenades and mortar fire shook the earth.

Thousands of Americans in hundreds of cities, towns, and villages, faced ever-growing waves of gritty soldiers trying to provoke citizens in the south into overthrowing their own government and siding with Ho Chi Minh and his Communist regime.

It did not happen.

What did happen, however, was a bloody mess: More than 40,000 Viet Cong died, along with 7,000-plus Americans.

I was not in-country during that brutal battle, known as the Tet Offensive. I showed up later.

In 1971, I was given guard duty at the end of a runway at Da Nang Airbase—a runway that had been overrun during Tet.

Spooky.

The night-watch lasted four hours. It was deadly dark. Menacing. On the edge of the jungle—a stone’s throw from hell.

I was alone.

It crossed my mind that somebody was out there. Watching me. From the other side. (Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? They were doing their job—like I was doing mine.)

Nighttime creeps me out. Haunts me. Especially that night. Gloomy thoughts conjured up layers of fear, anxiety, and dread. I didn’t need that. Not one bit.

I was wearing a helmet and flack jacket along with my uniform-of-the-day. My weapon: an M1911, Automatic Colt Pistol. The barrel was rusty; sand had found its way into the detachable magazine.

Nobody ever taught me how to shoot a 45—let alone dismantle and clean it. Didn’t really matter. I was told not to load my pistol unless ordered to do so. And, if so ordered, not to shoot unless given an official OK. Good thing, too, because (given the rust and sand) the dang gun would have exploded in my face.

About two hours into the watch, I got paranoid—trees became stalking solders; shifting ground-grass transformed into a dangerous threat. My breathing sounded like labored gasps from a faulty fireplace-bellows; my heartbeats reverberated like hollow thumps rumbling through a defective drum.

At some point I put my hands in my pocket and was surprised to find the harmonica I’d used the night before to play for drinks at the on-base saloon. Of course I wouldn’t play the harmonica out here. Not on watch. For one thing, the sound would call attention to me; for another, the shiny metallic top and bottom plates would make a great target for sharp-shooters.

Playing would be a suicide move.

Eventually, boredom, fear, and dread teamed up to form a strange euphoric alliance. Pragmatic. Morbid. Sinisterly re-assuring. I took out my harmonica and played a sultry blues riff. Panic melted away. Terror took a trip. Apprehension dissipated into wistful puffs, like ghostly smoke leaving a dying fire.

Better target for a sniper? Sure. But I figured I’d rather take a kill-shot than suffer a shattered arm or leg.

Silence sauntered away that night. Quiet as a bug. Far away from my one-man parade—drifting through a stream of blue notes and caressed by a soft, summer breeze.

Sometimes i get down in a hole, i get lower than low, to the edge so close, i almost forget what I'm made of/when life in general feeling drained from/towel in my hand to throw, still to this day, steadfast i remain, no they won't, ever say that i gave up/cos i know, afloat must stay this boat, still a ways to go, so, gotta finish this journey til I'm back where i came from/somewhere along the way, i hope and pray, meaningful memories are made in my brain to hang up/good old days we were able to create, that can never be replaced, bonds that time will never break up/there every time by each other's sides we stay stuck/when feeling insane cos hated and shunned/when the pain's so much just wanna say enough/and everything you just wanna change up/help find a way to stay in it just hang tough/through love found love lost every second chance gave love/a voice of confidence, or ear to lend, when needing to vent, knowing when, our mouths to tape shut/just... zip it and listen, give space when needing distance, to paying a visit, when seeking attention, just as its been since day one/lots of inside jokes, only by us known, plus those by us chose, becoming quotes used as inspiration for each one silly nicknames gets made up/deliver them some wisdom, only when open to receiving given, when resistant keep it hidden, guess everyone can play dumb/from glory days we carry our own pieces, always there for us when needed to retrieve it, for times we feel defeated weakened, a spark to the heart brings it, only true place we're able to stay young/when so many things, our over analyzing brains, can lickety split quickly think up/don't forget a day at a time gotta take it love never can know how much far as time left there remains of/we're all stars when the world's our stage love/no time like now to give em' a show as into the spotlight's glow it's time to unashamed and unafraid bravely make our way up...

F- FEELING

R-REALLY

E-EXCEPTIONAL

E-EVERYDAY

NO, WE ARE NOT FREE.

YOU SEE, WE PAY TO STAY HERE WITH TAXES.

WE CAN'T LIVE WHERE WE WANT BECAUSE OF RACISM OR CITIZENSHIP.

WE CAN'T SAY WHAT WE WANT BECAUSE YOU WILL BE IN A LAWSUIT.

WE CAN'T DO WHAT WE WANT BECAUSE YOU WILL BE SHOT OR TAZED.

WE CAN'T RAISE AN ANIMAL BECAUSE OF WHERE YOU LIVE.

WE CAN'T MARRY WHO YOU LOVE IN SOME STATES.

MY HOME IS NOT PROMISED,

MY LIFE IS NOT LAYED.

MY LIVING IS NOT FREE,

UNTIL THE GOVERNMENT GET PAID!