Freedom For
I won medals for escaping friendly fire and keeping it shut.
No parts are missing. Stay steady, kept eating, as my neighbor's fiancée screamed, didn't even hear it I told the police. Focus, that's the main thing.
Malevolency and evil are baked in the hot sun over there. Causes and allegiances seethe and levitate off chipped tile and ping in and out of corners in every candle lit basement and kitchen. Second or third world? If it's second, third must be a concentration camp, minus some of the worst excesses.
The uncertainty that reverberates with every shell fired made me crave extremes. I want heaven for breakfast, hell for a snack, a death for lunch, life for tea, and spaced out euphoria for dinner, then drink to sleep, picturing insane eyes, that turn pleading, and fall asleep to the resigned. I hope I never go that way.
I was in the shit, when asked.
Thought that was Vietnam.
Just because that was a real war they don't get a monopoly. No Rambos needed here to refight a lost war. It's fortress America. Safer in spring and more attacks during winter.
Ex-friend asked me what the war was for?
So you could ask me questions like this
Why them?
Why not?
Gibberish ensues that I lose interest in after about six seconds. Or five.
People thank me
What for?
Our freedom
Maybe that's it. People under the yoke that don't have self-dignity. All they want is life, so they will kill anything including themselves.
Palaces of Hussein were crazy like the summer homes in Newport, except shinier.
It's a great thing—freedom.
You don't know.
Mostly tired of conversation, if I see an itchy trigger finger about to tap on the bar,
I buy drinks before they are offered, that way I don't owe one word
Then I question myself, what you can do with freedom? I can go home and then come back, maybe get more medals, win some more freedom for us or the undeserving. They wouldn't know what to do with freedom if each one was personally delivered in the nonexistent mail.
Mostly never saw the damage when inside our tank.
Reaction of Yes!
Watch it; watch it, the sighter called out auctioneer style,
oh no. I'm not sure we wanted to do that,
then resignedly, oh well, they should keep their hands up.
Suicide bombers have no respect for life and I've reciprocated.
Hate is the most emotion I've ever felt projected my way. I don't love my family as much as I was hated.
The suicide bomber that didn't blow. He could have detonated on hate. Freedom haters.
Funny thing no idea who I am—I could be a pasty mole willing to throw a rock at any woman that didn't lower her eyes.
He shut his eyes anticipating the concussion and the posthaste orgy of virgins and myrrh or whatever they eat. A human kaleidoscope of fear mixed with exhilaration, hate to disbelief, relief, intensely focused hate. I'd like to say that if I could have changed the way he felt I would have moved the dial to try for something new, but I was chosen. He wanted me to shoot him. His eyes begged me to kill him, to see the depth of his failure, his despair, his irredeemable nature.
Hi, I said perhaps incongruously, and when I grabbed his arm and yanked it behind him, it was an excuse to vent. The sound reminded me of when we were kids and we lit up a raccoon caught in the chimney.
You know what? I did hear the fiancée, but I forgot I was back in America.
