“Taste the Air”
Taste the air:
as the ball turret swivels on its axis, as the chamber is filled and death rains around you. The guns from Mother and Country and My Sweet Apple Pie crisscross the sky with lead hail. Look as little brother dances with Johnnie.
Taste the air:
as flak erupts around you, shaking and cutting your soul, blackening the sky with clouds of death and steel. Feel the cold of the metal as it pumps and swats at the buzzing flies. Look as your little brother dies for you.
Taste the air:
stale and pure from the mask as the wooly collar scratches your neck at the strap. Feel the mighty fortress as it is raped and penetrated, as her skin is ripped from her body, as she trails deaths black tail.
Taste the air:
as it thickens, as it quickens your heart as the beat of the engines slow and the pace of the fall hardens. See the frost melt from your mask, taste the heat and oil as your mothers womb is torn open. Feel the blackness of the night sky.
Taste the air.
“Rations for the Rats”
A lone soldier stands in a war not his own. Cold, afraid and hungry. Death separates the men all too often. A letter and some seeds his only friends. His boots lay deep in the icy, mud-filled trench, his skin numbed by the air as he sleeps. Rations for the rats, rats for the men. The cycle of life is all too simple. Flashes light the darkness, salty and warm is the taste in his mouth.
As parts of men’s lives are blown away, by incoming shells of mortality. But that is natures way of things. And this battlefield will sustain life again. When the men and their machines of horror have gone and the now silent bodies have been taken away, the hellish nightmare called war will give its hold up on life. And the suns warmth and life will flow over the barren field and flowers and grass will grow in its place.
I slither slowly, creeping through the undercut like in some four scene funny. Enjoying the cold grass, the glass like brown warm dirt. My hidden death body reflecting nothing, making my soul alive with heat and desire. The sharp boundaries of time are defined, are out lined by mere walls pushing out. That are to my surprise, no doubt, being held back by air alone.
A story of a common man, who preached and made a lonely stand. Against a minority, that had the majority. For the other side it was clear to see, it was a no win situation.
A cacophony of light. Blues with reds and yellow with oranges mix in a cluttered blend. Awaiting pure oblivion, awaiting the sun and its white fire to wash the canvas clean. The cooler breezes, the stale smells, the air. As the leaves turn for their death that will soon come. Tumble, crack, scratch, whistle, pushing from behind, pushing from all sides. The autumn wind never letting up until, no more. The vines reaching for the sky, the ladder of the garden just can’t reach. Funny how it never just reaches…
Great trees grow here, lazy fine moss hanging from their dried but still living branches. Their color a grey yet green, binding them to the living tissues of its host. Feeding on the low light from the high midday southern sun. Shade by the trunk, its size three men round. Its helpless parasites falling to the dark forest floor by the warm rivers wind that blows in the afternoon. Their deaths unnoticed by the new moss hanging in the Louisiana swamp.
Dreams cascading like water falls through your mind. While the wolves of virtue nip your heel. Tormenting your inner love, your inner feelings. Making you second guess your right, overlooking the impassable to notice the easy ride. Stubborn like rocks are to wind you press on into the unknown. The sweet smell of the grass on the rolling hills brings back memories of another time, some other place. The cool shade cast by the high wall corrupts the rare sun light and makes the stone warm to the touch, stealing my youthful heart. The feel of the mossy wet shaded side steals my curiosity. Unfocused thoughts ramble my mind, youth, age, lust and my ancestry. My right, my home. Tonight I celebrate my new life.
Remember…..the dark Summer days, warm and fun. The hungered smell of the smoke. Little eyes prying, cutting the line to the strawberries and watermelons. Billowing clouds of hot eye tearing smoke fill the small clearing. Dogs bark as they are teased by the bones and flesh of dinner. “Who invited the Pinecones?” Said Miss Scarlet. “I thought you did.” Replied Joan.