While you slept

I was over there while you slept
In your neighborhood I’m not llowwed in
HOUSE BE MORE MONEY I MAKE THIS LIFETIME
Protecting you from enemies invented in your
Factificating manufacture of fearhate
Little bits of facts stretched like the dough I knead
Left to rise into the bread of spin
NICE CRUST WITH A GOOD TOOTH
And little else but the odor of sour
Was the money that good to sell your soul?
Is that what you’re paid in
Sweat stolen from my brow
Dreams ripped from a father’s heart

Was supposed to be better for you
That’s why I went
AH, THE BEACHES OF NORTHERN FRANCE IN THE LATE SPRING
Collected bodies in the sand
Life essence gone
Washed away to feed the fish
A LITTLE TO COLD FOR SWIMMING, BUT WALK THE BEACH AND SEE ALL THE INTERESTING THINGS THE STORMS WASH ASHORE
They popped up and floated ashore for weeks.
Remains of life
Covered by the same uniform I wore
I DON’T CARE WHAT KINDA UNIFORM IT HAS ON
YOU AINT BURYING NO NIGGER SAILOR IN THIS CEMETARY
He was a colored kid in our group
We hadn’t been there that long
He was doing his job and he slipped and fell and drown
I drew short straw and had find a place to bury him
You cried and your hands
Held me on your lap as we read the comics
You dapper in robe with goatee and pipe
Me in diaper and shirt
Trembled in angerfearshame
They stole the dream from you
Only two people in this world gave their life for you no questions asked, Jesus and the American serviceman

I never got to know him, my uncle Roger.
Older than my mom he had left the ranch for Washington state.  Like his brothers, he enlisted and when they asked for volunteers, became a paratrooper.  He dropped from the sky into the land of tulips, east of where my dad took care of those who unloaded the ships, south of a bridge too far, north of the band of brothers.  With about 15 others, he helped occupy a cross roads east of Nijmegen.

It had been quiet for a while.  We had found a jar of jam and made a sweet hot drink out of it.  We heard the screams of the meme and everyone ran to their hole. Coffin and ? took a direct hit. There was nothing we could do.
I met him once, my daughter’s classmate Josiah.
He was in two of my classes.  The school was so small that juniors and seniors we sometimes in the same classes.  He was the only person I knew in that whole Christian school who would do something for you without wanting something in return.
We arrived at the church and passed thirty flags held by veterans as we walked to the door.  I couldn’t control the tears and quit trying.  Same division as Roger, different regiment.  Division commanding officer's eyes weren’t dry either.
Excuse me sir.  I offered him my hand and he shook it.  Thank you.

Watched the motorcade leave. 
The tears flowed. 
Without thinking I came to attention and stood that way till the last vehicle left.
Excuse me. 
TV crews behind me.
BIG NEWS. 
THE MOTORCADE WAS OVER 2 MILES LONG. 
Would you care to make a comment on camera?
BRAIN SHIFTS INTO ADD FAST MODE{/center
}My fifteen minutes in the spot light.
I will tell them what a waste it was, the death of Josiah.
Tell them about the dream stealers and spin bakers.
Tell them that this great-grandson,
grandson,
son,
nephew,
cousin,
second cousin,
stepfather, and
uncle of veterans who is a retired US Navy vet himself is sick of it.
Sick of the waste.
Sick of the spin.
Tell them about the first rule of war:
YOUNG PEOPLE (we lose women now, too.) DIE.
Then the second rule of war:
NOTHING
You do or say or hope or
how epic you make the struggle or
how noble you make the cause or
however you try to justify it, spin it, recycle it or
DEAR GOD PLEASE FORGIVE ME
Pray about it
CAN CHANGE RULE NUMBER ONE.
But then it would have been about me, not about this young man who
would never be able to help anyone
or father kids
or write songs
or paint pictures
EVER AGAIN.
I squeezed my wife’s hand and sobbed
No, I’m sorry.  I can’t talk about it.