Back from Iraq

We sat in my old white Mazda no more than two miles from my house near a set of model homes lined with light blue porto-johns and cracked plywood. I was on leave from my first combat tour. She used a 21 gauge sharp that we scored of a diabetic friend of mine. I was nervous and gripped the steering wheel white knuckled and nervously asked for a small hit. She was satisfied with this in a cunning, greedy sort of way armed with the knowledge her shot would be bigger. Needles plunged like anchors into a sea of red. I felt the rush and lie back in my seat. She stabbed her scarred arms trickling bits of rusty blood onto the vinyl seats. I dropped her off two blocks down the road and watched her walk in to the starless night.

I parked my car and headed for the train tracks. I sat on a pile of rocks and watched the Burlington Northern number seven pass by as I threw cigarette butts into the whirlwind of the passing freight cars. I thought about life and how I became who I was. I measured the speed of the train blurry eyed wondering if I could make it onboard without care where the train was heading. I walked home leaving the car parked on the dark street reading the last bits of graffiti etched by dropout kids to young to be burnt out on life, structure, and lack of direction. I walked aimlessly toward home dropping bits of my life as I passed the concrete sidewalk.

I sat in my room catagorizing truth and fiction. I looked through the same window I grew up looking out of staring at the overgrown grass and the ugly tres and charted the slide of my life by remembering when that view used to hold excitement and wonder. I paced the room looking pictures, posters, pieces of me splattered on the walls. I guessed at which were really me and who I wish I was. I thought about who I had become after leaving the army and who I wanted to be. Its been six years still waiting on that answer.

I traced my outline in carpet and imagined it just another body bagged up in a sandy desert. I layed in my bed and watch the stucco become constellations and omens. I try to control the night and guard my sleep, but a wise man once told me that it is night when the demons hover above sleepless bodies and laugh at their weakness. If they come I will greet them with ashtrays full of butts and a bottle of something and we will discuss the lighter side of evil and really how dark is a dark heart. I will talk to them about the price of souls and what they go for on the devilish black market.