I received mail today denying me of any form of disability from the VA relating to my ankles, knees, upper back and neck, and hearing. There is no evidence that my four and a half years as an airborne infantryman, with two years in Iraq, had any impact on those parts of my body. I guess that’s what happens when you tough it out and don’t complain. Only thing I don’t understand is how I have met some people with 0 combat time who receive 100 percent disability? It’s a strange system, one I don’t trust. I would be laying if I said that this doesn’t upset me, but hey, what can I do about it?
My baby slept in her own bed for the first time last night, my wife and I played a game of Kings Corner today, we ate salmon with chimichurri and had a really wonderful day. Life is good.
Here is a poem to honor some of the secrets we all keep. What secrets do you have that you write about? Writing is the most effective way I have found to confess and move forward. What tricks do you use?
Secrets of a Cop Killer
Sometimes I want to tell people that I killed two cops in Iraq,
but it would be like telling them that I write poetry;
I won’t admit either.
Occasions arise to gain street cred from hard folks
who swap tales like pictures of girlfriends;
I listen to them brag, and smirk.
Occasions arise to gain street cred from rich folks
who ask me to drive after a cop passes by.
“Unpaid tickets,” they say. “I hate cops.”
I take the wheel.
Should I tell them I killed two cops in a firefight?
I laugh hysterically at their imagined reactions
then visualize cold bodied facts;
If God and Karma do exist,
and I sometimes believe in both,
I should not laugh about killing.
So I stop laughing and feel guilty instead.
“What were you laughing about?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Do I tell standing trees
about killing and burning their kin
for heat in my wood stove?
