D-Day Approaching

A Poem


(It’ll be magnificent.)

It’s been a week and a half since I’ve even looked at my novel.

I just reread a little, just this minute ago.

(It’ll be magnificent.)

But this is what I do—I fall back in love with it.  (It IS worth it

and I DO love it!)

The important thing is

I’ve breached my mind’s fortress; I’ve

broken through.

Bombardments from planes and ships

(and men stumbling onto the beaches,

dizzy from fear or exhaustion or pain or death or all) will


this, my great, sad wound, cut through it like a scab.

Let the puss and blood mix!

Let it dry and curdle

and harden, again!

Let it scab again; let it sit,

my place of proven pain,

until one day, it falls away and

leaves nothing


the kiss of healed skin as its

only mark




And then one day, tourists arrive and

snap pics

from their smart phones

in dour shots

of ignorant,


and obedient


and when

only tombstones and plaques remain,

you can be sure that the pain is faked and rehearsed.

My heart and my mind has made so much war (in myself and out, with these fingertips, these pens and yellow and yellowed pages of legal pad and printed pages from computer screens and laptop keys tip-tip-tipping)

that if you line up

all of the soldiers

alive and veteraned

single file,

they would connect a quiet eight-year-old boy reading

with a

withering man of forty writing;

from Burbank to Chicago.

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