In this life space seventy-seven is a highway, but once upon a time it was a year.

These days she says I feel my life just like a river running through.

But the drumbeat strains of the night remain in the rhythm of the newborn day.

We already knew there was no Year of the Cat in Chinese. But you can call him Al, and from him direct we learn that there is one, in the Viet zodiac.

In that one I’m the buffalo and I’ll take it, count it an improvement, even if it’s not the bison kind.

The wind was driving in my face, the smell of prickly pear

You’ve always done the right thing. You’ve always been the good guy.

Way better than me at it any day of the week, since you were fifteen sixteen. A paragon. But not today.

Without giving up your decent soul, you’re going to war now.

Even getting it over with quickly and efficiently is a dream that died when she bombed the Pearl.

This is kill or be killed, brother.

Leave a breadcrumb trail back to your own pure heart, but harden it now ruthlessly.

Become the wrong kind of person, episodically, because it’s simply necessary to do so now.

When the firefights come, give your soul over to the devil. There’ll be time to reflect on the parts of yourself you wish you didn’t ever have to look at, when you’re back home stateside and your PTSD is being well cared for.

But right now you’re a soldier in a holy war.

I know who you are.

You’re going to win.

We’re gonna break out the hats and hooters.

I’m a bookkeeper’s son and so are you.