I was listening to a soldier
talk about an operation of violence.
And yes, this was violent to the core.
At the same time;
this is war and hence violence
is nothing more than a necessary evil
. . . just to survive.

I heard the soldier talk about the action,
the reason,
and victory of rage
which he also admitted to a celebration
of events
that the people in our society
are not ready for
nor are they tolerant of; however,
this is what it takes
to win a war.

Today . . .
I ask this question out loud yet,
I only ask this question to myself;
however, you are free to ask yourself
this same questions
and if you’d like,
we can try and answer them
together.

Dear Chaos,

I know you well and for so long now,
that perhaps it would be safe to say
that you and I
have been on a first name basis
even before I understood what that means,
to be on a first name basis.

I am the one and always will be,
the one who loves,
the one who wants forever,
to start right now
and the one who feels, sees
and seeks our moment of truth.

And love . . .
. . . Yes, love,
I believe in you still
now, then, and always
as in forever, or as in for life
or longer.

I believe in you
and the highs or the lows,
or the ins and the outs
the ups and the downs,
or the back and forth
or the “for better
or worse.”
until death do us part.

I am not who I was
then again,
none of us are
who we were,
I mean.

It’s hard to think about it . . .
. . . what’s it been now,
33 years?

The world moves.
I know it. You know it.
Everyone knows the world is always turning
and everyone knows that
everything changes,
or that life happens,
as in, all the time.
Every day . . .

Ah, Chaos,

I wonder who I would be,
if I were like the Buddha,
as in all-seeing and all-knowing,
or ever-growing and consciously improving,
as in consistently, on an ongoing basis,
as in forever,
always evolving, ever-changing
as in adjusting or adapting
in a moldable form
like an unfolding story
with a peaceful plot that projects
the pure divinity of beautiful aspirations
and essentially, this is what regains
my ever-evolving perspective
towards the possibility of infinite hope.

The dreams come to me sometimes,
when times are either tough
or in a sense of disarray, and still,
the dreams are always the same
and all of them so different, but each time,
I find myself back in my old world,
like, back when I was young,
or like, as in back before there was a “before,”
or even before then, like, say,
back when I was young enough to explore or pretend,
or to walk in an empty field,
which was a vacant lot across from my home,
or also known
as the playground of my youth—the suburban world,
my town, my little spot,
my house and home and my room,
which was the one upstairs, as in up the stairs
and to the left.

And then comes the question
which is often based on the theories
of our inaccurate math.

What comes next?
What comes after the concept
of a life that was unexpected?

What do we do?
Or say?
Better yet,
what now?