Water slide. Tide. Cool Breeze.Freeze your intuition and listen. Observe.

Porous border. Dotted line. On maps painted and photographed from high in sky. Satellite motion detector deflector. We’ll man the dotted line. We’ll spend more money on protecting fear. Scared into submission. Mission. Just one more drink. One more toke off of the terror brew. Stew.

Don’t choke. It’s thick with good people. Working hard. Who are being served by decent people working harder and longer. Who deserve a piece of the apple pie. White picket fence Beaver Clever dreams. But maybe in their own country?

Maybe take the Fox by the tail and lead him to more jobs in his own country. Then lead the fox to water and force him to drink. Make him understand that this cow’s been milked. And milk ain’t free. And some of our cows are starving.

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Refugees. You see. They have no place to go. No place to flow. Lie low. Don’t pop up your heads. Don’t look for bread. Bodies are lying in your streets. Their meat is cooking in the heat, you see.

Look out for your own. Hold tight to them. Fight for them. To each their own when the war comes. When the war came. When the waters rained and ran. Then the winds slammed their structures to the land.

And look at me. In my cubicle land, with my clicking hand. Trying to be a loving man. Raising my family the best I can. And I hear of this war torn land. Damn. And I have to tune it out. Try to focus on my fam.

I want to help. I want to get up. Stand. And motivate. And march. Grab my rifle. Find the enemy at hand. Fight the injustice, war, hunger of our land.I want to pull militia rights and fight but don’t know what direction to smite.

So I sit here again. In my cubicle land. Clicking with my clicking hand. Wanting peace on this land. Wanting to take a stand. But no knowing where or what direction to man. As I focus and click, and click again.

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My father was a real man. Not like me. When he walked into the room, if you were a real man you would size him up. Don’t worry he would be sizing you up too. He fought in the Korean War at the age of seventeen. When I was seventeen I was listening to Pearl Jam, The Cure and trying to find my identity.

He didn’t talk about what he had seen either, other than a small amount of information I was able to get out of him over time. He told me he was in the 1st Marine Division. Interested, I bought a book on the war and researched it while enlisted in the Army. After reading a bit about it, I understood why after seeing what he did, talking about it would not be a good thing. He had to have seen death. Thousands of deaths.

To make it back in one piece was a victory of its own. And what he had seen would be far better off never spoken about. One of the bloodiest battles he served in was the battle of the Chosin Reservoir. It was so cold during this push toward the Chinese border that winter that frost bite was rampant. Temperatures were reported of thirty below. Also, if you were at this battle and survived you got the nickname the frozen chosen.

This was one of the battles he faced and lived to not talk about. It was a miracle that he made it back in one piece at all. It was a miracle that he could return to have our family. To have me. To live another fifty years. To coach basketball to hundreds of children as a Recreational Director of youth ministries. And to truly make a difference in hundreds of their lives. Coach Mickey will be remembered. Shit. They even named a park after him.

So on this father’s day, I think of my father. Not of myself as a father. My journey has just begun. This is my first father’s day. I haven’t really earned the title yet. Hopefully one day I will.

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Dream mountains. Massive. Strength. Focus on glory. Focus on how to live this life, now. I want to illustrate a how to guide. How to live. I want to leave icons, monoliths, and magic for the little one to live by. Sprinkle bread crumbs so she can find her way home. Out of the darkness. Into our arms. Wherever we are. Wherever we go.

I want her to know that there is such a thing as integrity. Honesty. Love. Carve stone castles to protect her from the injustice of life. Hide her in her own ivory tower of self knowledge.

A strange metamorphosis is happening in this life state. I find definition of self through what I want her eyes to see. I want all the murder and mayhem of this society to be outside. On distant moons. Far far away. I want her to be protected. Cocooned.

Kevlar sheets of bullet proof self love. Dove wings flying. Gliding over the ravaged fields of our wars, our hunger and our homeless inequities. Straight to her mountain top. Where she will find us waiting.

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Alive. You jive. Symbolic transgressions of a battlefield with wars lost, blood shed, and no war is ever won. How do you want to be remembered? Can you not carve your legacy out of the lard of life? Honesty, Integrity, Personal Courage.

I stand in front of monoliths and kneel. I see all of our heroes in it’s black rectangular stature. John Wayne is a smiling and he wants us to kill the civilians. Kill them all. Let God sort them out. That’s God with a capital G of course. The one and only.

John and Clint shoot first and then ask questions. There are bombs going off all around us. The media is pumping terrible news of death and destruction. Conservative or Liberal it is all negative. I want requiem. A place to go back to the innocence experienced while holding my breath waiting for summer to be over. Bored out of my gourd, playing kick the can till 9 p.m. I used to sit in a little corner of my yard and lay still like a sniper and wait for birds to land for just a second while I zeroed my scope of my 20 pump Daisy air rifle.

I would brag about how if I pumped it to 20 it was surely the strength of a .22 caliber rifle. I must have wasted hours shooting round after round. Learning to Kill. I joined the army after 911 in order to kill. I had bought in. Hook. Line. And sinker. I didn’t go to war. I was stationed in California where I learned how to clean a toilet and buff a floor. And I now know that a police call is not calling any police, and a G.I. party is no party at all.

Several years later I sit behind another government desk, but now as a civilian. I never got to kill for this country. I never got to see death. I never got to see war. And I count my blessings. And I thank god. And I thank God. And try to be a hero. Now not for me, or for my country. But for my family.

Thank you God that I did not have to see death. Thank you God that I did not have to kill. Thank you God that my family will have me in their lives instead of some folded American flag. And please, tell John I said Hi.

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