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Chapter 1

Job 1:7

And the Lord said unto Satan, “From whence comest thou?” Then Satan answered the Lord and said, “From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down upon it.”


1 Kings 19:12-13 KJV

and after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here, Elijah?


2 Timothy 4:7-8

7 I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8 Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day-and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.


The wind rustled the oaks leaves, the Oracle heard the rustling, the Oracle interpreted the rustling and told the King, the King acted on the words of the Oracle. Who speaks for the Oracle? Salomé. Who rustles the leaves? Who is the Wind? The Prince of Air.

That is where we are now.


He came home to the USA after WWII.

Chapter 2

He came home

after bobbing on a destroyer in the South Pacific, during the inexorable march to Tokyo, island to island, pocketed Japanese to pocketed Japanese sitting at machine guns then retreating into caves to be burned or suffocated by flamethrowers. Dead. Dead? No longer moving, no longer alive, buck toothed little yellow bastards. Dead in a scorched cave. On to the next island on to Tokyo. Inexorable.


You gotta start somewhere, like with skinny teenaged soldiers, their helmets too big for their heads - farm boys Bronx boys even Manhattan boys - knowing they’ll die, coming off listing amphibious ships and storming a beach, unknowing about the future amicable trade in tin toys and then silicon chips.


Goddamn raise the flag. Four half dead men and Old Glory. Do it. It was us or them – little yellow bastards bombed Pearl Harbor in their goddamn screaming Zeroes with the red dots on the side, slanty eyes squinting through bombsights. 2403 dead, most before they could pull their britches on. Fathers and brothers and husbands. Goddamn you little yellow bastards to Hell. We’ll march north one blood-soaked island at time. And you’ll catch Hell, Hirohito and whoever gets in the way. Hearts stop blood stops you stop – frozen hours on a clock, anti time, an after-image of time on a brick wall.


There is a statue of him where Grover Cleveland then Bob Hope stood then Muhammad Ali stood, in bronze. Squirrels crack walnuts on his statue in late autumn. They flip their tails as they crack the nuts. No one knows why. It’s wasted energy

to crack open the truth, when someone can just tell you the truth.


It’s either fight or give up in the end, with your eyes fixed immovable at the ceiling, or else

It’s what they love. It’s what they live. It’s what they leave.


He came home to the USA after WWII, but there’s a brand-new statue to him now, 80 years later, and he’s still young.


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