A bowl of Wheaties and Captain Kangaroo got him
going in the morning.
School for the most part was a murder mystery
in which he had been cast as the victim.
Puberty and pimples for him were the beginning
of the end.
He thought conformity was stupid, and eventually
learned there was more to life than being a nice guy.
He liked the uniform and regalia, but never saw killing
people as a reputable profession.
He saluted officers and hummed the National
Anthem anyway.
He loved liverwurst and beautiful women. Liverwurst
never was a disappointment.
He admired the wit and wisdom of Mark Twain and
the illustrative irony of Bill Mauldin.
He understood Picasso, Dali and Dylan.
Fatherhood to him was living his father’s failed life all
over again.
He polished the brass, but never could get it to shine.
His dad applied what he called elbow grease. For him
it only aggravated his crazy bone.
His belief system was based on the fantasies of his
elders who turned out to be misguided liars.
He learned about life and mortality by the dead and
dying all around him.
If there was heaven and eternal life, god would select
faithful dogs over duplicitous mankind to be by his side.
(That’s what Mark Twain implied.)
Bill Mauldin was “Up Front” and showed him the farcical
absurdities of war.
He was comforted by the taste of liverwurst, and the
cooing sounds of mourning doves in the late afternoon.
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Chris Hanch 9-17-2020
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