In a previous post I did some research about my uncle who died in WWII. I didn't see the comments until today.

"Your uncle, James J. Brennan was assigned to the 546th Squadron on Station 106 Special Order# 140, dated 17 July 1944. He was assigned as a Ball Turret Gunner on the LT Earnest E. Hanlon Crew, Crew# 23."

The Death of Ball Turret Gunner

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Fucking Poetry

For Wang Zen

Burning me as a living thing

I, the combination of fire and wood

It is my fate that I get burned,

yet it is my desire still being alive

Sleeping in the morning rain

The little green sprout of my heart

Quiet, please

Breath of spring wind

Praying by your ritual flame

It creates energy and destroys me into carbon

It is my being

You are straight as stubborn me

Tolerating my disobedience

It is you, my being

Live wrong, dying away any way

Now is the time of departing

Shall I rupture me?

Shall I be back, or upon the burning logs?

Leaving our souls holding hands.