A poem I wrote when I was married

A while ago I was married. I found the perfect girl in the mountains of Bulgaria. I should have stayed there with her, and if I had we'd still be hitched, have a big family in a village and shoot guns in the sky at the new year. But I messed up and brought her here. She grew sad quickly. I saddened myself. Collective sadness grew to the point of bifurcation. How tragic, yet how tragic the American girlfriend, the wickedly satisfying yet meaningless phenomenon

Under the doorway

You hear people in
the hallway, because there is
space under the door.
I think you are drunk,
my dear, and your spills
on the bed sheet, your wine,
your beer bottles filled with
tobacco juice, your late night
laments of youth lost, your
awkward hair-pulling kisses,
they are sweet but they are
fading, like your skateboard
stolen unprotected one meaningless
crater-filled afternoon.
Sometimes, honey, when the rain
chases away the neighborhood
fireworks, I will come to you
in the dark stairwell, and knock
at your door. You are and
are not ready for me. But over
chicken soup and beer
you will think again and come
alive and awaken like the snow
when it melts in late Fall.

Death

If I die before I wake, I ran 5x1000 meter repeats right before I kicked the motherfucking bucket. My splits were between 3:12-3:15. I know boxing and other exotic pursuits are all the rage these days, but I must point out my joy in running and how I cannot approximate it to anything else. How else can a man feel such joy with mere 1000 meter repeats on a track--I'm not in the Andes, there is no beauty, right, of and on this track? Indeed the purist might speak of the beauty of the red track, but the joy comes from the speed and the motion and the rhythm of the running. Indeed, there is cycling, indeed. But it is an artifice, the necessary intermediation of the machine.
Indeed, death, you did not interrupt me. You did not occur. I do not know your name.

on the battlefield

The French man has taken the approach to lay down cover fire, bomb from the sky, constantly fire mortars, pour blankets of napalm upon his enemies until nothing, nothing but his own pattern of words remain. Ludwig chooses to snipe. Hide in the bushes, take out the Sargent. Over the the mountain tops with his rifle, take out the general, or at least attempt to.

We speak of language games but what we really speak of is murder and battle. Let's not hesitate to characterize this 'game' as war, as games prepare men for war. That is their value, despite the joy they give us.

Sartre did not care to analyze language games and uses and contexts of words: he chose to scorch the earth until only his own words remained.

Ludwig felt no such discomfort, and felt he could, by killing a few commanders here and there, demoralize the troops to the point the war ended or went in his favor.

I ask my fellow men: who do you wish to murder with your words?

I shall see you on the battlefield.