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Kiowa's TestStories can change the way you see people. If you hear a story about a friend of yours tracking a man down and murdering him, you’re always going to be suspicious of him even if he’s the nicest guy, even if you think it’s a lie. As a story teller, Rat Kiley wielded this power with unintentional ferocity, changing everyone’s view of everyone and then changing it back again. One damp night in the Bien Hoa Base, Rat was wildly swinging this power of his around with his eyes closed, unaware of the danger of his words.
The night was thick and hot and the conversation wheeled on illogical and drunken routes through disconnected and hilarious topics. The company had been taken off the lines and shifted back to an air base for R&R. Kiowa and 2 others were on leave in distant places and everybody else was trying their best to forget they were in Vietnam.
“Why,” I said with a bottle in hand, “why is Kiowa so goddamn nice.”
Silence gripped the room;
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More