Hurt shit.

Top of the morning gents,

I just like to hurt shit. Sorry, but I do. Bun says: Can't hurt the dead.

Me and bun were entertaining guests the other day. Jameson's whisky, Northern Lights and Star Gazer weed and the company of more fuckhead potgrowers. Typical shit. Old convicts and bakedsober alcoholics evangelical. Colostomy bags, COPD coughers and herniated disks and stomachs too.

Just like my AA meetings way back in Mountlake Terrace Washington. Court orders. Set up chairs in some loser Church of the Illiterate, make massive canisters of coffee and put out a hunnert ashtrays, barrels of sugar and pallets of cement colon coffee creamer. I also had to sweep up and put all the folding chairs away after AA. Got a ride home from Beuler too. He lived a coupla blocks from me.

Difference between a drunk and an alcoholic: drunk don't gotta go to all them fucking meetings. SSDD. Here in Soldotna I set up chairs and drinks and coffee and load bowls, all former uniforms, but no cops. Only old alcholics' PTSD and zero halo nor aura. You soldiers are indeed a unique lifeform and yet glowing bag of mashed up assholes.

I now know why minors shouldn't attend ADULT recovery meetings. Pretty fucking traumatic, unless yer a butcher boy, goat milker and chicken choker of the most prestigious WA serial killer prototypically injured, abused and beaten soldier at the age of 4. I never cry. Until I worked with you lads. I'm a rescue lifeline for drunks. In a moment of pure panic sobriety or between prescription refills, just pop by. Bar's ALWAYS open, bun got baked roasts and breads and I usually got something hemplethal to burn.

Give me yer 1 year AA sobriety pin. I'll give ye a jug. You bet.

Addictions aside, I win all my fights. Even when I was the kid known on Maplewood Hill as Flogged Toddler Finn. When I grew up and got big, I went back and killed everybody. Sure hurt and killed lots of people. Never my tormentors. I'm feeling like it's time to kill again. Like bitches' periods, I got to grieve lost spermatazoa and ovum, and the folks that are just dying to die. Nothing like another homicide to cheer us up. When yer at DEATH's Door, I pull ye through.

Way back when I was in prison and having a hell of tough day at the office, bun awoke in the living room amidst sleepwalking and calling for me. She knew the stress of my job and I vaguely heard her prayers for me on the other side of the planet. Her advice now is for us to be available to each other.You all have loved ones that awake each night with us in a sweat gasping for air, skin afire and feet breaking and feeling yer sufferings. Fuck, every night, that's our wives.

We never hurt the ones that deserve it, just the ones that love us. Next midnite anxiety, panic and hotflash attack just exercise the thought that that's the exact moment me, patrick, paul, timo, mutt and jeff awake too. No shit, tonight, when you awake suffocating and sweating, just remember you're doing the same thing as all of us: at the same moment. After the loud echoes inside, take a respite. That's me in the corner. And so is Craig.Ya see, he told me to meet him here. No, it's not yer wife we're concerned with, it's your soul that's got us hovering about. I ain't Irish but David says we gotta have a few coins for ye. And some stupid little canoe filled with yer immortal remains.

My word you boys have some awful dreams. Fuck dude, I try to visit all you'n when yer nightmares hurt the worst. And I write like hell. All I have is highly illustrative words sorrowful and artistic whitespace bleak and I never lost my religion. For a little while, I ran out of words to paint on yer canvas. But as you can see: I'm back!

I'm still watching and spying over y'all and in the last decades. By now all you guys better understand me perty fucking clearly. This morning post AM CopTalk is classified top secret and only a ruse to open up that USB port inside yer broken hearts and bleeding soldiers' souls.

VideoDrome is merely a philosophy, but this playground is bordered with rows of crosses. By reading heartfelt subconcious tortured pleadings for help, y'all voluntarily tear off scars and scabs and happily receive quarter century old and painfully honest yet injurious back channel dispatch chatter from KPD D8, even from this graveyard for God's servants uniformed, armed and covert.

Besides you soldiers and deceased troopers, I think bun been gone a long time. Or we have. Every night, as an evening constitution I walk through all the graveyards AK looking fer something. I lost my wife years ago, but I just can't find my way home.

Fuck. I can no longer see my reflection. From within bun's glowing aura I heard her say the only person I hurt is me. I won't stand at yer grave and cry. Alas, you found me out. Look where I'm sitting. No more bandages nor tourniquets and right fucking next to you. I'm only one of the five people you will meet in Heaven. Best we grieve in advance.

I am, therefore I sing of the dead, glad and proud. One of us is due fer a funeral and it'll break all our hearts, but I'm there dude. As in right here letting my powder-burned and frostbitten fingers hum in the wind faster'n a machine gun.

Or a falling teardrop.

I'm always sitting on freshmowed grass, my face is wet and I'm so lonesome within this crowded, noisy and smoky graveyard packed with you funny fuckers. For centuries now, I been trying to find my wife. Somewhere she's still busy with her angelic maternal Florence Nightengale Duties. She's so hard to find: nobody on this side is injured or hurt. At least anymore.

Here on this page of text and amid anglicized etched tombstones, I ain't here to hurt ye. I'm here to help...and look fer bun. I see all you shooters, but I'm still an echoe and another hillside away from my wife. She ain't nowhere in sight, so I'll bid y'all farewell and keep walking towards her porchlight just a bit further north.

Just wish bun could see how handsome you soldiers have become. Another soaked page of text and another graveyard: and no bun.

All I found is us.

Karl.