Poet Louise Larchbourne Reads my War Poem “Forever’s Requiem”

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forever’s requiem

may there always be a dive bar named “forevers”outside the main gate of misawa air base, japan; off-duty soldiers diving into booze, diving into women; may there always be kimono-clad models sprouting permanent marker moustaches and tits on sapporo beer posters under a drunk G.I.’s hand; may there always be pickled eggs on the bar and yen dollars tacked to the walls scribbled with the names of lovers; piss in the corners; the sweet, warm smell of it like new cut grass; couples fucking each other in the bathroom; the walls wobbling and thrusting, little holes for peeking through so we can chide and giggle. may there always be bad karaoke; prose poems written at the bar, words wet with sake, running into each other, no space between the drunken soldiers and lonely women, soldiers finding meaning in every wrong word they sing; meaning it more with every kamikaze bowl they drink, 500 yen a pop; five straws sucked by five people till the booze runs dry, and no one over twenty-five but me and you and that girl with her tits flopping about; may there always be tits flopping about; secret touching behind people’s backs and sweet home alabama on the stereo; may there always be GI’s in puke-strewn bars arm in arm singing about some sweet home somewhere in America; diving into booze, diving into women; filipino chics pole-dancing the length of married men’s legs; may there always be women who know how to grind like that; the ones with bad dye jobs, the assless, the ones too fat for their half-shirts; smokers with serrated smiles. may they all kiss and grind like that, drunkenness loosening their tongues and clothing till the booze runs dry; may there always be married women, divorced, widowed women finding heaven in the bathrooms, their husbands blown to bits a million miles from america a million miles from japan; may these women smack and kiss the drunken soldiers for their wives who aren’t there; may there always be women who know how to kiss like that, for the women who can’t or won’t, and the husbands who welcome it; the sweet piss-smelling home of a woman’s body blossoming in cramped bathrooms, walls wobbling and thrusting; dreams of other girls a million miles from America a million miles from japan; drunken soldiers finding meaning in every wrong word they sing.