Thursday, October 11, 2012

Grassroots

Smashing beer pitchers in each
others' faces, each small bird
watches your package, and
guerrillas moan for your olives.

I got your back, brother.

Valencia ferias painted you red
with tomatoes"Good for your
man parts," I said, so you'd remember.
Now your whispering, incense

through the ceiling, cries for Christ's
ear. "Your shoe is untied," I say
as I bow, "watch my back, brother."
The kidnappers' guns fired past your

fleeing through a forest. "Lord Jesus
Christ, let me survive! I will do what
you will!" The morning carried your
confessions to Mom and Dad. Family

cried across the continent. If you had
died, I'd have sung this over your
casket: "He knew who he lived for;
why he died. Do you?

I got your back, brother."


2 comments:

  1. there was a night in a central Tulsa neighborhood when I stood on a sidewalk, talking with one of your brothers for hours and stealing his cigarettes. I hope I had some to give him in return.

    this poem breaks my heart and makes me remember that night, because i think you have captured something important about the illogical calculus of the mentally ill that makes sense to them.

    My hope is for all the wise fools wandering this world to indeed be Gods' beloveds. May they all find shelter and care.

    Love you.

    ReplyDelete