Poe drowns in his own vomit on the streets of Baltimore.
Homer dreamt he was the only suitor fucking Penelope.
Look backward to see where it will end; find the long view.
There are words need no tongues. What’s a mouth for?
The character of civilization resides in one mother’s tears:
If her son can’t find work, he can kill for a thousand pesos . . .
He wrote well, his life tattered, abandoned from the start.
She had faced down the suitors, why not the blind poet?
Who was the kid with his contract, a way to make a living,
becoming the living dead because you do . . .
I was not there. Manuela Roma was. Reynolds, certainly:
“I was in Lecumberri. ‘I was the man, I suffered, I was there.’”
Thirty-three years. No second crucifixion necessary.
A story needs a witness to prove it’s true . . . then continues.
(8 October 2011)
copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander