Repairs And Details

If you dream of broomsticks, or find George Washington’s axe in your cellar …

Do not fight for the man in the street, his dogs are all whipped and he runs from the rain

Do not fight for the mariachi players, their instruments are made of wood and brass that can only play one song at a time

Do not fight for the whores, whose children are painted with skin, the color of wedding dresses

Do not fight for the source of the river, where wolves will always negotiate with birds to drink silently in its shadows

Do not fight…

 

Feel no more the same guilt of the sun that magnifies the angry stench of an Illinois slaughterhouse

Feel no more the same guilt of a tree as it genuinely offers shade to a fearless escaped convict

Feel no more the same guilt of palaces, that sheltered the jewels and servants and guns of buck-toothed dictators

Feel no more the same guilt of jokes that sang harmonies to lunatics twiddling their thumbs before slowly waning candles

Feel no more the same guilt of distractions, while they hum and celebrate the falling snows of indecision

Feel no more the guilt…

 

If your standard amusement should fail you

If strangers should laugh at you on a westbound train

If you can’t tell a lie from a piece of pie

If you dream of broomsticks, or find George Washington’s axe in your cellar, or promise to kill a birdseed stealing squirrel and end up poisoning your neighbor’s cat

Do not fight and feel no more the guilt

 

These are only repairs

They are details that temporarily heal the fractured bone and cauterize the torn flesh but cannot avoid the trumpeting poetry of billowing ashes, and the completeness of a brisk wind roaring across the desert

at sunrise

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