SUBWAY TO SELF DESTRUCTION

I watched in silence as you descended the steps

into a subway of self destruction;

you were adorned in the bravado of a poet’s ideals

and a Napoleonic imagination

of conquest and fanciful legends.

You thought that you were ascending into the stars

to rock in a cradle of peaceful sleep;

but instead – night after night -I listened to your cries

that echoed in the shallows of your breath.

I tasted the bitter salt of your sword

that bled the blood of a broken heart.

I walked in the shadow of your silence

down the dirt road

layered in a thick crust of jagged rocks and junk filled craters;

a road you stared at

because you could not turn your head

to see the endless rows of graves with white crosses

that were growing from the flag infested ground

like a field of wheat adorns the Kansas landscape.

I braved the wake of your anger

as you pumped synthetic strength

into a body that craved nothing else,

I watched, bound in the chains of silence,

as you jumped into a phone booth

put your superman cape on

and flew into the providence of night

like an eagle of vengeance

soars into the dominion of retribution

to save the children that are yet to come.

You traded the last heartbeat of your soul

for the makings of the bomb

that you smuggled into our home.

You masturbated over the powdered death

as if it  were a tinker toy,

but you were just a string-strumming child

not a Popular Mechanics engineer

who could cross a self built bridge

into the climax of achievement.

In a year

not once

did our Mr. GoodWrench manifestations

topple the power poles

and the machines of war

that marched the children to their bones.

So why this time

did you put your faith

in a premature ejaculating junk yard alarm clock

that rang at will

and set off the explosion

that propelled you to your doom.

What went through that drug infested mind

in that micro instant

after the bomb exploded

and before your body disintegrated?

I  shifted my fingers through the residue of your essence

that mingled with the feces-soaked dirt and ash;

this is all that consecrates

the first syllable of the reality

that says death is not

a just end for a just cause.

II

In the dull light of a sun

struggling to break through a thick layer of rain-filled clouds,

I waited apprehensively for the day to begin.

My mind paced back and forth

in a convoluted polemic dance;

how do I honor your last request

and deliver the eulogy at your funeral.

So what do I say?

Do I praise

or condemn?

Or do I lie

and say nothing?

My mind cannot free itself

from the infection of your last words. 

Your faint yet contempt-filled voice

pleading for my understanding. 

“It is a just cause,”

you lectured as the shadow of death

began to cover your mangled body.

“A just cause is always worth the price of death,” 

you said as your life ended in a convulsion of violence

You smiled through the pain

and left the world

with a prayer for peace lingering on your lips.

You were just a kid

when you began to climb the mountain

where the God of Ideals was said to live.

We were sixteen

what did we know?

We were taught  by our parents and our teachers

that all men were created equal,

that we lived in a system of justice where equality prevailed,

that we were governed by men of the people,

by the people and for the people

and the theory of democracy

and the reality of democracy

were one in the same. 

Yes, we were lied to.

Our teachers lied.

Our parents lied.

Even the spokesmen of God lied. 

But we were sixteen.

Who cared? 

We were incubated

in a xenophobic vacuum of middle-class ideals.

We were force-fed

the myths of a country

where truth was always presented with a disclaimer.

But again, who cared?

We were sixteen!

Virgins.  Cub fans.

What did we know about reality? What did we really care about reality? 

But not you.

I waited in the Greyhound bus station

for the ride to South Haven

where I would end the tyranny of virginity

but you decided to sneak onto another bus -

a bus headed into the darkness of Mississippi

to fight another type of tyranny.  

You became the warrior

and died in the darkness of a subway station

built upon the ruin of humanity.