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 poets 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
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.
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 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.
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.