-for ashanti, with fondness
i.
montbello, 1:33 am
the first sound:
after an awkward murk
of stillness, it splits:
an eager homicidist who so indelicately
spits, and the concrete below admits
the chromish excreta
of a sawed-off,
these were the very first things that
the dead of night noted.
disrupting, yet again:
the repugnant monotony of recycled poverty,
in this gray-ghast, tinderbox terrain,
where the only roses that bloom
are toosoon crushed
by another flawless robbery.
the second sound:
a grisly bear thud,
as ruptured head connects
with the folder-flat ground.
of course, it would be four hours
until his corpse,
a paling hourglass of pumice,
would even be found.
the yawnful, eye-boogered inspectors find:
spatgasms of flesh, bullet-blasted brains,
maroon guano slowly congealing
on pavement both weary and withdrawn,
and their shift has gone on far too long,
as the scene becomes a detective novel,
quasi noir,
at justabout dawn.
bands of police tape
plus newborn rays of sun
are like streamers of mockery.
ii.
montbello, 3:46 am
the better nature of our angels
is pondered by a raven, alone, and craven,
observing, fat worm in mouth,
from the ghetto's only haven:
quoth he, "forevamore."
iii.
montbello, 11:33 am
the reverend james speaks,
from the pulpit on high,
and rides a wave of biblical fatalism:
"for, if the lord jesus christ our savior
is truly just, then there's an uncommon peace
in this death, this death,
as fruitful perhaps, as a life misblessed
by every single tone of distress.
for he knew well the callous comfort
of constant crisis, was friendly with
the assorted agonies
of aroused anger."
the scores of mourners
respond, react:
an avalanche of assent.
iv.
montbello, 1:17 pm
la carniceria azteca opens up
its backdoor, to add a candle to the spot,
one of those with la virgen de guadulupe
that never gets too hot,
or goes out,
because los duenos are true believers,
and they honor their dead
con velas de la virgen de guadalupe,
even though Theodore
was an infrequent customer,
only fortnightly big on the generous crackle of chicharrones,
but still, his sudden matanza
deserves una vela de la virgen,
por lo menos.
the one that won't go out
until the Evolution comes back,
and Wins.
an Evolution unscripted, not knocking politely on doors,
or using manners of any sort.
iv.
montbello, 2:23 pm
winter ice was the kind my daddy likes,
she said, without looking up,
as if chewing gum
was part of the daily language objective.
her pinkish bubble bloats- to an about to pop,
as i, her humble servant teacher,
cannot dare her to stop.
the blackboard ahead
and the whiteboard behind
are dueling canvasses for her tormented glyphs:
restless animations of much better times,
when he was always hers,
and her hard work
was mine.
v.
(a daughter imitates "the raven")
"Wonce pon a sunset brite, my page sat starin, faded n white,
Emptied outta all memries, both sorraful an joyus-
Whiles i duskdreamt, meditatin, whiles out in da street my moms was waitin,
As of an angel coursely knockin, drummin at my bedroom do,
Tis a vision of my past,' i shuddered, drummin at my bedroom do-
Jus this, docta, aint nuthin mo.
Yes, very well i does recall, when it was da hottest of july,
When every ratched cockroach was a shadow pon da floor,
Despitely i begs for relief;-a spurt a breez, howeva brief
For my page ta be fillt, davoid of grief- grief for da fallen Theodore-
For da uneek 'n' smilin knight whom a maid named Theodore-
Uncommon statistick, forevamore.
An' the coarse dajected ambigwus shakin of each tacky blind
Enagized me- loaded me wit delightful emotions not imagent befo;
So dat suddinly, to cahm dis shakin a nerves, i hovered quakin
"Mus be some vision begs ta come inside at my bedroom do-
Sum portant visitor begs ta come inside at my bedroom do;
Jus this, docta, aint nuthin mo.
Suddinly my heart grew braver; delibarate without a waver,
Yessir, callt i, or missus, tis your mercy dat i most surely seeks;
But da truth is, i was duskdreamin, and so sutlee you comes up schemin,
An so stedly you comes drummin, drummin at my bedroom do,
Dat i doubtid i even heard you- an when i kickt open the do;-
Emptiness, aint nuthin mo.
Like hard inta dat emptiness glarin, an hour i stands there, hopin, daren,
Envishunin vishuns dat no vishunary eva thought ta envishun befo;
Yet there wuz only strait up silence, an da awful stillness a memry violence,
An da only word i even heard was da hushed up mumblt word, 'Theodore!'
This i repeats, and a phantim singsonged back the word, 'Theodore!'-
Only this, forevamore.
vi.
montbello, 1:23 am
his uzi didn't weigh a ton; in fact,
as for a piece, he had not one.
still: no peace, and no gun.
unarmed, but not armless,
harmed, but never harmless,
his last stroll to the copycat corner store
plus the the labored lullaby
of a stalker's steps.
he heard all this, surely, without a glance or care,
and walked right into that copycat corner store,
for one last, nickel-dime time,
mindlessly crushing the faded glitter
of candy wrappers
and running a mini-gauntlet
of crack-stained raptor claws,
walking into that store
believing he could never own it.
