Their photos are periods
Punctuating short stories.
forty, fresh-faced ones,
reflecting everything on the table—
everything possible—back at me:
The promising painter, gifted filmmaker,
Dancer-choreographer, talented sound-tech,
up and coming musician—spring chapters extinguished
by any means necessary—
making space to breathe; creating under capitalism:
basements, abandoned buildings, warehouses, wherever…
Never visualizing fingers of fire playing
Arpeggios in Saturday night skies,
Hurling block chords at heroic
Firefighters in rescue mode—
Never tasting brine of bloodshot eyes—
bitter Margaritas on The Town
gathering, hugging, holding one another up
Oakland’s heart is broken…
de-ja vu—enough heartbreak
for wrapping the lake:
police gunning down the painter;
drunk driver snuffing the dance master;
Blues man crushed in a crosswalk,
Nazis dousing melodies of a young pianist
Oakland
I hear you, love you, feel you—
Please hear me toll
morning’s when Hellfires hit hospitals
leaving blood-splattered walls?
Oakland
I hear you, love you, feel you—
Please hear me toll
Evenings for mangled babies in
Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia and Syria?
Oakland
I hear you, love you, feel you—
Please hear me toll
Imagining fires worlds away—
charred Syrians, Palestinians, Congolese?
Source