Blockade (for maya)

Who? But before you go i.
The path of the pilgrim
Laid out in footprints
One in front of the other.
We speak low
But aim high.
The child
Grows to be an emblem
Of the hoodlum and waits for one of us to forgive.
He seems nice enough
but we argue about his hygiene
And his choices -
And the voices ahh the voices
I would like for one time
To hear him sing his happy song
If just one more time.

The chilly rain
Is what makes me come alive
I hazard a guess as to why.
Bundled in scarf
And birthday suit
I imagine a time when
A mother was young
And her son even younger
As I approach her age
When my son is what my age was
Could time just wrap itself
Around an already entangled mind
And compress past into present?

Her drawings say it all
And then some
They codify what we already
Know to be true
They cow-tow to no one
They are blameless
And accuse no one
The media speak for themselves
And mix it up with anyone doubting
That a woman can possess
And give it away at the same time
A ghostly voice
Is visually displayed
And a million miles away
A man responds
By ignoring his own voices
For once. This is how it is
To the war-torn
Calling out to the seemingly
Safe. Homeland security
Has the skill to build a wall only so high
If folks want in here they can just go around
What of the ladies, men, horses and more?
They were born when Picasso
Fucked his mistress and was proud of it
When sex and bravado forged a partnership
In visual art. In literature we had a Picasso equivalent
In Mailer. He puffed his chest and had on-air fisticuffs
With anyone who could fight back. Our eyes are so scarred
And we are so tragically hip as to be numb against real power
Of expression. As it was said (Eliot?) it will all end in a whisper.

And, as this lady screams, are you listening?


-jim hill (3-16-09)