"this profile has been closed by the writer"/

an open letter

Every day someone else is gone.

A writer who refuses. Closes the doors

to their thrift stores on the half off senior day.

And all the worn hats, the un-soaked gloves,

the healing chairs, ear-muffs

the out of tune piano that the pshcyic

boy plays so powerfully on.

The scarves that defined outlines

so beautiful, that were sung

or argued over, stichomythia;

their poems closed down like a door.

Each winter when I visited my uncle

on Rosewood street, in the upper flat

next to the alley, he would give to me

a letter harmonically prayed over. In

his softest tone he would say, "read this"

and I would. But the pages were blank

pages, just on the outlines little circles

were placed there accidentally by a moth

traveling to his corner home. A hard rain

was falling so I didn't bother to catch his

sleeve. Which means, of the things that

delight me, I wouldn't ride the universe

in his little Arc.

The night Sonny Boy Williamson was killed

on the one night he had money, he pointed down

the narrow road from whence the robbers came.

No one sat at his side as he faded. But what

mattered is that harmonica music is a

Mendelian inheritance. And just hearing it

is a walk into eternity .

Mother sent me to school with pressed pants

and a lunch with a piece of fruit. I knew

from then on that things would be hard

and they have been. And the horizon my father had

spoken of in his Crown Royal dream

was the one the tragedians wrote of.

Sophokles may as well be the man

who dated my sister with myth and song;

gave her a ring.

gave her a baby,

and little else.

Reviews

[Beccy]

But the pages were blank pages.' Those are magnificent words!

Even when we depart to the next level, our profiles never really close and it is foolish to suppose this is possible. Each and everything we do leaves an indelible footprint, both in the memories of those we leave behind and in the vast cloud of mankind's collective consciousness that floats somewhere in the cosmos.

These are intricately woven lines that clearly show not only your poetic skills, but also your poetic heart.

Just loved this. Beccy.

[Amplyyours]

The threads you took wove into such a rich and beautiful tapestry. That I read on a cold day feeling even colder warmed me thanks

[Matching Socks]

Wow! Nice job girl. :)
This totally DID NOT go where I thought it was going to take me.

[Delmar Cooper]

A Greek ain't got no patent on tragedy, hard is hard.

[Kristina Moulaison]

wonderfully done!........

[Emily B]

oh holy s**t! you took that thing that drives all of us a little mad and turned it into something artful and mythological, who but you could do this? there is magic in those myths and songs you create

[olla]

I stumbled into this today.. and I am glad I did.. so many bits of life here.. and death.. my Father played a harmonica.. I recognized the path you speak of here.. a walk into eternity.. often it is the poet that defines with words that which the heart can only feel..

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i like what this turned into...a real surprise...
and to end with the myth...and sophocles who wrote so much about fate, blindness, and figuring out who the hell we are.

so will we close our own profiles before we find out?

hopefully not. that would be a true tragedy.