The Linnet's Wings The Sorrow - Page 98

The Linnet´s Wings O NCE S CREAMED TO D RUNKS AT THE V ETS B AR , M EMORIAL D AY E VENING T OM S HEEHAN Sixty-six years now and they come at me, in Chicago, Crown Point, Indiana, by phone from Las Vegas. I tell them how it happened, long after parting, one night when I was in a bar, thinking of them all. ** Listen, gunmen, all I can smell is the gunpowder on you sharper than booze. You wear your clothes with a touch of muzzle flash. Is it a story you want…? Listen to the years ago, to the no shooting, to the no rout, to the just dying. The day stank, it wore scabs, had odors to choke tissues and burn secret laminations of the lungs. Rain festered in soot clouds, rose in the Pacific or the Sea of Japan, dumped down on us, came up out of yellow clay like a sore letting out. The air must have been full of bats, of spider weavings; it was lonely as the lobo, yet a jungle of minds filled it with thought leaves shining with black onyx. Who needs doctors at dying? Prayers sew wounds, piece heads, hearts, hands together, when blood and clay strike the same irrevocable vein, arterial mush; when God is the earth and clay, silence, the animal taker leaning to grasp. Listen, gunmen, listen you heroes in mirrors only you see into, we through, it isn’t the killing, it’s the ART: PS MLF Ladies of Arles (Memories of the Garden at Etten) by Vincent van Gogh 98