To Jimmy Santiago Baca, In The House Tonight
by Albert
De Genova
The open-mic
graffiti poets posture
for the Buddha,
master in the audience.
He listens,
applauds, drinks
bourbon.
But tonight
words swirl
around the writer’s head
like ice cubes in
his glass, like
updrafts of
circling snow outside.
He asks me to
play,
play my saxophone
a song for his
brother
the brother who
died
just winter days
ago.
"Play a song
for me, play
a song for my brother
who was murdered.
Play a song
because
there are things
in a life
that you can’t
get over.
My mother was
murdered
my father was
murdered
and now
my brother --
there are things
in a life
that you cannot
get over."
He closes his
eyes to say this,
he kisses his
hands held as in prayer.
"Faith in
the Virgin of Guadeloupe ,
better than the
trigger I pulled
the cold blood I
shed
angry lives
ago."
My fingers find
the keys, stumble
into Amazing
Grace
and spiral into a
freefall of blue notes
that is a dead
brother.
There are things
in a life
you cannot get
over,
things
that make
this poet’s
poems.
No burning need
for an open
microphone
or polite
applause
only the request
for a song
this January
night--
there are things
in a life
you cannot get
over.
~ first published
in Back Beat (Cross+Roads Press)
