at the burial of a onceloved meth addic

for Linda 1964-2019

I'd be a Levant like John the Baptist excoriating light; like Dante at midnight in my crumpled, no iron shirt.

I'd  be Pee Wee Russell always old but guarding the blues like a Muskogee pearl. I'd come back from the dead

to impute the church folk of guilt, of weakness or folly. Go on. I would be the piece of painted wood, the rhombus

we whirled on the grey string. Of the old plantations where the big folk lived, I would unfreeze, unearth the old

well, re-dirt the smoke house floor. Find again the green tobacco leaves where  the big thorn worms hid to bite the forearm's of a child. Everything's just a speck away from starry nights: of the scant wool whispers of the child

you lost in 87 but named after your grandmother. The one with dementia that walked in the rain with tics

covering her feet. We'd gather all the grandmothers of the world into the darkest places of our hearts

and lock the doors. We'd wrap them in the stiff strips of an umbrella's fabric. Never forgetting that you,

rotting bone, witch-black as hurricane laughter, light as a ghost with rice-white hands could not come back

from this apportioned  whistling. We'd shake you, like we did your sleeping father, by his shoulders when he smelled of pee. 

To meth and rosebuds we'd give a metaphor that resuscitates the broken hearts of the poets, one that explodes

like the alcove in your aunties summer house where we fucked and powdered down our asses with

lemon water, chicken wings and Boonesfarm . We'd back the Taurus up again against the house so the barbeque

pit wouldn't tip over. We'd dig you up, not plant you like the ticking dahlia seeds

we all swore the we would never become. 

Reviews

[redzone]

I have read this many times now, each time words eluded me about all the images, all the heart strings your words pulled at me.... so let me instead tell you about my friend Gomez, a heroine addict who died of an overdose in 1973.... he taught me the words of Betances and the Grito de Lares revolution he led... he shared with me his life story and how he came here with his family.... he taught me to drink cheap wine with his friends in the alley behind his house.... he was a Puerto Rican Nationalista, a follower of Lolita Lebron... and he was my good friend and comrade in arms... he got hooked while working at the local mushroom farms (the owners helped to make the supply of heroine easily obtainedhe told me)… he wanted to quit, and so me a two other friends sat with him day and night as he went through withdrawal... pain, sweats, chills, fever, and the constant retching, even when there was nothing left to retch and the dreams and illusions yelled at us as delusions gripped him.. and always the retching and cussing us for not giving him a fix.... the first 4 days were the worst and at one point we thought he would die right in front of us, but somehow he was finally able to keep some broth down and for another 3 weeks we stayed with him, nursing him back to health... and his wife and little girl was finally able to visit... the only good thing I remember from this prdeal (besides his recovery) was babysitting little Eva she was 6 months old and such huge black eyes... I often wonder where she and her mom are now... Gomez seemed to be doing better and had stayed away from drugs... but one morning, his wife found him slumped in his car, the needle and paraphernalia beside him, dead...

for us on the bottom of society, drugs of one kind or another has always been a scourge, it was only when it started to hit suburban white youth that it became an epidemic and when cocaine was turned into crack... now its pain meds as well as all the synthetics... and with each new drug, it becomes even harder to stay off of them after rehabbing...

I feel deeply for you Dana and for the family of your friend Linda.... I think you will miss her terribly and will always remember those good things you shared together.... you don't need to dig her up as she rests safely/peacefully in your heart Dana

[h d e rushin]

I was reading "Your Philosophy of voles" this morning and it got me to wondering. The further we go in life, the more unreasonable life itself becomes; the more "stopping to smell the coffee" is an illustration of just how removed we are from everywhere. When I was younger, I watched an entire generation of Black males lost to the crack epidemic. Detroit is extreme in this regard. You can drive by the once occupied streets and look for miles in all directions and not see anyone. And when I say anyone, I mean the omnipresent, simultaneous everyone that appears in poetry time. Linda stole from my mother and hers. Sold blowjobs for pennies on the dollar just for another hit. Fenced her sisters wedding ring. Broke into my garage. lived, in the end, far below any level of depravity . But still at her memorial there were tears. Stores of a wild eyed girl who carried the lunch her mother made for her in a brown bag only to share it with her friends. She fell in love. Wore the roundest afro. Collected Barbie's. Had a giant picture of Patrick Swayze on her bedroom wall. See, my friend, nothing is different in our lives other than the unusual dimensions (vole holes) that we force our fingers in. Sometimes life just isn't long enough to get what ails us, right again. Thanks for those wonderful words.....dana

[kentuck14]

This merits great applause . . . not only for the subject matter, but the way your lines flow so easily . . . even through difficult emotions. As a white guy I appreciate being able to hear the black experience in such a way. Tragedy is something every race knows . . . but it becomes unique in the telling. Thanks for the read.
Tom

[h d e rushin]

thank so much kentuck14..(I love that name). thank you for taking the time and thank you for your kind response....dana

[Robert Trakofler]

I am crushed by your words...holding my head and giving it my involuntary half turn we do when we got no words. Lost too many friends to drugs and my head still shakes for them too. But right now I’m shaking it for you and your sorrow. You didn’t lack for those words in this poem of beautiful decay and love that made me drop a tear for your pain so strongly written all I have to say is how sorry I am we lost another to the wretched

[h d e rushin]

thanks Bad..We loose people we love to a crisis that our insatiable urges prolong. And like love or heartache, we cant do s**t about it. Thanks for your kind words my friend...dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

such tragedy this addiction is....and such a moving piece here....using the parallel of those grandmothers who at a certain age lose control of their functions...and just survive...the people who can't take care of themselves, the ones we don't want to turn into...
the ones we want to hide and hide from because it is too overwhelming to see them falter like they do.
i got punched in the gut with this one, dana...
extraordinary work...as is your mantra.
j.

[h d e rushin]

thanks Jacob....it comes to a point when the only thing we have to offer to the dead is a poem. Thanks for those kind words my friend...dana

[jacob erin-cilberto]

and i wonder somehow if they are up there looking down and reading...and whether they appreciate the remembrance...i hope so.
j.