The esoteric preacher men
Come to cast out the djinn
Chained to the berth
We need your soul to be in parity
Agreement, I screamed the Hail Mary

Straining to make an escape
They crucified me with red tapes
It didn’t seem so wrong
Innocent was my trespass
I’ll not regret it, don’t ask

Left by the road
Or thrown by the wayside
If Cool Hand Luke said it
I bet anything he lied

Port, starboard, simple words
No matter, they won’t be heard
We’re contracted to the end
Aren’t you glad we’re not the cops?
We’d need a print and photoshop

Onomato you don’t want to hear it
Fine, sinner, to the endless pit
Keep running in tongues
If you can tell your ass from a fence
You’ll know what the seers meant

We held our firebombs
Hands held with iron grips
Fighting the power
And singin’ our songs

You looking at me
True believers we are
We never backed down
Living while we were free
Singin’

(Chorus)
Viva la revolucion, amore
Y luche por libertad
Justicia por otro
Y el himno de la dia nos muerte

Brine soaked shreds
Covered your beaming face
They’ll never forget us
All heart, no heads

(Chorus)

The daylight is dying
And nothing’s changed
Jeans too tight
Hair too long but who knew?
This is our last song

Behind those eyes,

I can see it all

There is no difference

Between men and mice

Just don’t let them fall

 

We jumped all those walls

A life on the run

Baby, I’ve failed you

Now we have nothing at all

Nevermore will we be shunned

 

(Chorus)

I can see all your pain

And I don’t mean to make light

But in this pouring rain

Your eyes are amazing tonight

 

Every shade tells a tale

The way your eyes pull

I swear to you

I’m sorry for how we all fail

But it made them so beautiful

 

(Bridge)

And I’d do it again

The light of day no more

As your eyes bring crystal tears

Crashing to the floor

 

 

Now they’re coming for us

Just don’t forget your part

It’s back to crazy town

A padded room will do me justice

Just say no to the medicine cart

 

It will take away those eyes

I don’t mean to be selfish

But in this place

Where we are despised

Your eyes are like a kiss

 

(Chorus)

In the wrong place at the right time

You came for your freedom

But tyrants only saw your crime

 

Your angel face tells a story

And it signals their end

You were not, but liberty’s light is now burning

 

Many others were with you that day

Standing there, hoping

Democracy could only pray

 

Crimson could cover your face

But no one could silence your voice

You are the human race

 

 

Rest in Peace, Neda

“That’ll be $4.53, thanks for shopping at QuickMart”

“What a rip off” I thought “When Grandpa bought smokes they cost him 35 cents a pack, and I’m paying five dollars” My grip on monetary inflation was slim, but even so, I realized that prices had done nothing but go up since the increase in sin taxes.
As I slapped the bottom of the pack against my hand, I walked out into the glimmering sun, and it seemed hot enough to light the “complimentary” matches I’d been given just by holding them towards the sky. I pulled the first cigarette out of the pack and lit it, feeling the rush of strong tobacco coursing through my lungs.
“Those things will kill you someday.” It was a man standing outside the store, lazily leaning against the brick walls like those drug dealers you might see in a now-comical 1980s PSA.
“Not as quickly as they should.” I replied, uninterested in whatever this fellow had to say, maybe he was a dealer, maybe he was just bored, but I was not interested in his anti-smoking speech.
“I was kidding, how would you feel about seeing what really kills people?” As he stepped out of the shadows, I got a clearer look at him. He was wearing a red suit, but not one of those tweed jobs, it was actually crimson-he looked downright shocking, the kind of person you’d stare sideways at if you saw him walking down the street.
“I would probably feel depressed if I were to see what actually kills people.” It seemed to be the answer he was hoping for, his eyes lit up and I could suddenly see an unsettling intensity that gripped his whole body.
“Exactly! Can you believe how depressing it must be for me?” He replied, not looking depressed at all.
“Aren’t you missing your soapbox and ‘The End is Near’ sign?” I shot back, tired of these ridiculous mind games.
“Just walk with me, oh, and no smoking in my car.” He replied, striding quickly across the street.
As I followed this unusual man, it seemed as though he had no destination in mind. He cut through parks, alleyways and even one time we walked right through a restaurant, in the front door and out the back. We finally approached a parking garage.
“I hope those things haven’t destroyed your lungs too much, I’m parked on the very top level and the elevator’s broken.” He commented as he started to approach five flights of stairs. I noticed that there were very few cars parked in this particular garage.
“Why would you park so high up? There’s like four cars parked on every level.” I asked, hoping the answer would not involve him being a serial killer and the 5th floor having no surveillance cameras.
“Didn’t want to risk getting a door-ding. There are zero cars parked on the fifth level and zero is better than four.” His paranoia was starting to confuse me, a man who stood in front of a convenience store for no particular reason was worried about his car doors?
“If you’re driving a ’92 Corolla with 250,000 miles on it, I’m going home right now.” I replied. I was getting sick of this nonsense and was considering asking him for a ride home so I could fall asleep in front of the television.
We approached what could only be his car and for a moment he was lost in the camouflage. It was a ’65 Corvette Stingray, in the same crimson color as his suit. It really was a thing of beauty, and even though the weather had kept up a consistent drizzle for the past few days, there was not a spot of mud or road grime on it. It looked just as shiny and new as it must have when it was rolled out of the showroom floor so many years ago.
“Ok, if we’re going somewhere, there are worse ways to travel.” I said, too shocked to come up with something pithier.
“You’re going to find out how people live. But more importantly, you’re going to find out how they die.” He replied matter-of-factly.
“How are you the expert?” I asked incredulously.
“My name is Letum. Brushed up on your Latin recently? It means ruin, and I’m named appropriately.” It was not the response I was looking for, and he knew that.
As we slid into his car and the engine growled itself to life, I looked around for any indicating marks as to who in the hell this person was. There were none, no pictures, no gym shoes, and nothing in the center console. All I saw was what appeared to be a GPS unit. I began to wonder if he’d stolen the car as we slowly cruised down Robbins Street.
“Do you see her? Yes, the woman in the green t-shirt and the blue jeans.” He asked me, for once sounding sincere.
“What about her?” I was growing bored with nonspecific questions.
“I can’t see her, but I know she’s there. You see, she’s not from the city.”
“So?”
“So she’s not from my territory, thus, I can’t see her the way I can see you or any number of these people.” He was making no sense, and for the first time I realized that this could end badly.
We turned onto a side street and encountered a police barricade. The street was closed off and there were several cruisers pulled up close to the curb, flashing their lights. A crowd had begun to form and as I was about to suggest we turn around, Letum pulled into a parking space, turned off the car and looked at me.
“This morning a young woman jumped off her balcony, landed right there.” He pointed at a spot on the ground. “They say that if you jump off buildings as a form of suicide you die of fear before you hit the ground, let me tell you, that is false.”
“And how do you know all of this?” I replied warily.
“I did it, didn’t I tell you? I am ruin.”
“Ruin personified.” I mulled over the idea.
“No, I can see that you haven’t brushed up on your religion either.”
“I would seem to be a bit rusty, what part of religion are you referring to?”
He started to say something, but got cut off by a knocking on the car window, it was a cop and he did not appear to be happy.
“Hey! Can’t you see that you can’t park here? We need all the space we can get, move your car.” The police officer barked at us, they must teach that tone at the academy.
We pulled out of the parking spot and I was still waiting for Letum to continue his story as he drove down another busy city street. He seemed to be in no hurry to explain what he had meant.
“Well?” I said, hoping he’d go on.
“See that’s the problem with people, you’re so in love with your reflection in the pool, you forget that there are things under the water. “ He replied with righteous indignation.
“Not including yourself in this count now?” We were now several blocks from the suicide scene but I still could not get it out of my mind. He was still only creeping along the street
“No, I am not including myself. If you’re curious as to where we’re going, I’ll save you the time, we are headed to a rodeo.”
I must have looked so despondent that he felt the need to add on the reason as to why we were going to a rodeo.
“Relax, we’ll only be there for five minutes, it’s work-related.” Letum added, laughing a bit to himself at how put off I was at the idea of seeing men in cowboy hats try to ride bucking bulls.
“I might as well tell you now,” he continued, “I mention that I’m not including myself among humans because of my job, I am something of an enigma, most people don’t believe that I exist.”
“Now comes the part where he tells me that he works for the CIA, or that he’s a character in a John Grisham novel.” I thought.

As he walked out of the room, he stood as tall as he ever had; he requisitioned a cold beer and a sandwich because it was now time to watch some college basketball on television. My grandfather had just finished telling me his life story which was followed by his trademark devilish grin and the ellipsis in his words, noting that he is “not done yet, still have some more hellraisin’ to do.” He may be old and down, but he’s sure not out yet, and that was the one thing he wanted me to remember.
Throughout my life my grandparents have usually lived rather close to me, so their life stories are often interwoven into the streets on which I travel. It’s easy to listen to someone talk about riding his sled down a very steep hill in the middle of the city, but to know what hill it is, how it feels, freezes and thaws is a different experience altogether. To know the places they’ve been, to have seen the places where their greatest moments of happiness, sadness, defeat and victory came together like Russian dolls to fit into the grand canvas of their lives, that is somehow different than merely being told. Looking at a slum as a dispassionate observer is one thing, but to know that your family, whose blood runs through your veins came out of there and built a life, that is a sense of awe-stricken pride that many will never know.
I’m off-topic, however, I should be writing about my grandfather’s impression on me, how he left me feeling motivated to do something with myself, how when he walked into the room everyone grew quiet, not out of fear, but out of admiration and childish excitement over the humorous stories he would tell. I could tell you about the complete self-sacrifice that has become his life as he takes care of his wife who has been stricken with Parkinson’s disease, she’s always taken care of him and now he’s perfectly content to return that favor.
I could tell you all these things, and perhaps that would be an acceptable way to end this class, with a glowing testimonial about how talking with my grandfather changed my life, made me a stronger and more confident person and taught me through just his words a better way to live. I could do that, but I’d be lying, and beyond that, I’d be cheating him, it was his life he led, and I can’t take that and turn it into a pithy little dialogue about the human spirit, or the irritatingly clichéd topic of perseverance. Because to turn a life into a dialogue is not only unfair, it’s wrong.
My grandfather is something of a polarizing figure, (think of him as the Hillary Clinton of his town) in that, most people know him, or did at one time, and not all of them like him. He’s never been a person to pull the proverbial punch, and he never will be. I know it’s incredibly trivial to try reducing a person to two pages, reducing their impression on you to six hundred words, because in reality, others have a greater influence on us than we’d like to admit, but let me try, in short, to explain.
The greatest people in the world have all been not simple, but complex people, and that is something my grandfather understands. He himself is complex, he’s worked many jobs and admits to many mistakes, but he does not dwell on these things. The things he’s most proud of, in spite of all the turmoil and strange twists on life, are the simplest things that all of us want, his family, his land and his freedom.

Parents well read

Daddy’s job blew

Mommy was a sucker

And, motherfucker, so are you

 

 

Did the village

Have to be helium?

Hillary’s words are a sage

And the whole world’s buying some

 

So tell me, girl, how did it feel,
When you Twisted Oliver’s arm?

The kitchen must’ve said no extra meals

Still, you worry about your emPathetic charm

 

Your life reads like a Gatsby joke

Decadence, you’ll find a starving pool

Never mind, what can’t be solved with coke?

Oh, darling, you must be a peaceful fool

 

The fire’s going out, honey

And the dream ain’t so great

Your oyster is not in fact the world

And suddenly the fault is that of fate?