Grand-Père is Dead

It's 3:30 in New York, a Wednesday. The full moon will be Scorpio tonight and the shadow goes all out to be shed by the light, yes it is 2014 and I will go to the Guggenheim at 5 O'clock to look at pictures of black bodies by Carrie Mae Weems and then for green juice and then to the gym and then I don't know the people who will love me. I walk up the drowsy street beginning to cry and have a lemonade and buy an ugly First World Problems to see what the poets in France are saying about the children in Africa these days, save all 77 and liberate them all father father can't you hear our prayer, and I go on to the post office and there's no line for once, I was just gonna send you a copy of my new essay on religion and how I came to believe in god again once I forgot his name, and that old perfect film Do the Right Thing is back in the news like an aging prophecy and I fall asleep on the train with a radio like a noose for a scarf and Otis and I just hold our phones and cry in silence, each with a secret glass of red in our no where, where are they, hearts, and I reach for the recording I made of you describing how the prison riots and orphanages you witnessed during the Korean War have nothing on the violence in today's southside Chicago, that was only 3 months ago, and I am sobbing by now, incoherent, black or white I can't remember but I thought only black men died for my sins. Are you and my father together please don't be afraid to mutter I love you to one another and embrace like in the movies and I will feel that and it will be the right thing and fire from the riot will clear our eyes of denial before it morphs into some impossible silken rainbow like the mood grasps for Saturn and at the end of the history the only scar is absence, our final duty is to disappear, privacy's last stand, and you and I and everyone will be better than rescued and saved as this train opens on its cage and all of  the fairy tales and things I heard when I was small are real and true I know, I know your secret, and I insist on being, not one of your clowns but a