Sitting on the bench in Central
Park,
Basil
blows blue notes into dusk,
serenades,
wails, wanders over the stops
with
a tongue that goddamns the damned.
Pigeons,
robins, sparrows—all become
blackbirds
in the jangle of metal jungle—
scatter
like gunships shaving a tree line
at
the sound of Saint Basil’s harmonica,
skimming
rice paddies with evening-violet napalm.
His
hands cup the organ with tremolo trim
polluting
the air with staccato music,
bullets
from a bandolier feeding the M60 Pig
to
mow down joggers and the Cong.
Before
long, the day dies.
Behind
aviator lenses and olive drab shirt,
the
shuffles to the Catholic church,
lights
a candle to Our Lady of the Buddha,
whose
temples ruled the heart of darkness
in
Asia land, in Asia land.
He
curls up on the last pew and sleeps,
and
in his dream there is weeping
before
crickets calm the convolutions of his brain.
A
candle sputters, goes dark.
Hollow
bamboo shoots, reeds to blow
a
dirge or Mekong Delta blues,
grow
in the night by the stained-glass window
on
which Christ feeds a lamb not long for this world.
~William Hammett
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