It began small. They talked off a fleabag hotel's night clerk
for a few hundred bucks. Talked faster to out the hard earned
bucks of working gulls. They sought bigger better cons, stepping
stones to a rose and eucalyptus ground above the wash of blame.
They swept the counter clean and spilled a terrible pleasure into
what had been so very hungry. Then debonair they made the rounds
of high toupee and bright station. This paunchy, bald wheeler
dealer's fine defects charmed the nation's money men, buyers
epilepted on their campaign, but when the files hit the open air
managers emerged from departments on fire as they scrambled from
the unpaid ruins of their con empire. Once captured, our stars,
voice breaking in front of 13 cameras, had a message to preach,
if they could reach just one person's prayers. Turn on a light to
watch the roaches walk to reach a side door beyond the crowd.
Back then he lived a pet store turtle's life with its little rock
island, tap water sea and plastic palm. Always in the fort of his
big popularity, he'd shout your deepest secret to the gym class
gorilla boys watching Monday Night Football in a suburban bar.
They didn't like it and they punched him down to the bottom of a
circle and kicked him from all points on the compass. His
striding self confident smile gave way to the blinky demeanor of
a man riddled with shrapnel walking out of a burning town. An
alien intelligence struggling to communicate as fire storms eat
forests off his planet.
He wants to thaw the pleas written in stone over the library.
This man prefers to climb bricks, to tighten his years, slowing
his life to a store of hours, ticking away 1,000 miles from
misery. In the old days, parents stripped the bad parts from
their kids. Though vowing the power to bring justice; to see
blame placed is all the greatest cop can do. Two dozen fears
crept into his life as unwritten rules changed and streets
shifted beneath his feet. The rock of ages cracks and fears come
unhinged to flap out of an old stone church where crash victims
sit on benches out front. In towns across America, a sadness of
mind sees that the same world used to be just fine.
When chilly rain poured,
Hiroshi, feet sunk
in mud, pushed on to secure
a warm seat in daybreak's annual shrine
beneath a dipping branch of blossoms,
of wet morning's wonder pinks.
Then the sun emblazoned
riverbanks and temple tops,
glowed the blossom's appetite.
He soaked in throes of light,
inhaled the golden entrance of spring.