Saturday, May 9, 2009

अंकल अल Six

Uncle Al Six: Manong Al's Pen

People lost in perpetual twisting motion
Footsteps echo lost meaning into soul
Chain smoking demons roll ancestor's bones
Exchanging tattered card with the three fates
Paper bags rattle while feet they walk
Born unto death, Gods look down
Placid and bucolic scenes from a tin type postcard
In the landscape of the urban viral growth
No technology in the devil's hand
Just vice, tragic life and untold stories
Someone's tale unfolds in fragility
The Earth it keeps spinning
A runaway top in the cosmic fugue
Spinning words blur into alphabetic jumbles
No slick and clique in Uncle Al's pen
No college writing worthless class
No teacher stuck between creative gears
No spark of genius
Just the war torn facts
Just the facts

Somewhere tears start to fall in drops
Rusting away the hopeful's dreams
Decaying the facade of the post modern world
The old Manong wrote, oblivious to it all
Mismatched pants
Socks belonging to someone else
We must not think bad thoughts

Crashing concrete falls to father time
The flora grows over the invisible empire
The dust bowl beckons
Motel neon fades against a blood red sky
Snapshots of faded families now long gone
Al's pen ink runs like crimson blood
His fingers tapping like hearts on a cross
The Jesus face hangs in a rear view mirror
My father's son
My father's son
Distant thunder breaks the horizon
Like Al's ink breaks the page
Breaking the silence
Steeped in a thousand years of tradition
The old Manong writes the final words
Defining the life wished for
The life I long to lead
Taught to me by Uncle Al

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