City Eclogue

     I enjoyed City Eclogue, by Ed Roberson. After reading Robersons giant poem, one section in particular continued to resonate with me.

The kind of walk that’s always taking cover
instead of steps that gets to the corner
and can see what’s around it by the faced
direction targets cite the shooter’s placed,

by where people look for what’s against them,
we slouch that walk eye on our government
without thinking because we can’t think
without our common term yet     
just a stink
What this section means to me and what its' authors' intent while writing are probably different, yet I still found great relevancy here, and I am always happy when I find something I can relate to, even if it's just me pretending like in this case.
     But I digress...to me, this section conjures painful emotions, memories, and brings to surface a great deal of inner conflict. I remember hot streets, hot like most people never know. So hot that when you walk on them your fuckin boots melt to the ground. I can feel dust and grit and sweat and heat on my face and in my eyes and in my mouth. Not gritty like the sand at the beach, when you get sand in your mouth and bite down and it crunches between your teeth, a different kind of grit that coats the inside of your mouth and makes it feel like wet sand paper. Your steps are all measured and while you scan for danger, you also scan for the nearest piece of cover in case the iron rain or the lead wind kick up and you need to shelter from it.
     Most vividly though, it reminds me thinking about why I'm here, and if the reasons I started that journey were the reasons I was still there. I remember at some point, while cradling the broken fragments of what used to be my brother, wondering what the fuck we were doing here. Aside from a year of blood and terror and shit and death and nightmares, what was being gained? I went for my reasons, what I thought were the right reasons, but truth is a very difficult thing to find and the only truth I knew then and know now is that its complicated.
     Its ironic though, Roberson I think implies that while people create dangers all around us, we often lose sight of the danger of the government because were distracted by events around us. Yet, it was in the middle of that very situation that I began to wonder if it wasn't the government that was possibly the real enemy? While I couldn't and can't put a finger on it, I wonder if that stink was coming from DC back home, or the open sewers on either side of every road I walked down. Its a complex question with a complex answer that I doubt I will ever have, and its impressive that 9 lines from a poem can capture that so very well, for me at least.