A Poem in Response

I went down to Philly last Wednesday and met up with Dayton Castleman, which was much needed and also pretty encouraging. Afterward, I had the fabulous opportunity to check out the Eastern State Penitentiary. Now, I was jazzed about this because 1) abandoned places that have self-tours are awesome and 2) Eastern State is basically part of how I found out about Dayton a year and a half ago, in such a way that lead me to really begin to investigate the whole art, faith, and ministry thing. I really wanted to see his installation, The End of the Tunnel and I'm so glad I got to. Not just that, but there were some other really neat installations there... such as Pandemonium, which is probably the coolest thing that I have experienced up to date that literally gave me chills.... and the penitentiary itself is amazing. Really, the best thing about it is the fact that it's so decrepit. I want to go again, and bring my camera.
At any rate... the visit made me want to write something, and so I finally sat my bum down and threw something onto the computer screen. Hopefully you like it. If not... well, I don't really write for the sake of others anyway. But constructive criticism is helpful.



The Flavor of Red

His breath is held close to darkened corners,
slowly pushing back the blue shadows that swaddle his skin.
Taught with all the energy found in a jack-rabbit, ready for flight-
it won't be long until they follow, before they notice him on the move.
He's quiet with senses heightened to a razor's edge,
the world around him set to black and white and red-
a blaze tracks the path he ought to take and nothing else matters.
With tired, worn hands he grazes across a tired, worn wall
and a riot pushes him back and forth inside.

He was promised freedom in that book, it's all he wants to taste.
He knows his deed was of ill-intent,
a nightmare that sleeps in his bed at night,
deserving all the hell that can be dished out in fourteen years.
There are words and phrases that haunt the corners of pages,
whispering what he cannot believe.

Cotton mouth and body tense
when the screech tears the night apart and leaves him breathless
Sprung like a pop-gun, he's down the corridors,
around the corners and exposed.
His brethren rattle their cages, clanking the pipes with all they have
and lungs brought to hooting, hollaring-
the riot spreading like a cancer.

Beads of sweat roll down his forehead, his back,
all he can see now is the red path set before him.
Turn here,
duck there,
through this window-
Their voices are coming,
their steps are hot and fast,
his senses explode into disarray.
He was promised freedom-
it's the only thing he wants to taste.

Slick as silver bullets they come, closer now-
He can see the beginning of the end,
stopping dead before the barricade stones piled high,
the red trail snaking up and over, beyond his reach.
With desperate fingers clawing up the wall, they come-
he curses and prays, damns and begs,
slipping, falling, climbing again.
Gentle words weigh heavy on shaking shoulders that beg for forgiveness,
they seize and drag him down.
The sounds of the riot within ring in his ears,
that with-out buzzing in the distance,
the path dissolving into a haze of defeat.

Breath loose and broken, colored by darkened walls,
the nightmares peer over the corners of a rickety bed-
was the red line drawn over the wall, with all its broken promises,
was it the flavor that he so longed after?
Could there be another shade of red he hungered for?

YB 06 7 31