My spine still tingles
from the shock out of the sky
as I shoulder my guitar and set out
for the land of my unknown mentor.
The road is unclear. I must blaze trails
my ch’amakani has already beaten.
I cannot see them, so I must keep aware.
I must not long for the day I grab up my skull
and begin my practice
the road demands patience, and egoless
death, for the life-bringer.
Joy is a luxury
I don’t have. Yet
I don’t believe in
giving in to despair.
where does that leave me?
With so many young, bulleted
bodies, their names bleed together,
and here I sit, impotent. Yet,
I have bullets of my own.
I craft them to their lethal points,
and pray with each salvo,
that I get closer to my targets.
My elbows squeak familiar. Slip
my new arms into old skin.
Wrist scars re-framed
by black cuffs, worn
upturned collar protects me from
Sweat smell and dirt stirring my loves
back to life.
It wears heavy, but I believe
I am ready, now, for the weight.