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Postmodern Village
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Am I Capable of Getting Tricky?
by Hezekiah Allen Taylor

every spirit keeps secrets: a good friend once told me
I was the opposite of a cliche she'd heard
that I was a velvet fist in an iron glove--hiding
a vulnerability to, in essence, "keep
flies away from the picnic"

after my brother's death they reinvented him
he gained status, melodrama, a good story arc
they no longer hid the addictions
to heroin and cynicism--
instead his responsibility became suspect:
his body ravaged by the needle
instead of an incurable instability
or fear or raw, painful need

it seems that Americans will forgive anthing
(OJ for murder, a Kennedy for rape)
except emotional purity
(when was the last time we didn't snicker
at a television confessional pleading
for a human connection--to give love to,
to receive love from--the way we're all taught
it should be back so very far in our collective
childhood when every little girl adored
Luke as much as Han)

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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