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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required AntiPoem 36 “Silent Mercies” (Poet’s Instruction: Softly play in the background Mario Lanza singing “Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen” from Puccini’s La Boheme, while reading this AntiPoem) A Look over there. See the stunned grandmother knitting, Not speaking a word neither, nor listening, Pretending she’s okay when she isn’t. Notice the moribund listing grandfather, Deep in his leather chair, stroked-stricken, pissing, In deep shock over the heap of blood and brains, Sitting cold and raw on the floor of his bedroom. His sad grandson Jack Judy has visited today at noon, Has repeatedly knocked on the rusty screen door, On this faraway day crying tears in a crazed 1971, Seeking for his sad frozen hand a hot groveling gun. B Look over there. Cruising down Carmenita in a fast Volkswagen, Driving in rushed shock behind trudging Fords, The bearded hippie kid, bare-footed and tanned, Arrives without shirt to a hushed crowd of busy cops, Huddling and questioning the knitting grandmother; A stale Big Mac sits dry and dead on a pink TV tray. “Mam, can you tell us what happened here today?” “Well, he said he was tired and went into that room. That’s when he took the pistol and shot hisself.” Then the hippie kid barefooted and meddling there, Felt the breaking of his naked toe under a busy boot. “Do you need to be here? It’s time to go elsewhere.” C Look over there. See the hippie kid’s dead cousin on the floor. The stoic grandmother is channeling the Sylvania, La Boheme from the Metropolitan Opera House, As a wailing ambulance streaks down Carmenita. “He’s in there I think he’s dead he shot hisself!” “Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar. Cercar che giova? Al buio non si trova.” As with the loading of a burlap consecration, The dead cousin receives a newer absolution. Notice the moribund listing grandfather there, Ensconced in his last high chair dripping urine, “Who gunna clean ‘dat mess, woman? I can’t!” D Look over there. See the hippie kid’s father chauffeuring the wife, Cruising down Carmenita in a fast Chevy caprice, Driving in disbelieving shock behind slow Oldsmobiles, Arrives with gloves, bucket, mop and silent mercies. Notice the dying listing grandfather staring at the floor, Ensconced there in his big moribund chair not listening. See the traumatized grandmother knitting by the door, The stale Big Mac still sitting dead on the pink TV tray. “Mama, please tell me what happened here today.” “Well, he said he was tired and went into the room. That’s when he took the pistol and shot hisself.” See the hippie kid’s father silently wiping up the gore. .
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