* * * * * *
CONVERSATION WITH VALLEJO
1
doesn't everyone own a blue suit?
not me. & why should i?
what good would it do the black dog
who chases the moon
down rain slickened streets?
what good would it do the rat
searching for Shangri-La
in the bottom of trash-cans?
i tell you, Cesar Vallejo,
the only suit worth finding here
is from the Queen of Hearts,
as she removes, at last,
her lace panties.
2
Sunday morning & the sound of worn bearings
on the pick-up roll greets me
as i enter the paper mill.
Cesar Vallejo, i am speaking to you.
i tell you, i am dying ... that it is a revolution
in itself to merely exist these days.
i do not believe i was given birth
to be the blood of the innocents - just
as i do not believe THEY are the offspring
of a dissatisfied god.
the hallelujahs that are reported
are not the voices of angels, the voices
of believers, rather the mumbles
of the malcontent.
i tell you, even when the Queen of Hearts
calls you to her bedside,
life is not worth dying for.
3
Cesar Vallejo, why don't you answer me?
you sit in the corner, like a statue,
or puppet. i speak to you of hope,
of romance, of the very tissues of God.
i tell you, i too am dying,
unable to cope -
that my hands bleed & my feet blister ...
& you ignore me, as if you were a Bishop
or mill manager, as if my demise
was of concern to no one.
i thought you were in love
with humanity, with the conversation
of bones & dreams. i thought -
Oh, Vallejo, i tell you no lies:
the worst kept secret of the dead
is that their conversations are boring.
* * * *
(c) Kenn Mitchell, 1999