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If Brother Gil was here
he would sing to us with poetry set to sounds and strings
and Brother Brian
would take his sax and not lull us to sleep
but blow us violently away into outer space while we weep
never forgiving us
and we say to
Brother Gil
and to
Brother Brian
we knew not what we did
but we did know what we did
sheep devoured by wolves dressed in red
instead of lying down peacefully in fields of green
it was not the mirage we think we saw
but the burning embers of the world
Brother Gil
said
I told you so
all those yesterdays and albums ago
accompanied by Brother Brian’s sax solos
when he sang out his poetry
and we paid no attention to the
B-Movie in our ears
computer screens turned off
while the revolution was actually televised on YouTube
and CNN
and the New York Times
if Brother Gil was here
he would not leave a message in a bottle of wine
which used to cost a dollar-nine
tossed into the sewer
or broken to a million pieces in the alley
no note inserted
just dirty
greasy fingerprints on each side
held high above our heads like
we was getting the last drop of solace
in whatever form floats our boats
Brother Brian
scraping the last sound out of his sax
before the set ended
and the doors to the club were locked exactly at
12:01 a.m.
and Brother Gil looks down upon us
hands cupped together
elbows on the table
head raised
nodding to
Brother Brian
now playing happy sounds from his sax
foot tappin’
no poetic lyrics needing to be sung
so glad he’s up there
and not here
to waste words and warnings in music
that none of us heeded
or danced to
and we are all half nodded out on some park bench
wishing
Brother Gil
was still with us
wishing he was still here
