Come Casual

A small, dusty Texas town where no trees grow
Without being watered was OK for a sixth grade boy
Who did not know any better. There was no link
To the outside world with television so I
Didn’t know much anyway.

Barracks type buildings from the closed, World War II
Army base had been moved and converted
Into class rooms on the grounds of the junior
High school - and that was OK too.

We six graders started band in one of those barracks
And I played the clarinet. I played clarinet
Because my mother had found a used one cheap.
The problem was mine was shiny metal and the other
Clarinet players had black ones.

A boy named Gene sat next to me
In the clarinet section. He sat one seat closer
To the front row because he played a little better
Than I did. Gene was not corpulent
But he was somewhat overweight, I would
Call him soft. He was not athletic
And walked with a shuffling, pigeon-toed gait. His hair
Was a lighter shade than blond but I don’t believe
It was white. However, his most remarkable
Feature was a silver metal cap on one of his front
Teeth. I now know caps like that are the most
Inexpensive way of fixing a broken tooth.
He smiled frequently and pushed his glasses up
With the backside of his index finger. He
Was not one of the in-crowd and I was.

Gene and I had a conflict, the cause
Of which I don’t recall - nor what happened
Afterward. Regardless, I was trying to prove
To him I was somehow better off
Than he was.

In our town movies changed three times a week,
One on Saturday, one on Sunday and one
(only your mother would go to) in between.
I told Gene I went to all three movies
Every week. (This was a lie - I only
Went on weekends). He told me he did too.
Desperate for something to one-up him with I
Said at least I did not live on the north
Side of the tracks. He probably had never thought
About where he lived. He just stood looking with a wide-eyed
Stare like someone who had been stabbed in the heart with a knife
And was still alive to feel It. I had won.

The memory of his face burns in my mind
And haunts my heart so I cannot forget.
Gene, I am sorry.

rlkilgore

Why glamorize a shooting star
Stealing swiftly through the darkened night,
Fleet and silent as a craven thief
Streaking so to cheat the dawning light?

Flashing thunder booms its flaunted pride
To emphasize with aplomb and flair
The bolt harbors no timidity of the star,
Yet neither leaves sign of ever passing there.

                              rlkilgore

This was written for a friend who recently passed away.  I was able to visit him about three weeks before he died.

My youth budded in a small town where I came 
To know the world, at least the world I saw.

In school I studied math and state capitals
But my core came from the people
Where words like wetback and nigger
Came as naturally out of the mouth as Mom
And Dad with no thought of discrimination.
I wrapped my arms around that world and held
On because it was what I had, it was mine.

That time is long since past and now I learn
From a larger world. My thoughts are about
Individuals and groups, not races.
However, some races have segments
More worthy of my contempt than others.
When this is mentioned the cry
Of racism is loud and shrill.

Decisions represent bias and discrimination -
From the person we marry to the route
We select to go to work each morning.
The self-righteous will say all are equal
And stand on this platform as pure nonracists.
But we are not all equal.  Oriental children
Come to America and in five years not only
Learn the language but win the spelling bees.
It is not an accident the fastest runners are black.

Those who attempt to suppress the realities of the world
Do a disservice of which I will not be a part.
So I am called a racist.

                                 rlkilgore

You, Profaneness, flung in blasphemy,
Reeking contempt with arrogant bravado
Of Hell’s abyss, you are a belief
Of disbelief whose consequences
Require no answer, for there is
No other, other than yourself.

But what of you, Pious Pride,
Ensconced so smugly in your convictions?
What influence you wield, what power
And wealth to proselytize by cajolement,
And if failing, bloodshed, regardless
Of your creed or your sect or culture.

Whether viewed as light to darkness
Or darkness passing into Light,
Passion holds no sway.
Which is the blinded fool
Is, perhaps, only he
Who presumes to know.

                       rlkilgore