A Conversation With A Blind Man

(for Kevin)
by Jesús Papoleto Meléndez

I have no idea
               ,What
      caused HiS
       Blindness,
              If he was born
                             like that
  I did not dare
             to ask,
        thinking it
                    rude
            to inquire
                  How Life
                         had been so
                                      cruel
                                         ,or perhaps
                                               that He
                            was just as well
                                   without his eyes
                                                   ...Still
       all, that He could see
        is in his
               Mind...
                     And i,
                     could
                        not help
                                 but, wondered
                                           whY
He could never see
                     ,This Scene
                                just passed my eyes:
                                                i  t    bi    t
                                                 ty       ty
                                                         flowErBLOS
                                                         SOMS
                                                  sleeping
                                                         inab
                                                         unch
                                                &a regular,
                                                        old
                                                           pesky
                                                       housefly
                                                           LanDs
                                                                 so
                                                                 ex
                                                                 ac
                                                                 Tl
                                                                   y
                                                                 on
                                                             just
                                                             one
Nor,
       The Early
              Mourning
      puffed-up
            faces
         of waking bums --
      As if
        in their sleeps,
                   Their dreams
       had beat
            them up;
                    Their, Shopping Carts
                           of Life's belongings
                                             /lined up
                                    like Vehicles
                           against the curb
                                     as Homeless
                                       Men&Women
                        ,now appearing
                                      in
                          the workday
                                    Light
                        like dirt
                              tumBling
                                     oVer
                                      ,Awake
                           from their
                                 Policedisturbed slumber
                              on the grassy
                                     knolls
                                 of private,
                                         Urban
                                           front/Yards
                                                     Sprawled
                                                             with bro
                                                                  k
                                                               en
                                                                 card
                                                                  board
                                                                  box
                                                                  es
                                                          upon which
                                                                  recline
                                                            the destitute
                                                                       ,waiting
                                                              their turn
                                                                    to die.

I ask, My Foolish Self
                       ,the (?) "Why"
   My Mind
         not believing
                    its
                   own eyes
                        -- Though
                    they've
                      no History
                             of telling lies
                                        As they look
                                                   ,across
                                           the whole
                                                  of Society
                                                        ,searching for   	the Beauty
                                         ,confounded by
                                                    Futility....
     (taxi cab
       prospective
               drivers
                    &FBI agents
              ,line up
                     to get
              their cabs
                     for the
                        day
                         -- Hoping
                          for
                  the best
                     of the fleet
                              -- to Hustle
                                           un
                                      fair
                                        fares
                              from strangers
                                             ,visitors;
                                                  citizens
                                            yet, foreigners
                                                   to the unTold
                                                        Penal
                                                        Code
                                              of this city's
                                                         unswept
                                                      streets)

He told me
      he played Piano
                     ,that Jazz
   was the Music
            he Loved
                    ,but/Hated
      playing in chic
                 smoke-filled
                           clubs
         ,where the lovers
                    of jaZZ
       & all that Stuff
          would mispronouce
             their favorite
                       drinks
                           ,till they
                  could no longer
                    use their minds
                     to think
             &blow
                 their cigarettes
                           into his eyes
                                      -- forcing them
                              to blinK.

O! The Sun Is Bright!
                      /Against Any Eyes
                                        -- Opening
                        ...to Live
                               ,yet another
                                        Day!
      But in the streets
                     ,where ,Nothing
                                gets
                    a good night's sleep
                                       -- Its Light Explodes!
                                                             in
                                            blanked-out Irises
                                                             ,Once
      flickered, by childish lash
        es,
       -- Now
            all too-much/Accustomed/to
            the daily whips&lashes
                               ,Reality un
            leashes, beginning with the lies
                  spitted from the mouths of politician'sSpeeches
                                                               FOR THEY ARE
                                                                           THE TRUE
                                                                  LEECHES
                                                                        of
                    Life's pure Treasures
                             ,earning SO MUCH
                  for doing notmuch at all
                                            with Great Pleasure;
                                                            leaving, thePoor
                                                                           so more
                                                                      poorly
                                                                        confused
                                                                                 :to
                                           measure out, the rest of their lives
                                              with dull plastic spoons
                                                                  ,Howling
                                                                           like Dogs
                                                 at their lives' FullMoon
                                                                      ,gone!...

Perhaps,
       My Friend
              is blind
                by Choice
                         ,HiS OwN!
               refusing(
                         to see) anymore;
                                      He's locked
                  his mind's door
                                /Against the face
                                           of a society
                                                of hoards
                                 Who have
                                           ,EveryThing
                                      that
                                           Money could possibly buy
                                                                  ,&Still
                                         are bored, unconscious
                                                               of
                                            their leisured lives
                                                             ,while somebody like me
      is forced
        to see 'TheM' daily
                         ,flaunting
                               their Fancy Autos
                                              ,to GasUp
                                                       &Go
                         complain
                             about a
                                   drop
                               of rain
                                    ,on a terrain
                                             where
                                it never snows(
                                 hidden kept
                                            )Their treasured pain.
O! Tourists Come, &
                    Tourists Go
                                 ,seeing less
                                      of what truly goes
                                                   beneath
                                                         their open nose
                                ,Conscientiously
                                            rejecTing	    'Those'
                                   conDemned, unSightly
                                                       by    	'Those'
                                        if only, sLightly(
                                                      Above
                                                         the spit)
                                                                be
                                         neath
                                           their own feet
                                                        ,Where these sad souls
                                                                    are consoled
                                                                           in sleep.

ON THIS DAY!
     In The BrightBroadLight
                           ,in plainSight(
                                    sublime)
       only to the blind:
                      Shoppers will die
                               on the lines
                              that they keep
                                            ,Born
                                               to Shop
                                   too wallet-proud
                                                   to weep
                                                         -- Buying, yeT
                                     ANother
                                       BlenDeR
                                                -- This One,
                                                        proMising
                                        to do MoRe
                                                  than
                                               the One
                                                   before --
                                                              Until next
                                                                     week
                                                                       ,When
                                              a brand-new Shopper's born;
                                                                         Human Aliens
        will ,Still
            illegally
                   /Cross
                        im   a
                              g in   a
                                     ry
                                    bo
                                    rde
                                    rs
                                      ,as birds
                                          & bugs
                                           fly freely
                                                    to &
                                                 fro
                                      from Mexico
                                                to
                                       San Diego;
                                                While Negroes
          ,in the Black Night
                        of Life
       rob MoM&PoP
                   ,corner grocery
                              stores
                              runNing through
                                      smashed open doors
                                                 with nothing
                                                        more
                                     than useless papers
                                                   in their hands;
                                                                 Their Shadows
                        still hovering
                                in Slavery,
                                             leaving Death
                        where They
                                  now stand:
                                             And,
                                               Young Girls' Dreams
                    go, up in smoke
   in the heat of a stranger's
                         AnGRyPAsSIoN'SRaGE!
      passing this, as if some gift
                              ,Confusing Hate!
                                          for Human Bliss!...
                                                            While, Tomorrow
         ,a new
      Born
           baby
              CRiiiES!!!...
               for
             SomeThing
               as yet, UnKnown
                           to Humankind!...
How Can The World
                  Be Like This!?
                                ...so, Cruel!
                                           & yet,
                    It still is Life!...
                                     ...OHNO!!!
                                             He did not say
                                                        what He had seen
                                                                       ,Although
   I could feel
      HiS feeling's feelings, seeping through
                                      this blinded Human Being
                                                              Even, He
                                                              Could See
        :Life is Nothing, but DeMeaning
                                        -- Void
           of its own
                  feeling,
                         unyielding
            in its cruelty
                         toward, the so many human bleeding!...

                                                               ...O! Blind Men!

                                                               ...O! Blind Men!

We'll always see
             theM
                   ,standing
                        with their
                                 sticks
                     at
                   Bus Stops
                              ...waiting
                wondering
                           (through
                       their black
                             eyes)	,Perhaps
   "What, Bus
             is This?!"

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