Sometime yesterday (For the Brat pack 2nd generation)

At four in the afternoon
Ignacio Mejia Sanchez, matador,
was gored at the corrida in Spain
& deep into the night
Federico Garcia Lorca
was shot by a gang of Franco’s men
At four in the afternoon
savaged by the monsoon rain
that whipped against the window pane
we laughed about runners & poems
& internet’s wacky denizens
over quesadillas & tea
that kept the soul dry & warm at Oz Cafe.
If this, I thought, was the future
pour it on.
We’d have no fear, like the Nike sneaker,
to face Benjamin’s terrible angel
& the silently onrushing hell.

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