a fan letter to a fallen patriot during martial law in Los Angeles

Crispus, don’t show-up in Los Angeles.

you’ll be cranky no doubt.

It was you who first fell upon the streets of Boston,

sneering at the Redcoats:

“you damned rascally scoundrel lobster sons of bitches”!

man, that was a real good one, Crispus;

up there with: “don’t shoot ‘till you see

the whites of their eyes”! and

“damn the torpedos! full speed ahead”!

but what did it get you but two musket balls

to the chest where you dropped stone-cold dead

staining the cobblestones of Boston with your blood.

don’t show-up in Los Angeles, Crispus.

are you agitated at your place of death?

are you wanting for more than you have?

we know who you are, Crispus; you are forever the first blood shed.

you’re the new crucified. stay put, Crispus.

there is no dreaming there. there is no violence there.

Los Angeles isn’t burning save for the annual forest fires

and nobody films on the lots anymore.

Crispus, enjoy your realm of death in the company

of Clara Bow, Rene Beauchemin and Rosalind Russell.

man, that Rosalind, she was something.

and you are something, too, Crispus.

but the fierce blood-spilled, your black, native-

American Indian blood has long dried out. stay put, Crispus.

don't go to Los Angeles.

and, oh.––  thank you for your service.