Let me see them all, let me feel them all, let me enjoy them all. For weeks now, I've resisted your narrative of blood and love, Tom, teasing phrases from your paragraphs as if they weren't connected, by ligament and flesh, to the broken body and blood of your lord. I don't want meditations on compassion mixed in your blood soup. I prefer my details clean as a monk's robe. You're all detail when it comes to thorns and wounds, all concept when it comes to love. That might be a problem for us, dear Tom, as these shadow paragraphs approach their end. Or it might be symptom: the nine of them in their sanctuary, contained in your lord's presence, their blood soaking the floor, soaking the city's streets, soaking our televisions, soaking our souls--if we still had them. Was he with the empty dull stare the agent of your story, Tom? That hateful lost fuck-up of a boy? Is he our Judas? Really, Tom? Must we love him, too?
--19 June 2015
RIP the Charleston 9