In a sterile room colored white
with a dash of pink to calm the nerves
The Conductor of light explained again
what purpose he serves, my pupils
wide as dimes, sweat on the palms of
my hands. The Conductor advised me
to send my mind to other times or,
if need be, to other lands.
He turned a switch that made me ache
His narrowed eyes watching, hoping I didn't
mistake his advice to retreat to unknown skies
as a license for madness so impure,
the very thing his machine was built to cure.
General Nathaniel Lyon, stark raving mad
Hero of the Union and the Bonny Blue flag
was a comrade in my dusty room, born of
books rotted to rags. The wearied ugly men
they described rose from the tomb, contrary
to what was prescribed, smelling of mildewed
air, soothing my heart from despair with a
beautiful gloom.
I accompanied him to Missouri, 1861,
where we drilled the German volunteers
in cannon and gun, the fanatic General's
disdain for the mutineers driving his every
order, his instructions strict for every man,
his every lunatic harebrained plan.
A brambled red beard matched his uniform,
rumpled, dirty, overworn. Lyon was not
revered, as a dog reveres a storm
and delights in peace when it's done -
he was called insane, “an old son of a gun,
punished properly at last,” said the officers
when he was slain, a figure obscured by night and past.
Not one would mourn his life when he was dead -
“the army is my wife,” he always said.
General Lyon, soldier, native son and trooper
was just mad enough to retake the state
from the South, and I in my stupor for science's sake
would rouse the troops with the might in my mouth.
Lightning corrupted the sky like
Leviathan in the sea; we feared not,
hearts and caps in hands, the men under
my command in Battery C.
We responded to the lightning in kind
as the Missouri sky turned a hideous hue –
“We are fighting under a man out of his mind!
General Lyon, we who are about to die,
salute you!”
We drove them back, the traitors, the Rebs
with powder and fuse. Washington sent
wires, “attack!” and we fired every steel
and metal shape a cannon can use.
We thought of our sweethearts at home
So proud, waiting - my Zuzana, my belle -
as the lightning angrily shone,
illuminating wrinkles in the clouds
like a brain lit by fires of hell.
Governor Jackson trembled, but he was
relieved at the sight of McCulloch, Price and Pearce;
a rabble they resembled, as eager as we to fight,
their mad mutiny so wretched, the lightning
above so fierce.
boom
I could not help but gaze at the sky as the
bolts cracked boom the blue; things certain things
turned to haze as General Lyon fell, bleeding
brains and Union blue.
I tried to rally my Battery, but no words came;
it was as though the battle had faded,
as though the lightning struck my brain,
the Conductor somewhere satiated.
Bolts of Zeus, raining spite, struck boom crack my men,
took them away, turned them to puffs of smoke;
a spear of white struck General Lyon where he lay,
not a drop of blood left to stain the earth where
his final rally he spoke.
zuzana send help
boom The men were called to retreat - the order was not mine
My legs were like worms bang crack, my boots like concrete
as wore and were taken time faded. pow
the lightning struck again Zuzana
to die un repentant benumbs me
I saw my men flee, those not eviscerated
boom
Not a soldier left in Battery C
Strike again! I dared.
No. No, I didn't. I couldn't have dared.
boom crack pow
Not such an electric sky, not a fool such as I.
Never surrender. Fight for the bonny blue and for Zuzana.
But who's Zuzana? Nobody. Never surrender
boom rumble
Nobody
quiet
My toes curled in my boots but my
boots were in a corner
I remember putting them there because
that's where the nurse said.
One mustn't die with his boots off
though I am not dead
I am not dead
Tho' I may as well be
Like my friend the General
The dream is lost for Battery C
pow
Zeus has taken my cannons from me
from the book Amen, Bad Luck To You
