Fagan (Talking Old Soldiers)

 

(Before you begin you’re read, go to the bottom of the page and press play on the video.  Reading Fagan’s story with his song, makes for just the right atmosphere.  Fagan would like that. 😉 )

Fagan, it’s Friday, I miss all your story’s, the wheezing in pain of your oratory, the silence, the mystery, of picture’s, of dazzling past glory.  I hear your chilling effects, a gift from the dead, I can’t seem to rest until this little poem has been said! Cheapened by fables and life’s worst labels, Fagan has syndrome deficiency acquired as disease. Protease inhibitors and gin as he glances at dying, he giggles at pain as we meet. It’s bullets and weapons a lost art of killing, I’m a talking old solider do you not recognize my defeat. Old couches and lovers have brought me the kingdom a gift from the devil while I was on my knees.

“I have lived from forty-six years, this flailing of warfare has settled my thoughts, of my needs. What is a minute when time is increased though it is leased? Is heaven ready for one talking old solider, lord, Fagan’s ready, why tease me by asking me to submit one more fleece. There is not time to love one more rhyme, I’ve championed my life, with lovers and wine, but still you keep me too long in this way. My kidneys are gone, my lungs won’t last long from this day. Why am I here, when reality fears, what I say? Inflame my heartache oh breath of my life, you have given me dismay.”

Sit’s Fagan a queer man, his honor invested in acumen logic, all medical procedures with his life held in play. A talking old soldier while AIDS eats his body away. G-D loves you dear Fagan, you are his own warrior, you are his receptor, hell in its laughter will not defeat victory this way. Run when you’re over, by then you’ll be sober, and pain will be melted away. Fagan you’re larger than cannons and missiles, greater than judgment of words of small people. I see you old solider, making me better this day.

“I’m just in your nature, the sum of your labor, we’ve talked on for hours, a talking old soldier of memory. You’ve helped me through sorrow, now please ask your G-D to relieve my life of tomorrow. What sin is there, that my father brought down to me, judges me mercilessly for this travesty? I see a loss of dead hero’s, tell them I’m hurt please.  Burn my body, favor me friend, do not incinerate my memory.”

Dear Fagan, old warrior, a talking old solider, someday in endeavor, I’ll write your war story, someday you’ll be stronger, your debt owed no longer, and when you look outward some light you will ponder, a talking old soldier an epic of a warrior’s destiny.

 

Fagan passed from this life in March of 1999, from complications of AIDS. He was forty-six years old. Each Friday I would drive to his small apartment, and more likely than not he would have his belly full of gin, and we would laugh and talk through his pain. He loved to play Elton John’s “Talking Old Soldier’s” over and over again as we would talk. For him it was the story of his present life. He taught me much. I miss you my friend. Kiss the face of G-D for me this day Fagan, I have told your story at long last as promised, and someone who should, will read it. – 08.06.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל

All rights Talking Old Soldiers/ John/Taupin

The Shirt (An Anecdote of Recycled Redemption)

New matter, in white, thread gleaming in dim light, a story, a tale of wearing’s now not known. What sought you this day, recycled since May, a rich man’s shirt with fiber left blood stained. St Alban’s thrift shop, for those with less than not, what just released from detox has he bought. Some slacks would be nice to go home and face the wife, her disappointment balanced with her care. His head held in grief, a drunk but not a thief, he finds his shirt and shoes, his pants with pleats. There seems now a plan to dress himself a man, to take his sober life to be complete.

There’s now this white shirt, a stitch so fine, it makes it journey hard to find. A minor washed out stain, that’s hidden and misplaced, what threads are loose are going to be okay. He wonders what king on K-Street left his queen, did she in anger draw his plasma as he ran. It matters not what, he has his own sad lot, a taste of drink has made a fallen man. He thinks of his own, his wife and child at home, his chemical need has thrown their love away. What now as he walks, by statutes and wealthy lots, the rooms of power they seem so far away. It’s all that they own, their need of power, conceals a loss of home.

He stops in Bryce Park, it’s really getting dark, he changes from his soil into his thrift shop wear. He looks to see, if his change is seen, his mind a whirl of something that is there.

What passes through his arms, a genetic like charm, from power to woe in man a place is given. Inside it so seems, what really counts is gleaned, a gift of life is evenly given. A shirt from a liege, a bullet weaned, a gift of sorts a well of royal redemption.

He turns his face gleams, unbound from chains it seems, an equal man from drunkard to a king. He makes his way home, atonement now sewn, his scar in life is seamed and now forgiven.

She waits by the way, her face alight unfazed, she knows his gait, she knows he’s seen his vision.

What road do we wear, does it seem to care, if our soul is royal or what dominion. Created the same, born to know no shame, what vice or crime you bare there still is vision. Come find your way home, wear a shirt that’s sewn, stare your breathing heart into the given.

On Monday, March 30, 1981, President Ronald Reagan was shot and wounded as he exited the Washington DC Hilton Hotel after a speaking engagement. Reagan was taken to George Washington University Hospital where before examination his thousand dollar suit was cut off of him (much to his consternation) and his shirt was removed and taken against his staff’s wishes by the FBI along with all of his personal belongings for evidence. The belongings were returned two days later, the clothing items were kept for evidence in the trial against John Hinckley Jr the following year. It is rumored that the shirt that Ronald Reagan wore the day he was wounded, disappeared shortly after the trial, and has not been located since. – 07.29.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל