Michael Derrick Hudson: Walking with Brenda Twenty  

  Years Ago through Chicago’s Graceland Cemetary

      Like April’s ambassadors we buzzed between the mausoleums
      and mocked the blurred epitaphs and

      with insolent scoots affronted the cowled and weeping copper

      angels smutched and scored to such a chalky
      greenish-black.  And here I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t really care

      standing and scratching and nodding before his simple, nearly
      blank cube of a tombstone

      just who in the fuck Ludwig Mies van der Rohe was…

      But I was so stupid then.  After a little drizzle, a mist leached
      from the grass as if all the ghosts and hobgoblins

      of Chicago’s extinct plutocracy were crawling forth to blather

      the usual claptrap about how time flies and how we should go
      always for the gusto.  But ghosts tend to be

      so tremendously boring, their heartless buildings fall to ruin and

      their railroad empires and their old gold coins
      dribble from the bottoms of their crumbly sepulchers even when

      they’re right, and of course you know the ghosts are always right.

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