Saturday, February 14, 2015

EDWARD EILERS -- 1922 -- 2015

15 December 1922 - 12 February 2015

Birthday Call to My Older Brother,
Edward Lloyd Eilers, 15 December 2014

Because my brother cannot talk I cry.
Notorious for endless speech, dawn to dark,
on the phone his is only a wisp of a whisper,
his reply to my “Happy Birthday” dissolving in
a weak “Can you hear me?”  A few small words,
only feelings unspoken, cross a continent,
and then “I love you” before there is nothing
more to say but “good-bye,” and an imagined
experiencer of the totality of our two lives,
and all the connected feelings and memories,
watches them float in the balloons we let go,
soon swept away, lost in the sky over earth.
Because my brother can no longer talk I cry.
My last words when my niece takes back
the phone begin to crumble. 
His first child and I can only mumble
as speech breaks into crumbs
and hearts at the end
are nothing but humble.

          – James Thomas McColley Eilers

After learning on 12 February 2015 that my older brother Ed (in childhood known as "Buster") had died that morning, travel plans and other matters were shaken up, and there were calls to airlines, and calls to and from nieces, etc.
I knew I had to get up early the next morning to go from Oakland to a medical appointment in San Francisco, but I could not fall asleep until an hour or two before dawn. 
About 3 a.m. on that Friday the 13th, a phrase came to mind that forced me out of bed to write whatever wanted to unroll from that phrase. 
Besides the alternating shock and numbness from the death of my brother, the day's national news must have been on my mind -- that day's purposeful murders of three sweet and innocent people, shot execution style.....

Designated killers and their molls are losers.
Guns are the genitalia of the impotent.
While their crimes bring grief to the human,
their victims will shine forever against
the darkness of dim-witted murderers.
Bullets, the leaden seed of the impotent,
are dirty, little jokes – erotic fantasies
of men who will always be more dead
than those they kill.  See below whatever
they wear the shriveled desires of those
who lust for a state reserved for the sacred
souls they cannot penetrate with limp 
envy and crude self-righteousness.

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