Thirty Hot Islands Poem by Elrod Studebaker

An uncertain sadness melted into a roar;
Then he came to us, with freedom,
Fighting with picks and strings
And sounds that painted over the stain.

The girl from Eastern Town,
The angel who sent him to me -
He killed her on his way down,
And brought the rose from her teeth.

And thoughts of dying, in turn,
He made less than the fear of life;
That gravel that flared in his throat:
It spat on us our fabled truth.

He is loose against the midnight,
Searching for his can of jargon;
His hammer, torn at the hip,
Belongs to all of us, and none.

But God, my communist lover,
Should go with him in the end,
In that silver spaceship to Montreal,
And void the world into [Nothing].