Callion Hamblin Is Still Dead

Photo by Steve Hull

People who stroll by the Written Word, Spoken Word booth in The Factory sometimes notice the Word of the Day posted on the white board. The Word of the Day is meant to provoke a lively off-the-cuff téte-a-téte with curious, word-starved customers who pay $10 for a ten-minute brainwave massage as we talk together about the meaning, etymology, affect, vibration, associations and reminiscences prompted by the word, each one serving as stimulus for thought and communication. 

Time slows down when you move out of the chit-chat zone and delve into an exploratory one, checking in with your own innate wisdom and facility with language, swimming freely in the refreshing pool of the collective unconscious. Part of what you get for your money at WW,SW is that experience of stretching or elongation of intellect, of energy, of ambition (yes, words make you ambitious to use them). It's improvisational fun and therefore risky and daring, taking that running leap off the linguistic high dive—you never know what's going to get churned up in the tumult of the free fall!

The current posting—“CALLION”—is a word, or an event, that has not yet been given its due by this community, particularly the political dimension of the brutality. If this account is accurate, the shooting was NOT  MENTIONED at the City Council meeting on Feb. 28^th, the first meeting of the Council after bits of Callion Hamblin were blown to smithereens on our city streets. This cannot be good governance by any definition, to give the police carte blanche, to require not even a modicum of accountability to the public, to suppress basic information, to...oh well. It seems Callion will have to wait until next spring's report to become even a bullet point on Chief Baker's powerpoint slide. He's not to be spoken of, his ashes (what was left of his body after the police and coroner were through with him, was cremated) thoroughly swept under the proverbial carpet. Here's our chief sweeper:

In a few days, I too will be erasing Callion's name from my white board. After all, Delfeayo Marsalis is coming to the Parkland to replenish our spirits, I'm confident, and we have to prepare for the gift of live jazz. Maybe he'll speak of these events, if only to say Callion Hamblin's name aloud even just once! I hope so, because the silence has been deafening. 

“Angel Cry”
By Callion Hamblin

While sleeping one night, I had a dream
And it left quite a tale to tell.
I dreamed I saw an Angel
But she wasn’t looking very well.
Her heavenly body was bruised and battered,
Her wings were ripped and torn.
I noticed that she could hardly walk,
She was tired, weak, and worn.
I walked over and asked her,
“Angel,tell me, how could this be?”
She tried to smile as she gathered her thoughts
Then she spoke these sad words to me
“I am your Guardian Angel,
A very rough task you can see
I’ve lived a wild life with you
That I’m sure you must agree
And what it is you see
Is what you have done to me.
My wings you see are ripped and torn
A noble badge I bare.
So many times they’ve shielded you
From dangers you were unaware.
Yes Cal, each mark tells a story
Of pains, dangers, I’ve bravely destroyed
You’ve made me wish more than once
That I was unemployed.
The alcohol and drugs you’ve used
Without care, and dangerously.
And whenever you thought you just lucked out
Well just take a look at me.
I’ll always be here to watch over you
At least until my powers fail
As for when that will be I just can’t say
Because I’m getting old, weak, and frail.”
When I awoke I thought about that dream
And how much she seemed to care
Then I looked around at these cold prison walls
And my heart sank with despair.
Then I thought about my sentence
And I wondered if I should even try
Then somewhere in the distance
I heard a tired, battered angel cry.