Wielding needle and steel and razored sense of honor. Part one: Which treats with Kings and subjects William, the story of one who lived two decades in the six–eight time of bachata, rumba clave, and gunfire. This is the legend of son, brother, daughter, sister, over whose broken body we spill words and tears. This is an epic written in collective, changing every time the street tells it. Sometimes a cop from the neighborhood comes too, and goes to one knee, sensing the need for absolution.īefore the candles, before the stoles and bells, before the cop-I get the call. And their deacons lay stoles of mourning over bent necks. Their altar servers let tattoos peek out from under albs as they ring the sanctus bells. Their families stagger to front pews, crowned and adorned. When the heroes fall (or are felled) their friends light candles. Only I visit them all, as part of this mester de juglaría, this cycle of irregular meter and spotty rhyme with popular heroes at its heart. Count the houses of worship: From Tyson Street to Tabor in Olney, you can walk a straight avenue of redemption, rising with the sun.īaptist, Buddhist, Catholic, Episcopal, and Evangelical-every people to their house.
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