Gideon to Roderick, on Guerilla Poetry

"Never was I more determined  
five hundred times: "I must not talk
out of turn"-..
-I got a human question,  
you got the answering machine."  
 
            -Cedric Bixler, Salient
  
Through dragged smoke cigarettes and a band
of razor lights, his eyes like satin-finished sapphire 
sheened in the fire's blaze.  "I'd thank you but it's  
not in my nature to do such things anymore.   
 It's redundant at this point, now, isn't it?"    
His eyes, salient as a typo on a billboard.  "That day   
I was walking, when you jostled me   
and woke me up, that's what I'd thank you for.  
'It doesn't always take a gunshot, but sometimes 
an alarm clock won't suffice,' I understand now.  
Roderick, his staring eyes now unglazed as ever, 
rippled in a shimmer that could ignite a forest of   
mediocrity and plant an amphetamined seed   
to rekindle a regime of cognizance known   
to be extinct for a century.  Roderick, a soldier  
known, guerrilla tamed for his own amusement,  
others' enlightenment a fringe benefit in his view.  
In his lucid sight an enfilade of wake-walking shells 
fell and were respawned as humans, indeed.  
"They say it only takes a spark.  As unwritten words go,  
mine were the whitest on the page, but aloud  
they have a story marred in blackened splinters  
scribed in the ears of whomever may hear,  
and brainwaves to all who listen to their benediction.  
Brother," he blinked and squinted through the blaze,  
screened in smoke, "there was nothing, and the spirit of God   
swept over the waters."  He coughed and directed  
his asterisked corundum gaze to the treetops a dozen yards  
away.  "In time perhaps we, too will be so austere.  I'm   
not cold anymore."   
A horizon in padparadscha greeted us as we returned  
 to the city, the sun falling to quench itself in the Merrimack,  
another star burying itself in its own gem.