IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

Everything I said,
Was from fear of the stake,
Purity and plainess,
A radical simplification,
Not living or loving,
I wouldn't have missed you,
For the world,
Never to my god,
Than these things.

Ebola, a portable killing machine.
No guns or knives.
Don't touch or kiss the devilish *****.
The dog that doesn't bite.
It's not rabid but it kills.
A dark hole brimming with fear.
Traversing through dangerous skies.
Worldwide transgression against all folk.
No joke.

For souls already caught.
I pray you rest in peace.
Under Deathly cape.
Cloak and dagger secrets.
Turning brothers against brothers.
Sisters against man.
The only place of residence chasing this disease.
Mercy be shown by research.
Stand up.
Take care.
Time to find a cure.
Thought zombies only lived in cheap time movies.
Or in the land of voodoo.
Ebola, bringer of the living dead.
(C) LIVVI

27 years incarcerated.
27 years of committing to the same ideas and ideals that shut him off from the world.
Unsurpassed courage and finally unsurpassed Grace.
Forgiving his captors and those who would wish to remove his hope for a brighter future for his people and his country.
The longest and most arduous marathon ever won.
Redeemed at last.
Oppression crumbled by one man's will.
And being humbled by the journey.
As if anyone would've done the same.
Rest quietly 'trouble-maker' for now.
The invitation to return is always open.

Why is the bus so bright inside?
Clearly exposing the man sitting at the back?
Making a hard left turn in front of me. Incandescent, I see a man finishing sun-flower seeds,
And looking through glass, and my rolled-up windows, my avoidant eyes make contact, then I realize...he is me. Traveling on a slow-soul-train to downtown or whatever it may be, eyes lock for a moment and I wish him freedom.

An architect of tile and stone,
mosaic played beautifully in natural colors of desert hues and corresponding twists of evergreens,
Super-heated heavy iron,
along sparks of arc that weld the mind to something infinite yet sublime,
Pastels,
blurring lines of what is real from what is seen,
on canvas unrealized,
Sculptured earthy clay resembling remembrances of more than simple glimpses set in stone,
Artistry of gastronomy,
purging old ideas and new-found taste to tease the discriminating palates of those inclined,
Poets reading widows tears in pouring rain,
outside well-lighted and closed laundro-mats in frigid airy nights,
Waiting to be heard and yet unrecognized in blue-grey hoodies,
Svelte voices and incantations that long for listening ears,
Writers writing about journeys and destinations,
each mile travelled and another respite upon their road, 'Poets, preists and politicians...their words are their ambitions',
Maybe someday there will arise,
a scientist,
that will surmise,
'All is one and one is all',
Then the bleats will not go unheard.

This is the morning
No this
this is the morning
Where etherized upon a table I will finally sit up and be seen.
No, this is the morning.

Together milling loudly across park(ing lot)s
This! This is the morning!
Perhaps you've seen me undressed, perhaps you've seen me *******.
This is Morse Code these are hieroglyphs these are fingerprints on a frozen window pane. Meaning(fully equipped with the right place for a time) nothing to lose without first finding X.

This is the morning where to stay at home to garden and crow, hooked on the missing airplane lost in spices and exotic tea.