Luyện nghe bài hát King Park

Another shooting on the southeast side. a drive-by, mid-day
Outside of the bus stop, by Fuller and Franklin. Or there.
Not far from the park. About a block from the other shooting was last month.
Or was it week?

Shots were fired an SUV heading northbound, Eastown
The target a but they didn't hit the target this time.
They hit a kid we think had to do with it.

And I travel backwards through time and space and I disintegrate, invisible.

I want to see it where I when it happened.
I want to see it all first this time.
I want to know it felt like.
So I float police lines, reconstruct the scene in fragments of memories.
I to know what his mother looked like up close, I want to see her leaning over his body.
So I there, transcend time. I want to capture it accurately.
I want to know what the color of the blood was spilling out the tarp onto the concrete.

I to write it all down so I can always remember.

If you could see it up close how you ever forget how senseless death, how precious life.
I to be there when the bullet hit.

And the crowd poured out as the shots drowned into sounds, out of there houses now
And over front yards, all the way up to the place the police tape ran to mark the crime scene.
Everybody trying to catch a of what was happening
Of was going on between the ambulance and all the cop cars.

gossiping,
"Whose kid got Where'd it hit him? And who could've fired it?"
Everybody wondering, "How did it happen again? And is he dead? children. Our kids."
Everybody wondering how far they were from the victims lived.

And I visit them, their houses. Inside my dream I them.
My spirit, soaring high and high up over King Park, the crime scene, travels further back
Till far before the shooting, through their windows, to their rooms.
I see them younger this time, playing and doing homework.
All these marks of youth soon transformed into stone for fights and stupid feuds.
For wrapped in gold. And cruelly I recall why I have come: To find a reason. But
There cannot be a reason, not for death, not this. Not like this.
days later they made funeral plans. The family.
Three days later a had to bury her son.
Not far away the shooter up in a hotel near to the highway with a friend and the gun.
That gun.
He fled but was identified by witnesses, his picture on TV.
Only 20 years old, they called him "Grandpa." He was older the others by a year,
two.
And he was safe for until somebody saw him there
and the authorities
Who the hotel, first arresting an accomplice while attempting to flee
Then chasing him up the staircase to the floor where he'd stayed. He closed the door
Behind him, himself in the room.
They could've kicked in the door but knew the gun was still him
One he'd already used and so feared what he'd do.
I up through the window of a room to the West.
I out to the hallway, tried to listen in.
I heard trying to reason, get him to open the door.
His begging and pleading, half-collapsed to the floor.
He preached of and forgiveness
said, "There is always a chance to rectify what you've taken, make your in the world."
I to slip through the door, I could've entered the room
I felt the burden of murder, it sthe to the core.
Felt like the was collapsing. Then we heard him speak
"Can I still get heaven if I kill myself?
Can I still get into heaven if I kill
Can I ever be forgiven I killed that kid?
It was an accident I it wasn't meant for him!
And if I turn it on me, if I it out, can I still get in or will they send me to hell?
Can I get into heaven if I kill myself?"
I left the hotel behind, want to know how it ends.