DEAD MONEY
No captive for the coatrack or hunter
for the headstand, neither one has been
here; far better today and more distant
for his friends. Over the cliff, and down the
rocks below, they are sailing ships. I see a
barge and a tug running slow, and three local
sailboats just floating along. Piles of rocks where
the rocks have fallen; as old as the words to
some old song. I rang the dead-gold dinner bell,
this old dead money proclaiming dead food for
the living. Everyone who could came running.
-
I remember a character from the comics, named
'Fearless Fosdick' or something of that nature. No
one I ever met, just a character, one who resembled,
to me, any friend's father - any old guy now, in
retrospect, younger than me right now. Just goes to
show what a fool's cap denotes. He was some parody
of Dick Tracy, or some cavalier cop running rogue.
I can't relate, and I can't remember.
-
It's like dead money to me : the kind a bad bank just
let's you steal because they don't care 'cause it's not
real. Every tower has its thirteenth floor, though they
may not let you know. The place, perhaps, where the
mops are kept, a floor of janitor's closets and nothing
more; or the place where they've collected the bodies,
dead, of every person who's ever jumped from it.
-
Ah! What's the use? That's the dice of living,
and they always roll out the same; they
always roll out the same.
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