Wednesday, August 19, 2015


There are a million followers of nothing and they are
all standing at the edge of the chasm  -  watching things
fall though not yet falling themselves. I can wait.
The young kid from the nearby high school, his name
is Paul, is saying to his friend how he 'loves the way
girls' breasts rise and fall.' It's pretty certain he means
these Summer girls around, he's too young to know age.
In my hand is a reporter's pad  -  the kind they used to use  -
with the coil at the top and the pages that flip up and over.
That was so reporters, writing fast, could just keep going,
in a flash. No one does that nay longer  -  I guess it's all
on tape or phone or computer now. Type your witnessing
story, put it on a drive, and plug it all in later to review
and edit. No one seems to run for phones anymore :
'The President's just been shot!', or 'That long-awaited
bill just passed by a slim majority.'
We are weary, and we are so jaded. I sit in the heat with a
spiked lemonade, or maybe not, but whatever I'm drinking
reminds me of Chivas Regal. I have sunglasses on, and
what I really want now is an eye-shade, like the old bookies
wore, and a cigarette, like Sinatra and Martin. Or better
yet, a Sartrean 'Galoises.' Nothing would be better than
falling into black matter -   the real darkness of certainty,
the idea that  we all will be dead soon enough.
But, instead, I see peripatetic jerks trading reams of
stock to make seven cents on a share for an hour. Whatever
any of that means to them, their mother and father would 
know  -  it's deep-seated need, its angst and dismay, its
long-ago things they just never worked out. It's about
as far away from sense as I'd ever want to be. And,
even though they talk big  -  with their wines and cigars
and cars  -  they're no different then me either : far, far
away from that Chinese monk on a high mountain peak
we all should be. I could admonish them to aspire.
but what in Heaven for?

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