9438. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT

THERE IS NOTHING LEFT

In my land there is nothing left. The

martyrs have all been taken out, and

only a few Spring birds are singing. This

land is lit by the TV light and a million

empty faces staring down. At the end

of every street, there is a trench.

-

Magicians once used to gather; talking

softly among themselves over ways of

making things disappear. Come back.

Disappear again. Almost at will, they

too are now dispersed to shadows.

-

There's a balloon man who comes 

around my block  -  he wanders empty, 

with nothing in his sack. Were he Santa 

Claus, he'd get away with that, but as it 

is  -  and as he is not  -  he too is now a 

wanted man. Shame, and fie on that.

-

In Frenchtown once I went into the 

decoy store. Nice old guy, gay as a

stick, running the place by telephone.

Duck decoys, carved and painted,

everywhere. Thousands of dollars

each, not at all and nothing cheap to

be thought about. His planned deals

were all upon the telephone; the store

was just a place, for browsers and the

'Frenchtown types' who come around.

-

I stayed an hour as he kept on talking.

I'd seen his type before  -  like any old

Greenwich Village flamer, ready to bond

forever with the latest guy he'd seen. I get

a kick out of those types, and can never

get enough. it's all a memory now, yet

I know he's still there now. Talk is

the show, and the show is all talk.

-

Anyway, back to the rest : there is nothing

left. we've run out of spices and gold;

we've exhausted the mortars and pestles,

and the claviers and harpsichords, 

they too have now disappeared.