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.