Let me wander then, among these
circular graves and wandering
parts. Across the fields the warring
junkyards vie : trucks lined up
disgorging cars along the rutted
airport road as Route One too
whizzes by. For all intents and
purposes, this is the here and this
is the now. I do not know, however,
what this means when one is dead.
High up, and above my eyes, high
steel tension wires rise; a railway grid
and passing trains, the Anheuser Busch
accolade of light cavorts across the sky.
I think I have a cousin still in there,
who works. But I am not sure. Beer
being beer, it too little matters.
A few stingy, cinder-block work-sheds
are standing - here, among the rising
grass. The rest are mausoleums, from
1924 and not much more. All that
remembrance brings - the broken gates,
the trashed stain-glass. Colored lights
that hypnotize, will sparkle someone
else's eyes, as there is nothing here
worth shining. This is the old.
On the ground, cheers and weeds,
wonder and seeds. It is already late
Spring, yet nothing happens. I stand
at Allen Ginsberg's grave once more,
morose, and looking down.