9517. SHAV'ROTH TEV

SHAV'ROTH TEV

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.