I AM RICH IN MY CACAPHONY
The story was told : Beowolf. Grendel.
Before that, far back, Gilgamesh. Oh
those old hoary tales; like the ticket stubs
flung from the rear of a train. words and
papers all take to the air. Though this was
once an oral world, now it is not.
-
Circumstances of want and age seem always
to change things. Once the campfire, now
the lethal screen : Pictures move as thoughts
solidify and stay in place. Oh this world is
sullen. Oh what a useless race.
-
The hatcheck girl? Yes, I knew her; name
was Mae and she lived on far west 27th.
Now that's all gone, and so is she; killed
in an elevator mugging while cameras
watched. Deeds recorded, but no one sees.
-
I still wonder about her. Last, muffled cries?
A scream, perhaps? A groan? How one dies
in a scene like that evokes so many pictures.
My own grand cacaphony of sound and light
lingers, though I am silent in my wonder.
Too many things for me to grasp.
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