frank’s bar and grill
is filled with foolish people who
talk foolishly about the fate of the
free world.
frank’s bar and grill
tilled by the hired hands work
to ready the soil for a new
season.
waiting. we wait impatiently
for the seed of a new crop
to grow in a new year
with new tears.
the flood in the midwest
crested. and all the
restless people
festered as they
waited for the fatal facts
to flounder out the fear.
the low hum of a hard-boiled computer,
as brothers play calloused cards in the other room,
hums to the terrible tune of the untriumphant world,
to the tune of a soul stuck in traffic
like a dead man who is still
alive in the key of
love.
but love is not a commodity
it is not an curious oddity
like so many have before thought
it cannot be bought and sold like
consumeristic clothes or
Jesus Christ. it has to be bought
with a price.
good saturday
wedged between friday
and a resurrection
is sometimes frightfully
forgotten.
when I look out the window
I see no shifting shadows on the
shallow cement
I see no paupers begging for a
hollow piece of bread
I see no hard nosed harlot
working to feed her kid
I see no Fantine
no Valjean
no Javert
only air and breathy
silence. in a silent
town in a silent
wooden room. with
silent desks, and silent
peculiar radios.
if I was who I said I was
then I would be who I say
I am
but I am not
nothing but a filthy fraud
sometimes.
and sometimes not.
he is dead
and I am spent
for three years
I followed him.
I am gone
and he is dead
with no hope
to ever be raised again.
there are no more grey ghosts
no more small spirits lurking
in the corners of the coroners office
there are no more luminous incantations
no more spellbound spell books
hiding on the shelves waiting to be
experimented
magic is dead, magic is gone
 | wilsonian on …good saturday… |
