Wednesday, September 23, 2009

thirty minutes to midnight
and i watch my city
in its glorious nightgown winding down

there are some who would talk to
the hegelian spirit of the flow
in times like these

i shamelessly lie to myself

i cannot bear the image of me standing
in front of the dead-empty nothing
talking

instead i concoct stories
much like my father did before me
and his father before him
and his father before his...

'dad? is it really turtles all the way down?'

and i imagine the dead talking to us
by dropping their names
in our consciousness
into the treacherous rivers of regret
we call history
flowing into the consciousness of the city
the keeper of the dead
the names
the stories

there are those who would talk to someone
in times like these

i talk to myself