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The Half-forgotten Lie |
The electrician in 212 died
drunk and stupid, baroque and broke,
fueled by gin, I heard, or Jim Bean,
who the fuckin' cares.
His sister dawlded two extra weeks,
claimed meager tattered belongings
and the contents of a bruised bar mostly
consumed in Vegas, return receipt
reviled, scattered esteem repaired.
A landlord annoyed;
steam vacuum the carpet,
throw away the kitchen runner,
hope the stench subsides, stole the Ipod,
4 Playboys, some frozen pork chops,
the box set of Ginger Rogers Fred Astaire.
We're all over thirty now,
mallards migrate overhead annually,
I pick up a fifth of Canadian Mist,
trudge over after work to the endless party;
let's drink a toast to another passing day,
so the smokeless stacks on the roofs of L.A.,
to the silent turning of the meter, horny,
A Heidenburg lodges in my chest,
my new statistics sin 190/140
a call from my uncle in Las Cruces warns
against a lifetime of dialysis delayed.
I greet faces warmed in cadaverous repose
frozen matadores, spittle hanging sprayed,
fragmented yourth from my wasted youth,
may we quibble witless, wary and wise,
may we pray to the lesser craven gods,
this parade of strangers sardonic and aloof,
to distance negated by digital photography,
may we find ourselves so lucky with family
lackluster, any bothered member mustering
love or greed or obligated need, give rise
from listless comfort, push the lever down
on the footrest of an easy chair in Toronto,
Wichita, Seattle, San Diego, or Boston,
who will throw away our last garbage bag,
close out accounts, finish paying our bills,
stop in the midst of a strong flash memory,
ponder such long enough to hurt breifly,
begin transforming our lives into an anodyne
lie, nay, I like, verily I say unto you that we are
all turning into half-forgotten lies.
copyright 2010
Angel Uriel
Perales |
