Sunday, February 6, 2011

quiet at night

Om natten
too much sickness
in the lobby.
For those who don't believe Christmas is overrated.
The operation is risky -- dii or paralysis. The better? dead and know not or to know all with no recourse?
What is mercy anyway?

Without somethings we all die.
Define worst case scenario, use it in a sentence.
The music tinkles along even after the globe is smashed, snow glittering over the floor. I see you speak but your words have no sound. Of course you're not nervous waiting for it to end. What I said yesterday I'm sorry. It not my business. Religious crap. A whole year. A cold blue light, sharp edged, dispensed our secrets in quick short whispers. For there's no telling. It never really was a secret after all. Futility, sterility, and another bottle of beer. This will be our last party together. Infrequent calls become none. We never hear from you again but to read what is wrote to others. Of which we are no part. So we tidy up more quietly, putting this new absence to rest with the others. Wanting. Knowing. There is nothing for it. On a narrow thin bed in the ward we lie. Only six. How can only six be sufficient. But tomorrow will be another day, or not. Then will we know, or not. I'm not so brave as you think I am. Else we would not stop at six, wondering about the morrow. Someone should be affected when a person dies. Someone should grieve. To show it matters a person dies. Many died alone. Not even I knew.

A babylonian drone. A banty rooster coming down the alley way with wings akimbo. The subway clitter and clacks. No one looks. At another. No one talks. To another. Pages stared at. Or through. Marks made. Charlie breaks rank. Charlie speaks. Charlie listens. The others hear only one man. Now they look. For only a second. C'est magnifique. Notes from the margins. A man. A margin. Little tolerances. Small thoughts. We're not like the others.

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