"Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am vast. I contain multitudes." -Walt Whitman
Friday, February 27, 2004
Piles of albums callously void of shots
of first steps, birthdays, vacations,
amid montages of geriatric cases and wailing tots.
Absent, or invisible, among the generations.
A denial of existence, the thickest of plots.
Now, one last carousel projector. The screen, erected,
with the sound of robes tearing, is drawn: a casting of lots.
For years, this silent search, through the pitted
landscapes of unremembered past,
through recently gained memories of counterfeited
happiness; of sorrow and sadness buried fast
below the surface. O to be acquitted
of this proof, of too many years aloof,
tricked by emotions trained never never never to be admitted.
The room grows light, as gently laughing Ashtoreth
spreads palms from which no seeds are spilled.
The photographic record, the modern Shibboleth,
has failed. Now, a sound like a vacuum being filled,
a drop in the air pressure, a sudden sharp breath
drawn to fill a wasteland, leaving just a sour lingering taste
like the memory of a miscarriage, or the haunting of a crib death.