Simple, sinful
Wasted not
Looking back upon
The innocent glances of
Youth, I see but the bright
Glare of morn and wonder
Where all the bright things
Have gone – were they but
The dreams of the unhappy,
Unhopeful,
Or was there more to it –
More like the wasted lives of
Those who see no more beyond the
Nearest cathouse and brothel –
I see it not in my mind's eye,
Yet it is as clear as morn seen
Through a babe's newborn eye;
As seen by a beggar receiving but
A single jingle of coinage at the end
Of a long week of servitude at the
Feet of the starving masses and the
Fretful parents who shuffle along, placing
Blinders upon their childrens' eyes, blinding
The future to the past, to the present, to
Things both asleep and awake.
A clanging ring of the phone
That draws me away, that
Brings me out of my mind for
Moments at a time and I
Enjoy that feeling of hearing
That voice through the
Electronic haze of miles upon
Miles of lines –
It is the voice from the past,
The voice I know all too well,
Yet I can never see the face, can
Never imagine what lies beyond the voice;
Or the keystrokes on the picture screen –
Where does the voice lie beyond those black upon
White symbols? I see it not, it
Appears before me, yet I cannot imagine
Where they might emerge from this haze of
Computations and electricians –
A voice – An image – the faded photos of
My mind are but ghosts compared with the
Flashing screens and clicking-clink keyboards;
My heart goes out, stretches out, when I consider,
Not imagine,
Those miles upon miles
Of fingers clicking-click away day upon
Day upon day –
And not a single voice cries out, not a single
Sound emerges past the clanking and the clicking:
Who could possibly hear such a voice over the blank lines and empty avenues?
Not my ears.
February, 1999
