"Dogs bark in the Himalayan night."
That is the state of these times.
Like the dogs of Constantinople, bound
And abandoned in their sacks.
Leather bound or vinyl -
Does it matter?
Like the voice of the Popol Vuh,
Lost histories eventually return as songs.
Dreams drift between the stars
And we creatures, burnt and ravaged,
Lumber toward the sea.
"Dogs bark in the Himalayan night."
Vacant
Like an empty face.
We are alone, you and I,
Abandoned (though we are both
Weighted with debris).
So much for sentiment
(often false)
And memory
(misleading at its best).
Its accumulation wears the
Owner thin.
Scissors cut paper
And paper wraps rock.
Was there once hope?
Hardly, though the illusion
Is hard to shake.
Endings are contained
In all beginnings
And the text between the
First and final words
Is often arbitrary
(though some have called it
Destiny).
It has rained
In the bedroom.
Water warps the floor.
Erosion melts most everything
In time's meandering course.
Rock breaks scissors.
The front faces North
But the door points West.
The sun is a constant
Except at night.
Near a window by the door
One chair remains (though
It was never meant for sitting).
And paper wraps rock
(do you remember the game?)
Between the rafters,
Hushed in confession.
Is it memory or simply
A shadow?
The difference is mute.
All houses are full of
Such shadows.
What's wrong with Bertolt
except that he smoked too much.
He knew a brown shirt when he saw one
and he saw many.
He fled the marketplace
when the fleeing was good.
Often, he lived out of his suitcase
(but who doesn't move round allot
in times like these).
So, what's wrong with Bertolt?
Yes, he did smoke way too much.
