He inched laboriously
Along cracked sidewalks
To a tiny dull apartment,
He had trouble walking
His cane untrustworthy:
To his clouded eyes only
Dim images of a world
Existed around him
Ever without him, his ears
Discerned not the din of
Commerce or much of life itself,
It all passed him by so quickly
In an ever increasing rapidity
Beguiling his worn and weary mind:
He might have been noteworthy
Years ago, so many years ago,
No one recognizes his worth, or
Knowledge as important now,
Probably... they didn't even then:
He is an insignificant man
No one of real importance
To anyone not even himself,
Probably... not ever
But especially now,
He deliberates sadly
That he is nothing more
Than an insignificant metaphor
An empty vessel
Among the filled:
Now just a tattered cipher
With no direction
No goals no true existence
No reason to live
Thus... he pulls the trigger.
The Saxophonist is a
short play set in the
French Quarter of New
Orleans that celebrates
the ritual of public
penance by condemned
heretics & apostates
& provokes distinctly
unambivalent reactions.
*
A sociologist whose data
found fault with same-sex
relationships is savaged by
the progressive orthodoxy
of his discipline & by the
bibliophiles who shared
his campfire. Last-minute
penitents were garroted to
spare the pain of the flames.
*
The National Library has
bought a rare collection
of 39 auto da fé sermons.
They describe a society in
which books are prohibited.
There are palm or banana
trees, one on either side
of the porch. Two guys
on holiday face a choice.
