Dialect. By Wayne H.W Wolfson
I stood in the window.
I am a thinker.
What was I
supposed to say?
Shhh...Don't ruin it, let me think.
At my feet broken glass,
odds and ends of an unfinished symphony.
A circle, a frayed imitation
leather belt coiled in upon itself.
The answer to infinity.
Let me think.
Let me think it's forever.
Time has made
me tough, life has made me cruel.
Why can't I think of anything? Why did
she say I sculpted words as if it were a bad thing?
She knew from the
Now she too stands in the window.
The sun illuminates her from the side.
Ears, thin webbing of
The wings of a bat. Shhh...I'm thinking.
I want to be a Mahler, the new Mahler.
A symphony all of breaking glass, sobs and
The sobs sound like the rain, the rain like applause.
ovation, the shards of glass not taken for souvenirs are swept up and all is
There's a while until the next performance. Killing time with
cocktail assassins. Long dried flowers faded, and pressed between the pages of
The things we must do to survive.
is a whole other problem.
The trick is to realize what is what. Not to regret, but not to
enjoy it too much either.
My cane has a notch on it for every one of these unavoidable
Invisible to the naked eye, the surface actually appears shiny
All is as it should be? Invisible to the naked eye, unless you
happen to be a saint.
There are no new saints. And besides they are all
lonely and would be happy for the company.
No, no new saint will rat me
out. For the price of a drink and a little conversation they too become an
accomplice. I used to have to whisper. And now it makes sense to be fiercely
Drunk and lonely. Drunk and holy.
© Wayne H. W Wolfson 2004