What happened here?

What happened here?

I wandered through a library

Fingered lost books

The spines discoloured

Dust covered

Unread,

For the longest time.

There is no safekeeping.

I saw Hemingway

In the corner

A loaded gun

On a shelf

I thought to find Whitman

But he lives in the supermarket

These days

Hiding in the fruit section

Counting apples

Trying to avoid Ginsberg

Who was last seen throwing tomatoes

At the men in brown shirts

Who thought he was an alien.

The streets are as dark

As they ever were

A haven for the bullies

With bull whips

And bullfrog eyes

Peering at shadows

Searching for the homeless

Hobos and storytellers

Who are too dangerous

To ignore.

The cities are dust pipes

Draining the truth

Out of justice

The prevailing winds

Blow us all to hell

Which is less than

Halfway to Paradise

But much further east

Than Eden.

Nothing is of value

Only the cost is important

What happened

To the dreamers

Seeking to learn

The art of becoming

Was it all an illusion?

When all we have left

Is a party of showmen

Nothing is redeemed.

Everything is fiction

America doesn’t exist

This side of lived experience.

It was an inglorious mistake

To believe that once upon a time

It just might have been real

In the first place.

Sunday, the 27th of April.

I am always stuck as to whether or not I should remind her.