The Year of Disappearing

 

the year of disappearing 

begins like any other

with the simple click of a second hand

and the distant toll of bells

but stars are falling from the sky

and you mustake them for snowflakes

each one an unanswered prayer

that dies on the dark, wet pavement

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the year of disappearing

has twelve months like any other

but each month is a thousand days

and all those days are yesterdays

you want to bring them back

tune them in like favorite reruns

on an old black and white TV

the one on the dusty workbench in the basement

but all you can see are smears and shadows

all you hear are wisps of distant chatter

that drift in and out of the static

channel after channel

until the knob comes off in your hand

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in the year of disappearing

ghosts pose as trees in your backyard

from your kitchen window

you watch them shimmer in a listless breeze

they are tired and have taken refuge there

after a long trip through the heavens

their branches dangle stars and planets

and their coats ensnarl skulls and bones

you know because you dug the dirt around them

looking for your former life

but this ia all you've found

 

The Strand & Cataract

 

stood side-by-side

twin theaters on Falls Street

back when the city had a Falls Street

vibrant with cars and shops

and people bumping shoulders 

beneath the flashing golden glow

of dueling marquees

we were among the last to go there

the last to see those old-time movie palaces

as their luster began to flicker and fade

remnants of a lost civilization

with their high domed ceilings and mysterious screens

hidden behind thick, dusty curtains

that parted like predictable magic

as the lights went down

and the projector glowed to life

words like loge and mezzanine

disappearing from the lexicon

while Escape from the Planet of the Apes

played to a half-empty house

wide winding staircases and dried-up fountains

dimly-lit lounges

flanked by walls of mirrored glass and crushed velvet

whispering a sad opulence

tattered and musty

heavy with the smell of the past

stale smoke and burnt popcorn

restrooms no longer kept clean

above their doors

silhouettes

a lady and a gentleman

bon vivant shadows of another time

locked in a frozen stare at each other

afraid to look away

afraid for the lights to go out

and the usher to close the doors

one last time

before the scavengers and junk men came to call

one last time

before the crowds formed out on the street

to applaud the wrecking ball

and the closing credits of a film

whose only words were: the end. 

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