Sunday, March 25, 2007

Viewing the Memory Movie

The memory movie will start soon,
The sunlight is dimming.
Please send away the children,
Please remove your feet from the seat
And hobble them quietly.
Yes, you cannot see; nobody
Can see anything, please make due.

My, the curtain of crushed material
Is as thick as service manual
And the stagehand is working on the floor,
Out-polishing the monument maker
Who sits in the back row
With his compounds and clothes
And his family of little red-haired immigrants.

The usher will come round and check
Ticket stubs with his subatomic flashlight
And his undertaker’s vest.
He tells you he’s a boy of seventeen
But he looks like an old man,
And he will also run the projector
In the hot little booth.
His nametag reads “X”.

Now a flash of white light – no
You are not dying, it’s just the first frame.
You will see all you’ve known play out
On the screen, which has a tear
Running diagonally from corner to corner.
You will sink in your velvet seat
In your best mourning dress,
And later meet the stars in the lobby.

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