Born in 1956
Born in 1956 this nostalgic longing
for the 50s has been triggered, I suppose,
by the recent passing of my aunt and uncle,
both who came of age in the 50s and who helped
rear me with those values that I only came to know
They lie entombed together as dead as the soda and sockhop
principles, passing away, forgotten specters, finality as
solid as fin de siècle.
Now, I love a woman who embodies none of those philosophies.
her slant a postmodern trope while I listen to the faint, fading
song of enlightenment modernity.
The era an American reality, a neighborhood sepulchered drugstore
pulsing over the misbegotten progressive airwaves
that centers me like a future excavated time capsule,
an other dug up, anachronistic curiosity, bloomed forth from a
withered time. Yet, I am not Christian, and save for an amour
that possesses me, I am as concrete as Jeffers' rock.
Perhaps that is my value. And, when future races crack open
the narrative of her generation's males, will they find
that pill spit out, empty, like a cracked Mesopotamian urn,
dry sand, sterile, no redemptive banner,
only the stale odor, like Hemingway's frozen leopard,
of a time, lost, faded away?