TWILIGHT'S LAST 'GLEANING'

By the dawn’s early light it suddenly came to me,

that America’s best days were behind her.

It isn’t the media per say,

or the government shut down exactly,

or even that dreck of idiocy that seems to pass

for mass entertainment these days.

At least…not individually.

Yet, the cumulative effect has been the same,

heaping steaming excrement on all sides,

A cultural mindset having lost its guiding light.

What principles are these?

Where does the constitution stand?

Not at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,

when the man in charge

and the one upstairs

are not of the same faith…

in one nation, indivisible under God

with mercy and justice for all.

Oh beautiful, the spaciously unemployed,

these amber waves turned gray,

the ship of fools having set sail six years before.

Uninspired times breed contempt for the whole.

Dirty little backroom politicos

scratch for their share,

the crust of bread,

however maggot-infested,

still desirable to none at all.

When did it get so bad?

Where did it all go wrong?

And who should lay claim

To the pit of the elders?

Not I, dear friend.

Nor he or she, the harried Reid

or Nan’ Pelosi.

The country’s gone to the dogs,

the mutts are slumming,

and any vote will do.

But do what, you ask?

And when, for we...

the people don’t eat in the long run.

People can’t see when the road is long

and the sun has set on America’s empire-building days.

When nothing gets done,

and compromise is code

for entrenched principles,

they damage the very fabric of democracy,

I promise you this -

With a sickening twist,

When special interests are ahead of a democracy,

Hush-a, hush-a, we all fall down.

The grand experiment at an end

stirring the muck with the mire.

Because the model is gone, you see.

…and who can we emulate now?

THE RECORD PLAYER

A tale by an idiot…
so Shakespeare thought.

Each generation introduces the next,
making contribution and gross folly
to the great upstream dance.
The argument already made…

Do we march proudly,
into the annals of history en masse?
…or does the daily drudge,
constantly relegating poignancy to purpose,
make rot of any tangible meaning
long before our bones are returned
into that primordial dust?

The days yawn as though,
like some great gaping chasm,
they tempt onward;
spurring our Galileo quest,
never quite fulfilled,
a more refined and deeper purpose
- absent.

We amuse ourselves in endless contemplation,
penning ballads and odes,
warbling half celebrated dirges and sonnets;
disentangled vainglorious attempts,
plunged deep and heartily
into that wounded immensity
of mysteries beyond,

…only too late to recognize
we are fast becoming that next waning filament
unraveled by the vast -
our inconceivable tapestry of life.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

MIDNIGHT AT THE ROXY

I thought I heard a child ask if God lived here –
- last night…
just a few blocks from Time Square
descending from the presidential suite of the Taft Hotel,
addressing an audience of 6,000.
Standing room only.
An army of ushers flanking both sides.
If he did…
the age of miracles has now ended
with the last thrash and crackle of the wrecking ball.
No entrepreneurial spirit could withstand such a faithless blow.

Even as I float,
blithe and unnoticed
into that opulent, oval behemoth
omnipotent in my observations,
winding toward each miraculous mezzanine
or dipping from one gilded balcony to the next,
spiraling dizzy past mock pulpits
to breathe in the ornamental pierced grilles.
Green faux marbre columns greet,
they seem to tumble toward my half lit consciousness…
unwitting spectre of a dream not even Samuel or Balaban could raise.

If only Ahlschlager had prayed for restraint,
or humility, instead of garish pride;
beyond fabled glitz to permeate,
then perhaps I might have awoken to make my witness
in tact,
and not as Gloria found her in 1961.
@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

TESTAMENT

What will the day bring?
I wonder,
as I sit,
back to the sun
feeling the warm horizontal brush of dawn
ride slowly up exposed vertebrae
Another start,
chance to be useful
to myself, as well as others.

Faced against challenges,
reminders,
yesterday’s guilt
in lazy repose at my side,
tactfully waiting to pounce,
or pummel into the raw
noon day swelter,
the oath in my resolve.
It seems to ask…
‘what will the day bring?’
A fresh beginning…
or much more of the same
or perhaps,just another ‘nothing at all’.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

AWOKEN...

…with a jolt.
It came to me,
in the hapless,
forgotten,
discarded hours,
caught between distant night
and sad days,
that never might there be a tomorrow,
where mine eyes were shifted,
to the highest peak.
…that perhaps, I was only fit for the toil,
like so many,
and too few.

This great passing cavalcade of time,
slipping unnoticed
rarified by the moment,
as melting snowdrops,
or the last frozen bits of water
distilling into my cocktail.
Inebriating, that is…
until the empty bottom of the glass,
stares back with panged remnant juices,
still clinging about the rim,
as if, to say – ‘this, is not for you’.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

PEPPERMINTS

The #9 blood of many
spilled for you
to jostle and suck and rattle
swirls of peppermint
about your woozy tongue.
Sticky, stained lips,
drawing deep the pungent flame
sharp odor, up and into nostrils flair.
Bite down hard,
splitting the atom candy cane crunch
into two…
then four…
then more…
then – none.
Funny, how that little red and white swirl,
stays behind,
in cavities yet,
not fit for the drill.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

LITTLE MISS ON BIG SUR

From fifteen thousand feet,
the elegant round of backlit morning dew,
thickening cloudy malaise,
masks ghost-whispering sandpipers at play.
Their pecking wild call,
unheralded against the craggy moors,
weather beaten by sun and sea,
mounting Dianna’s chariot
tucking noon beams into ancient coves
mist and fate,
caught expressive, yet removed.
T’is the outside world,
a myth endured,
till weekend trips eclipse
the cymbal crash of restless surf.

We are not amused,
and liken this change-less paradise
to each small and supple bend of my lover’s back
trampled underfoot
bewildered as a pack of midday galloping rhinos
beach balls bobbing,
toward undisturbed, forgetful sands.
@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

TRICKS TO TREAT

Sit, my friend,
drawing loose tongue
into deep laps of bubbling intoxication
whilst I illuminate the possibilities.

- a ghost story, then…
superficially corrosive to logic
bolstering the wonder-path
overactive imagination
thrust undulating and diluted
into the murky crust of darkness.
We see…we think…
we hear quick light footsteps on the ceiling
perhaps a servant girl
-yes…gone down
into rat infested bowels of a Tudor manor house,
where the good doctor buried
rotting flesh of his wily mistress
concealing their infidelity from an unhealthy wife.

A flash and flicker, then
candlelight…
no – gunfire!
The heavy role and tumble
shattered skull,
clumsily careening
down damp wooden stairs.

Ah yes…then to summon the spirit –
by faith – not prayer,
or, perchance the unholy séance…
specter of Dashiell Hammet,
nay – Sherlock Holmes…
or maybe just a hint of Jessica Fletcher
For sincerity,
to calm the taut
fine fingering nerve-strings
my caustic violin heart
quickening as though by arsenic…

…the same as in your champagne flute -

Dear guest,
You are the murder tonight.
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).

I'VE CALLED HER 'LIZ...

…she would have hated that.
As though, from spite –
Not so, my love.
Affections naturally blue and coursing
as dropped reposes from each beaded vein.
Eternally yours.
Bearing strange witness
to those pierced flashes of aubergine,
the hemlock flickering
deep within,
gorgeous window-shaded lashes
barring entry to her soul.
Seen…
too much
the unveiling –
not even notoriety’s noose constricts,
faint tabloid kisses lipsticked wet –
a Trojan’s promise
ever made honestly,
from the divine…
rapturous innocence,
womanhood most childlike
- than real
and likened to sport
at playing mistress
amidst uncut yards of glistening celluloid.
Roll film…
and break the tethered heart strings once more.
Oh, Nile-breathed goddess –
…the shadow of your smile refrains.
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).