It’s horrible to be old
when you peaked at twenty-five,
And I’ve no need to be told
that no one cares if I’m alive.
I only thank God for the internet
For Facebook and for Youtube.
I comment and chat all fucking day and yet
To these brats I’m just a boring old boob.
I’m thinking of making up a new Facebook account
and pretending that I’m young and cool again;
I’m tired of being called a superannuated cunt
By every callow smart-ass hooligan.
Don’t they know I once shook hands with Iggy,
and even shot up once with Basquiat?
And, yes, I even once got jiggly
with Patti Smith when she was drunk at
Max’s Kansas City.
So why do I feel so shitty
when I look in the mirror?
I’d even settle for some pity,
but the contempt could not be clearer
in the eyes of the young fops
in the bars and coffee shops;
To them I’m barely visible,
and if I am at all I’m risible.
I’m just an aging hipster
with my moth-eaten black beret.
I’m just an aging pathetic hipster.
And, I know, I should just go away.
the fields were the color of the sun
and the river was the color of the sky
arthur had a long neck
and his eyes were the color of the stones in the bed of the slowly moving river
the windmills were red
the pale red of the blood of the holy innocents
arthur sat in the back of the schoolroom with the older children
because of his long neck he saw farther than the other children
his long eyes looked into those of the bugs crawling up his pants
he heard music in their desperate scratchings
and knew that everything was connected
in a poem without words
in a symphony without notes
there were animals in the colors
animals that existed nowhere else
arthur went for long walks along the river
sometimes he heard shouting in the distance
one day he met louis
known as "the louse"
louis had never been to school
and poled a barge that carried passengers along the river
mostly old women taking their pigs and chickens to market
every pig and chicken had a different color
and had its own story to tell
arthur listened to them all
until one day he saw a young woman walking along the river bank
she had long hair the color of the story of king arthur
and eyes the color of the story of joan of arc
arthur did not care much for human stories
preferring the stories of pigs and chickens and goats and cows
which blended with the sky
unlike the stories of humans
which were solid like rocks or beetles
or at best like clouds
louis the louse pointed out the young woman to arthur
and said "there goes genevieve"
the next day arthur arrived late at the riverbank
louis had already pushed the barge into the center of the river
he waved to arthur and arthur waved back
arthur walked along until he saw genevieve approach
this time she was not alone
but had a black dog with her
the biggest dog arthur had ever seen
the dog growled at arthur
and genevieve passed him by
or taking any notice of his existence
arthur felt sadness for the first time
he sat and watched the river flow
one drop of water at a time
each with its own color
until the sun went down
that night he slept in an abandoned barn
and in the morning he left for paris