blog of poet, leah umansky

The Great Spill of Time

I.

The typewriter sits in the dark, dumb. No vocabulary, just letters he can’t coerce together.  Un-ribboned; unpressured; un-fingered; he is sprawled on the desk; spread-eagled with his hand twittering with his carriage….and it feels good.  He’s been kicked out; given the short edge of the stick; the long edge of the spool; or given the boot [cause he can’t boot himself]!  ALL HAIL THE ONCE MAGNIFICENT! Short-lived; short-tasked; short-sighted and short –changed.   Que sera sera…

II.

Let bygones be bygones, or bye-gones.  Byebye telegraph¸you sparsely dressed note. Your long-redcoated shirt-tails; paper-trails; curtails the day.  Waved off like the dainty-dance of a kerchief in a hand.  Ta- ta !  Replaced by the text; the email; the United Parcel Service, (not to mention the fax and the cell).  No burial in the Abbey. No barge  a-float with fire. The modern world is not Camelot, but it is allotted a great many things.

…XI…

 You, you dim little fool. You flickered- flop. The Bulbous-One turned on you; and turned on you; then turned you on; and turned you.  Call it a vacation or a long trip to sea. Is it not a long walk off a short pier? Fuse together the electrical meanderings to form the improved state of glory: light or lit (or a personal turn-of-phrase: bathing in light).              

Alas, I get ahead of myself.  Burn bright on both ends,         (like you, used to)       People still do it in the dark you know; still do it in your arms waxen arms.                There is charm in the old.  Nothing can snuff that out. But I.             I prefer wet fingers,                and I prefer blowing out the flame                like     

                                                                                                                                                this.

©Umansky 2011

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