Now you're just a faded voice,
a back-up singer selling Chevrolets,
a jazz cartoon hung out to dry
on the wall of fame, a crucifix,
a sacrifice of the twentieth century,
an Issac, saved but shrunk to iconography.
You never asked the blind future
to forgive your sweat and sentiment.
You just lived your life, played
out its years in sweet high tones
that sunk until only the gravel
of your voice could drop, stone
by stone until you washed off like sand.
I's atrohpy, time breaking shards
from the shells of factories,
clouding the ghosts of Studebakers
bouncing on rutted memory, dance halls
and cutting contests, the fading
calliopes of riverboats. It's all
of a piece, you tiny, reduced
to 78 rpms of static, homogenized
and strained through a scrim,
suitable for our elevator palates,
while we march into oblivion, too.
- Add a