the sounds i hear now are hollow
just as i read in college when i studied English Lit and came upon an unassigned poem by TS
that I found in the dusty back shelves of the Minerva library
i was hollow in college
and still am, too — perhaps the hollowest of men
and when i die, no one will care
there will be no child to carry on
no procession of the conflicted to carry my splendid casket.
when my mother died, no one cared
they took as much of her money as they could, and then they walked away
i have tried to remember bettertimes
before my mother died
way before when we were like brother and sister in the 50s
she a young english woman from the midlands
me the spawn of whatever my parents were
i dream now, often, of horrible things
of having been forced to leave my country
but i am ashamed
i am ashamed of how i acted
when i was handsomer than you can possibly imagine
and could get away with anything
and then i drank
and drank some more
oddly, despite all the drinking, the good looks remained — until they didnt
when i die
no one will care
and neither will I.
I am sorry to hear about your mère. Mes condoléances.
It is time we met again. I will be in Westchester NY next week, for a few weeks, then a few days after that, for at least a month, if not longer. Can bring guitar, will travel. Your place or mine. Let me know.