As I age, the projector cranks up,
noir, pops, clots and cuts;
an adage of golden-white origin
plastered against the lonely drywall.
what it takes to redefine the present and culture
the past in a different frame of light.
The cold, unforgiving manner of invention
engines the well-thumbed manuscript,
the past a vintage that needs my memory to breathe again.
and his raging bull, calmly tap leaden feet on metal mats;
soft shot in the gray, a lonely dance amongst the hordes.
Muscles staunchly slip knot,
undone and remembered by the pull of an age sweating technicolor.
Would we ever love chiaroscuro without the colored eigengrau?
and his ink’d manuscript of solar mist
swirl above no-nation states, international waters
of alien territory.
Equipment and metal lost in flight,
all lost in creaking motion.
Would we love the lone men’s battle cries, forked echoes,
if we knew not mottled new?
A flash atomic, a burst of color, podiumed in a fallen country,
that remembered a Greater childhood amongst silent dominoes of gray.
Fritz, his eerie overtures.
The calm innocence of a hazy child, melodic, clattering,
slips and slaps of film roll against drum roll.
A game of elimination
murdered by invention, noir children lost to imagination.
A lack of color fading into white.
As lines and pores etch visage, I see my films in snapping color,
a loss of memory’s spectrum.
Try to imagine the cold knife of Oskar’s eyes
without a piercing blue or green infiltrating the ghetto
where the hum and hack of memory against the pictured walls are fading
I watch the noir of centuries, placards held up for me
to hear the words I cannot see.
Ah, gum-toothed irony.
I ponder; luminescent orange, tip proleptic ash onto the floor.
An ancient oak
spread across the linoleum of age.
A younger mirror gazes at me from across a doubled distance.
Like the pulsing death of Marion, eyes of glass
separate me from this century.
And as my gnarling fingers scratch the typewriter,
Ink collides, a bare canvas.
I hear the Juden spell out their names, cloaked in snowflake ashes,
dust that lists forth, Ha breath of a musty Name
I remember the films that made my age a reel of newborn motion,
slow, Chaplin, armed with bayonets and monochrome.
Stoppered explosions, silence and the strange love of maniacal laughter
where I lie, out of time, atop my shrine,
legs up on plastic, an eye glazed with lashes,
another rotting color,
a clockwork orange, wound
in a gilded age, turn the page–
THE END, with a crackle in black.