no more

there are no more secrets for spies to steal no more mysteries to be revealed no more conspiracies to be exposed that is just the way it goes everything is out in the open wisdom of the ages? - keep hoping what you see is what you get enlightenment is falling without a net alas! the younger generation heeds no stately peroration from graybeards staggering to the grave dreams are now reality’s slaves oh poor demystified planet! now just one big slab of granite who will write your epitaph when the gods chuckle and the angels laff

porcelain

by sardanapalus sternwall long ago and far away i was served tea on a silver tray in cups of whitest porcelain and my reputation was without stain the servants in their silent shoes brought me the paper with the morning news which i perused with a silent prayer of thanks that such was not my share of fate to be recorded in these chronicles of a world disordered by passions insensible and demands incomprehensible even then a faint presentiment alerted me to what it all meant as each tray was taken away marking another vanished day the servants had no faces the jam and crumpets left no traces a silent demon smiled upon the silken curtains carefully drawn some day the servants will disappear and i, ensconced in purple fear will stand at my window as the dawn reveals the monsters on the lawn

a curious confession

my old friend f————— was, to put it perhaps a bit uncharitably, the most ostentatiously cultured man i ever knew. though largely an autodidact, and having no official connection to any university or other cultural institution, he had strong views, which he was not loath to share, on a wide variety of subjects, but particularly architecture and literature. i have to confess i have forgotten exactly what his views on the former were , not having any strong opinions on the subject myself. in literature he was partial to the poets of the renaissance. he seemed unaware that few people - at least in the english speaking world - nowadays read or have the slightest interest in petrarch, boiardo, tasso, and ariosto , and i would on occasion gently twit him about this. he also had an encyclopedic acquaintance with the nineteenth century novel, not just the acknowledged masters like balzac and dickens but forgotten authors like nodier, paul de kock, mrs braddon, and mrs trollope. as you might have suspected, he held the tastes and manners of the modern age in the most severe contempt. in this, he found little opposition at the club we both frequented. he was reticent as to his personal life, if any , and though no foe to food and drink, could not be styled a gourmet, an oenophile, a glutton, or a drunkard. it was therefore with some surprise that i listened to his statement late one night when we were alone at the club - with the fire burning low and a couple of emptied bottles between us - that his fondest dream had always been to be - a lumberjack. not because he particularly enjoyed the thought of felling trees or because he relished the company of other lumberjacks, but because it would afford him the opportunity to indulge in huge hearty meals of ham, bacon, eggs, potatoes, and flapjacks, which he would then work the bulk of off in a long day of vigorously swinging his axe, followed by a sound night’s sleep, and awake to a new morning of more hearty meals of ham, bacon, eggs, etc… such was his vision of true felicity. my rejoinder to this confidence, if any, i have completely forgotten. although f———— continued to frequent the club until his sad demise, neither he nor i ever alluded to this conversation again. ***

3 poems

the twilight of twilight in a long forgotten age poets maudits were all the rage drunk, unshaven, and ill dressed the bourgeoisie they quite impressed with words grandiloquent and sage every mountebank and magus made a claim yet more outrageous in their desperate ascension to the summits of pretension with every street corner their stages they measured out their days in bistros and cafes watching honest citizens pass they trembling raised a glass as they composed their unmemorable lays one no longer hears or sees much about poets maudits their absinthe-stained cravats and battered wide-brimmed hats have vanished in a green reverie bohemian nights a slubberdegullion named suzy drifted through the days blue and boozy she followed the pattern of an unregenerate slattern and could not often choose to be choosy she had no reserves of gold bullion when she dined it was often on slumgullion when her partners in crime threw her a lousy dime she said, hey pal, thanks a mullion no one was up to the task of ever caring to ask if suzy had any dreams or just floated down life’s stream holding tight to an empty flask one night she was just gone but no one commented on that most unremarkable fact whether from indifference or tact and they kept on drinking until dawn ezra ezra wrote some poems they didn’t take up much space he had a twinkle in his eye and a smile upon his face ezra wrote some poems they didn’t take up much space he had made his contribution to the culture of the human race the years stretched out before him repetitious, bleak, and long he had some thoughts on the history of civilization that his fellow humans found quite wrong ezra wrote some poems they didn’t take up much space they will be preserved forever in a silent purple place

the ballad of willy and nora and old doc

willy white and nora green were connoisseurs of the unseen willy wanted love and cash nora pined for jewels and flash what they wanted they wanted now they didn't need it just anyhow they were sick of being hurt treated like some kind of dirt ever since the world was new people told them what to do passed them by in cadillacs with hard rain pounding on their backs as they passed from town to town the locals tried to wear them down threw them in the county hoosegow with hardly even an excuse, now when a guy can't make a buck and a dame's down on her luck and can't take it any more what can they do but try to score? humans have been around too long seen every dance, heard every song though suckers are born every day it's harder to find new tricks to play when willy and nora hit parkerville the night was cold and very still old number 9 sped down the track they knew there was no turning back even the general store was closed willy sighed and rubbed his nose nora blinked and suppressed a yawn said "no use standing here, come on" should they try to peddle their wares down among the squares hiding behind their shades so drawn and their perfectly barbered cubes of lawn? over time the world had changed human mores had been rearranged people hardly walked the streets but had become much more discreet all the streets were now main there was one big central brain almost nothing left residual of a standup individual the time had passed for talk willy sat down on the sidewalk nora squinted with her weak sight and said "i think i see a light" they had been down this road before from shore to shining shore from malibu to plymouth rock it was time to see old doc every town has an old doc don't act shocked every tribe in the bush has one ever since the world begun but although they are all brothers some old docs are worse than others some have just the thing you need others only have their greed some are worth their humble pay and send you happily on your way others, fortunately not so often will drive the last nail in your coffin the town in which our tale commences was hidden behind white picket fences willy and nora passed whole streets by without attracting a single eye where was old doc? a distant steeple clock mocked their desperate hopes they were on the ropes the whole world was asleep time on its serpent skin did creep it was different from times past they had come to the end at last the old laws no longer applied they were being taken for a ride the light that nora thought she saw was brushed aside by midnight’s paw yes, old doc was there for sure but no longer dispensing cure his withered carcass could be found six feet under the ground on his stone was this inscription - he has written his last prescription for fifty years he filled the scores but they don’t write them like this any more

a call to arms

by rev. percival jackson sternwall oh once upon a time the earth was round and flags were firmly planted in the ground men gazed up at them in silent awe respected women, and obeyed the law they went to work and earned their honest pay and saved their hard-earned money day by day ready to go to war if it need be determined to keep their territory free what evil spirits could look down on this and sneeringly see ought amiss? what monsters of perdition could find joy in smashing such pure gold without alloy? yet these good men and true woke up one morn and wished that they had ne’er been born for all that they had built up with such trust lay shattered - scattered in the whirling dust now demons walked the once free land and taking little children by the hand laughed at the barren fields and empty homes of another empire fallen like troy and rome o inheritors of this new armageddon what shall you place your faith upon? must moloch laugh through all eternity or will you stand and cry “it shall not be!”

at the club

a drizzly november day. old baines, who was no longer as young as he once was, had somewhat neglected the fire, but sir gerald hardly noticed, engrossed as he was in an article in the gazette about an uprising in the chilean back country. sir gerald was reading the account with keen interest, as he had a fair amount invested in some copper mines in the threatened area. in the corner of his eye sir gerald noticed sanderson, the club bore, approaching. sanderson, in his usual fashion, took the seat nearest sir gerald, without speaking, but fixing his prey with his enormous sad brown eyes. sir gerald knew that it was no use ignoring sanderson, as he would speak, eventually, after what he regarded as a proper interval. “look here!” sanderson finally exclaimed. “yes?” sir gerald did not look up. “it’s the damnedest thing!” “what is the damnedest thing?” sir gerald enquired politely. “i have the damnedest time shaving in the morning!” “you do not say so.” “i have indeed.” sanderson touched a spot on the left side of his pale face, just above the jawline. “i have a patch here - right here - where the charge must be returned to again and again before i can get my whiskers clear.” “perhaps you need a better trained valet.” “valet! ah - i wish i could afford a valet. but in times like these - with the markets as they are, i have had to economize - a sad thing to admit, but it is so. i can no longer afford a decently trained valet.“ sir gerald turned his page in the gazette with a forceful snap. “the markets are indeed volatile. especially in south america.” he finally turned his gaze on sanderson. “do you have investments in south america?” “i only invest where the union jack flies.” “ah. a prudent course.” “i have always followed the advice of the late lord morseby - to only hunt where the rain falls, and only invest where the british flag flies.” sanderson shook his sad head. “but as i was saying - as i was saying - “ “yes? as you were saying?” “it’s this damned face of mine. and shaving in the morning. sometimes i feel as if a curse has been placed upon me.” “perhaps you need a sharper razor.” “that may be. that may be! but where to find one?” “the czechs are reputed to make fine razors.” “you do not say so?” “it is what i have heard. they are said to be the most expert in europe for all things pertaining to iron.” “indeed! superior even to the germans?” “so i have been told.” “eh?’ sanderson pondered. “perhaps the czech gentleman have particularly stout whiskers - stout whiskers - and this has caused them to develop a sharper razor. what do you think?” “that may well be,” sir gerald answered with a shrug. “well. it is worth thinking about at any rate.” suddenly changing the subject, sanderson asked, “what is this you are saying about south america, eh?” tapping his gazette, sir gerald gave sanders a brief précis of the situation in chile, and its effect on the copper market. “the devil you say!” cried sanderson. “the devil! someone should take these rascals in hand - round them up - round them up and hang them all. no nonsense!” “perhaps easier said than done, “ sir gerald replied. “not at all. not at all. just needs a bit of push. a bit of anglo-saxon push, none of your damned gauchos lying about in the shade.” sir gerald did not reply, but neatly folded the gazette and placed it on the table beside him. sanderson, as if exhausted by his outbursts, leaned back in his chair. “damned rotten weather, eh? looks like we are in for some rain.” sir gerald glanced toward the window. “i believe it is already raining.” sanderson followed his gaze. “why, yes, so it is. so it is indeed.”

amanda

by alice marston sternwall amanda was a solemn child - her nurse oft found her wandering barefoot in the fields sad victim of an ancient family curse against which truth and beauty were no shield such times with farm folk would amanda speak and quest them on the symbols in the skies and though her speech was most exceeding meek no comprehension glowed in her pale eyes the nurse, a hawkfaced old frenchwoman stern with little patience and less charity to no avail could make amanda learn that naught was gained by talking to the trees the trees, the rocks, the running streams, the clouds were all recipients of amanda’s words although they never answered her aloud unlike her truest, dearest friends - the birds anon upon a rock the old dame sat and left amanda to her babbling cries the verdant meadow spread its welcome mat a hive of life whose buzzing never dies all unrecorded went amanda’s dreams vanished like dew upon the sun warmed grass like bubbles in the slow meandering streams like sunbeams in the long days as they pass

troubador

i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown i grieve for the glorious days of yore when gallantry ruled the earth for heroic knighthood my heart is sore though i be of humble birth how little joy to walk a land in which poetry never flowers where love must tremble at the priest’s raised hand and mammon cruelly glowers o black-clad men of reason who lay waste to the woods and fields in what untimely season must you set wolves on a poet’s heels? we are on this earth to love and for no other cause no angels line the skies above to enforce your cruel laws i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown

old chums in chicago

i had long suspected cousin mark of murdering grandmother. wishing to get to the bottom of the matter i requested a leave of absence during the christmas holiday and journeyed back to the cedars, an undertaking i found quite lacking in stirring up nostalgic memories. by good fortune cousin mark was away, visiting old chums in chicago. i had a long talk with a gardener who had been in the employ of the estate since the aforementioned unpleasantness, and i prevailed on him to tell his tale. it was as i suspected, and after assuring the fellow that his livelihood would not be compromised i notified the authorities. i am retired now, and live alone at the cedars with only one servant. as i sit by the low fire with a good crackling log during the long chilly nights i often reflect on cousin mark and am drawn to the conclusion that he was guided not by malice, but only by weakness.

arrested

by alabama joe sternwall why are the streets deserted? because a child will slap your face they say i owe the man some rent but i ain’t even got a place have you ever been accused and you ain't done nothing wrong? they arrested me for murder and i can't even sing a song they arrested me for forgery and i can’t even sign my name they arrested me for cheating but i don’t know the rules of the game they arrested me for peeping but i been blind from birth they arrested me for vagrancy but i’m a stranger on this earth they arrested me for stealing sheep but i don’t eat no mutton they arrested me for exposure but i always button my buttons they arrested me for everything since i can’t remember when for preaching without a license but i never confessed no sin they arrested me for rustling but i can’t even herd a cow and for setting a bomb on the railroad track but i swear i don’t know how i never met st peter or paul and the devil is my twin and i washed my hands in a muddy stream but i can’t say rightly when i threw my bottle in the river because the whiskey was all gone and sat beside the waters of egypt with the whore of babylon the road is long and lonely and the night is dark and cold i could go on like this forever but my soul is already sold

bob

once there was a guy named bob his fellow humans thought him a slob even his mama didn't like him much and his brothers and sisters never kept in touch bob would go for long walks at night but was never blinded by a sudden light he was never mugged or accosted by strangers and was curiously immune to danger zombies and werewolves walked the streets but none of them he chanced to meet alien spaceships patrolled the skies but kidnapped other girls and guys he had a television in his little room but viewed it as the voice of doom and preferred, if you please his solitary fantasies sometimes when the weather was hot and his brain as usual was empty of thought or even when the night was cold and nothing in his mind would unfold he would put on his coat and hat open his door and just like that find himself outside in the street without a soul to meet or greet this night was a little different where had everybody went? you’d say, the streets are empty, not really true there’d always be some people, one or two but tonight the streets were really bare there was just nobody there bob thought it was sort of strange and wondered by whom it had been arranged bob had suspected from birth that he would be the last person left on earth the gypsy had told him he was fated and through the centuries he had waited he had watched other people grow old and die but kept his mouth shut, because he was sly and was afraid of how they would regard him if they knew his chances of dying were so slim and now the moment had finally come he thought he heard a distant drum the letters of fate would be unsealed and his destiny was to be revealed raindrops began to fall on his head as onward the street inexorably led he awaited a sign - a light - a token and yet the silence remained unbroken day later dawned in a swirling mist bob was never found nor missed other humans passed by in streams with even sadder and grander dreams

midnight

what can you rip the lid off, when all the lids have been ripped? what do you with the champagne glass, when all the champagne has been sipped? what do you do with the river, when the last sun has set? what do you tell satan, when he comes to collect on his bet? what can you do for an encore, when the last note is played? where will the last raindrop fall, when there are no more parades? what will st george do to pass the time, when the last dragon is slain? who will swallow the last white pill, when there is no more pain? when the last train leaves the station, who will wave goodbye? not the cat asleep in the corner, or the dog with a tear in his eye not the hamster chewing his piece of wood, oblivious to fate or the cockroach crawling desperately across the empty plate when the last man dies, who will dig his grave? when the master ascends to heaven, who will free his slave? not the maid asleep on the mistress’s bed, when the trumpet sounds or the fox running forever, away from heaven’s hounds it’s midnight in st louis, sunrise in algiers the countess discovers her rubies gone, and wipes away a tear the international jewel thief taps his cigarette on his case in the window on the speeding train - just another pretty face

different

different folks lead different lives some live in palaces, some live in hives some live in mansions, some in hovels some in holes that they dig with wooden shovels some only breathe a few minutes, and then die others live a hundred years, and that's no lie some ride through the city on the shoulders of the mob others walk the lonely highway, can't even find a job some men are treated by women real nice they crawl all over them like bedbugs or lice other fellows can't even get kissed and never know what they have missed some women find men handsome and faithful rich, well groomed and properly grateful other poor girls are enslaved by mad beasts who will never let go until they are deceased some folks never learn to read from the wisdom of philosophers they are freed some folks never go to a museum there are some pretty pictures there, but they don’t see’em the world is a deck with a trllion cards that you can’t figure out though you try so hard the chips will fall whether or not you may i don’t have anything more to say

the white dog

by major stafford sternwall last night i had a strange dream, a dream so strange i can hardly begin to describe it. i was walking down a street and then over a bridge and a chap i knew in school passed me by without so much as a glance, and i thought, good heavens, am i going mad - does nobody recognize me, do i no longer exist - and i kept walking across the bridge which seemed to have no end, and i thought, i wish i had had a dog when i as a boy, and then do you know, the strangest thing happened, a big white dog came bounding toward me, the friendliest fellow you ever saw, and i thought, at last, at last i have a true friend, and then i woke up - and i realized i was out of cigarettes. and the tobacconist would not open for another two hours at least. how i wished i could go back to sleep and meet my friend the white dog again. but it was no use. once awake, i can never get back to sleep.

dead man's cliff

some said his name was billy some said his name was biff but they had to pick up the pieces when he drove off dead man's cliff he drove a 57 'vette the coolest car invented yet he came down highway 101 as the sun began to set the boys thought he was a stuckup clown the girls desired him for a mate he drove through town like a conqueror he drove through town like fate the girls rushed out of the soda shoppes and gathered around him like flies and melted like cotton candy candles when they looked into his eyes he said he had been to paris and rome and lived in a mansion in l a his dad was the king of hollywood and his mom was the queen of the may he had wealth to toss like confetti enough money to burn a wet mule he had sat at the feet of wise men but knew there was only one school and that was the school - of love the school of love - and regret for he had had his heart broken by someone he was trying to forget the girls were thrilled with his story they wept to hear his tale they elbowed each other for his attention but his love was not for sale the stars stood still in the heavens as billy made his pick he settled on shirley stevens the others drifted away - heartsick they had to watch as shirley so rich, so blonde, so blasé had the corvette's door opened by billy and watch as they sped away of all the girls who were shattered peggy smith took it the worst when the race for billy's heart began she was sure she would come in first she slunk home to the little cabin where she lived with her drunken dad she had never been so late before this time he was really mad he told her she was a harlot who had blackened his good name and she would have to hit the highway when the next daybreak came peggy lay in the darkness hoping that she would die when she heard a tap on the window in the sweet bye and bye there was no time for romantic words there was no time for palaver it was peggy's desperate prayer come true - it was billy come to save her! his blue eyes blazed in the darkness his spine it stood up stiff "i have come to save you, my darling but my name isn't billy - it's biff there is no time to explain my deception you will have to trust me, i fear but wait for me in the moonlight i will be back for you, my dear but first i have to clear my name there is one thing i have to do just wait for me, my darling, and to you i will be true" he vanished into the darkness lit by a single star a star like peggy's wildest dream so near, and yet so far the f b i was on biff's trail for a bank job up in spokane so far he had eluded them in the night and wind and rain peggy waited by the window until the sunset glowed her teardrops fell like silver jewels alas, biff never showed no one ever knew for sure if his name was billy or biff they had to pick up the pieces when he drove off dead man's cliff