Ponderous Days

PONDEROUS DAYS Here in Ciudad Juarez ponderous days… wondering at my waning vision the magic’s departed as I grope for a description even if not poetic what words for this- the ebb of a life none are adequate and so, 45 years are reduced to, tired phrases passé meager metaphors clichés that carry no punch. And I think of Bukowski his grit raw- a grungy glimpse permeating pores even- or a country song some outlaw ballad lamenting loss though twanged pure or of Lady Day bemoaning a bitter love-tragic her voice a sob-no honeyed sweetness just echoes of the needle’s hypnotic numbing. And the expression- “dancing on the razor’s edge” seems appropriate almost, but no, mere empty words images blasé for paper and ink won’t flesh out the stench of the poor broken plumbing the putrid yellow film of stale beans clinging to walls in need of paint of persistent diarrhea and hollow eyes staring back from a cracked mirror reflections of perdition pallid face grime everywhere dazed vigor sucked out by that vampire poverty friendless sick wanting, waiting vitality dimming, dimmed desperate damned?