TO TERRY The happy times spent talking in cafés, staying up all night and walking the blocks of the old neighbourhood until the sunrays ruined it all like workaholic clocks. Exotic films marveled at until dawn and late late show movies caught on TV, by turns dead-serious in conversation, then in tears laughing uproariously. Surrealism, slapstick and nonsense and gossip about an inhospitable wife: all grist to us except current events— we desired only the romantic life. The irritation of get-rich-quick schemes; procrastination of infinite dreams. NEGLIGENCE How long had it been— well, they couldn’t find the grave— eloquent enough ******* Over time you can’t find the birthplace; the hospital is bankrupt; the first house unvisited; one play finishes its run: another on the marquee; no flowers on the grave through many seasons THE PUGILIST Each fight is distinctive and, once won, the impetus is gone. Who can remember— so long ago torn— the struggle to be born? The next is with family who blindly neglect the individual respect. Then follows the world: to play that game, to survive and keep your name. Always with the self, faith, purpose, doubt, moving from inside-out. The last is with sheer mystery: the unknown destination reached through resignation. Forms of fights subsumed utterly by their fires. And so, the fighter retires.
David Francis has produced seven music albums, Always/Far: a chapbook of lyrics and drawings, and Poems from Argentina (Kelsay Books). He has written and directed the films, Village Folksinger
(2013) and Memory Journey (2018). He lives in New York City.
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