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Date: Tue, 10 May 2005 12:00AM PDT)
From: Send an Instant Message "John French" <mosshead7@yahoo.com>
Subject: Twilight of the Idols
To: robin&company@cnn.com

Twilight of the Idols


In the basement

w/ full sun scattered

-coming in from spring-

Manipulating its way

thru the thickly heavy

Pitt-Corning glass block

- He walked away in thought.


“Playing the basement blues

at a premium price?”

He suggested.


A pause. Then the reply,

“I know. My fingers felt

like gentle rain, like

fragments of sun light,

moonlight – where those

white cap breakers roll

And, yet heavy with sound

and vibration like a hot knife

Cutting through a stick of butter.”


Another delicate pause

in mute nostril agony

and then he goes on,


“I must stay away. I know.

I have to be grounded.

I have to be careful.

I must. I am.”


“Ha!” He laughed in retort,

“You’re weak. You’re so weak.

You’re afraid – that’s all!

Afraid of going all the way.

Letting go – letting go

of all the weight that

holds your body down to

the ground – down, down.

And, still, you even want to let go.

You desire the fame, the fortune,

the adornment and all the fun

copulation from enthusiastic women.

It’s simple - They may not know

what or who they are in life

but they know they want you in it

However fleeing it may be

they want you for a spin and

sometimes don’t even try to hang on;

the cling & clang of beer bottles,

wind chimes sounding off in the night.”


He continues with a devilish grin,


“Your collar raised – your black

sun glasses, thick frames w/ UV

protection & faded Levis like skin.

It’s unique, not common how

you notice and change on a dime

when autumn afternoon sun light

catches your fancy in the black

polished chrome from a passing car.

And, in an instant, - you’re

right back from where you came


- You’re back in liquid night

with a heavenly solution in mind.

Those natural white teeth and

that little gap between the pearly

front ones when you smile –

pronouncing your full red lips.

Oh, you know they love you.

It’s all so easy. So, so easy.

Relax. It’s all so, so easy.”


He was getting in.


He didn’t like it.

A retort was stirring and then erupted,


“It’s as if you’re hissing in my

ear like you’re some fat bellied serpent.

I know it’s easy! That’s the problem.

I feel so fucking guilty the way it’s here.

The way it is with me – comes to me.

The way I see things, feel and say.

to boot, it’s so shitty – when I try and

talk about it I sound whiny – so whiny.”


He catches himself going to the void –

some place of self righteous pity and

over analysis as a fault – almost as a neurosis -

depression as a stagnant pond w/ smelly algae.

He recovers out of habit – out of necessity –

The will to power – to live and keep on.


He starts up again, lifting his gifted head

And staring into the eyes of his tormentor –

The eyes of his black marauder wanting death –

In tune with this, he acts – convinces himself

that he will do it his way – on his own terms,

at the pace he wishes – in accordance with

internal beats – a steady rocking tempo –

building slowly, steadily unfolding and

with great intent able to sharply come back.

He begins to grin & calmly speaks in the mirror.


“I’m doing the best I can. I’m doing. I am.

I’m navigating myself true to my spirit –

Respectful, grateful and patient and, moreover –

I am. I am many things – many different things.

Always true to myself, my nature -  True

to my gifts. I am.  And, justly so, I can be

no-thing too. I can be no-thing within everything.

Because I am. I am. Because I am. I am.

Twilight of the idols.


May 9, 2005



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Poetry  By John Alan Conte`, Jr.
Copyright 2005
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