I saw the best writers
of my generation destroyed by
ball point pens, writing in broken cursive,
dragging themselves through stationary stores isles
looking for a cheap Bic,
starry-eyed calligraphers burning for the ancient bottles
of ink lost to the hollow whims of pencil pushers,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed sat
up dreaming in the supernatural catalogues of
no-name brands and perfect nibs floating across paper,
contemplating great thoughts,
who bared their brains in pre-meeting meetings near the El and
saw Mohammedan letters flow out from their nibs....
Moloch!
I'm with you at Pelikan,
where nibs are ground,
I'm with you at Stipula
where feeds are perfected,
I'm with you at Waterman
where brass is polished,
I'm with you in Rockland,
where we wake up electrified by FedEx man's latest delivery
I'm with you in Rockland
in my dreams where ink is always perfect and limited editions
are never out
of stock
in the stores across America and is delivered to the door
of my cottage
in the fading light
|
