the unremarkable

in solitude

here

with everything

and nothing

beneath a brilliant sun

my breath the sound of silence

this I

alive

adrift upon the unremarkable

a yellow handkerchief

a bowl of gathered seashells

my uncle’s worn suitcase over there against the wall

within it everything that of his life remains:

three copper coins, some faded photographs

his army discharge papers

a family history

his mom’s obituary

a bookmark inscribed with the lord’s prayer

this of him

this of me

in this solitude

here with everything

and nothing

is what we come to

adrift forever

upon the great unremarkable

The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll

Bob Dylan
The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlw_qzefEaA

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first-degree murder
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears.

William Zanzinger who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering and his tongue it was snarling
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears.

Hattie Carroll was a maid in the kitchen
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger
And you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears
Take the rag away from your face
Now ain't the time for your tears.

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught 'em
And that ladder of law has no top and no bottom
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way witout warnin'
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fearsv
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the time for your tears.

Lens Dawson

Lens Dawson decided it was time to get down to business. He put on his imitation Persols and strolled out of Whitman’s Dream, the bookshop where he'd worked like a dog for nearly seven years. He said nothing to his fellow sales associates; in fact, not one of them saw Lens leave. When information about his disappearance was tallied later that day, there was precious little to speak of. Janet Daly had seen him arrive at 8:30 wearing his moth-eaten wool cardigan. Tim Cabluie remembered that Lens had arrived with coffee and a muffin in a bag from Leo's Pastries up the street. Mark Ruby, owner of Dream, thought he'd heard Lens mumble something about John Irving's cat, but as far as he knew it might have been more like where's that new book of John Irving's at? Dick Dicklin, a customer who browsed for hours and never bought a thing, thought he’d seen Lens in Banana Republic around lunch time, but all who knew Lens thought that unlikely. Lens was a notorious habitué of thrift shops and yard sales; he wouldn’t be seen dead in Gavin straight fit chinos, and besides, he didn’t make enough money at Dream to shop at Republica Bananal.  

Appropriately, the disappearance of Lens Dawson was a much discussed mystery all afternoon, but by closing time salesfolk and customers who knew Lens Dawson by name agreed that the young man had always been a bit eccentric, that he'd often demonstrated mildly queer behavior (like the time he hid Maurice Modicum's aluminum walking stick on a low shelf between Religion and Anthropology), and that he'd no doubt return the following morning offering a less than plausible excuse at which all would momentarily roll their eyes and then get dutifully back to bidness. Lens worked hard, but there was nothing special about him as a sales associate, nothing really memorable about his personality. And, in fact, no one mentioned Lens again that day, or ever, although Mark made a note on Lens' time card that he'd left work around 11:00 without asking permission. Then he wrote: "AWOL. No pay for the day." with a bright red grease stick. So much for Lens Dawson. 

(To be continued...)