twilight of the idols     9-1-81


a stranger with a pair 
of well dusted shoes 
and a worn face 
flanking both sides
Of a wry smile
wandered into this piedmont
town today
sometime just before dusk 
which was fortunate 
because
it gave him a chance to size 
up his prospects while there was 
still daylight left

and gave the good denizens 
of this dot on the map 
with its general stores 
and baptist church 
an equally good chance 
to size him up
and draw their own conclusions.

and a cop with an emblem flag 
sewn on the right arm 
of his uniform 
wandered up to him 
while he sat over a cup of 
cooling coffee 
and fires the first salvo 
before the man with the knapsack 
and a skein of dust on his shoes 
had much of a chance to become 
too familiar with anything, 
to entertain much of a solid notion 
of what to do or think.

he said
between the pained look 
pouring out of a set 
of large white clenched teeth: 
"what's your business here, boy? 
and how long are 
you planning on staying? 
you know anyone here?"

and the man looked up 
equally pained in his expression 
and crumpled a dollar bill 
in one hand
and pawing the coffee cup
with the other said:
"call me Zarathustra. 
i am from the other land 
within this land, 
the one which exists parallel 
to this land
but never coincides with it 
and
as for business, 
i have none in the sense 
that you mean.

i am an observer of all 
around me/ 
i observe/
exchange ideas/ 
i reflect upon what and who 
I see.
then i leave 
to wander to the next destination 
with greater knowledge than 
when i came.

nothing more/ 
nothing less.

i am an observer of the human 
condition of which you 
are a part.

nothing more/ 
nothing less."

and
the cop worked 
a crescent motion 
around his forehead 
and grimaced again, 
as if he were impacted 
by a feathered plume held by 
the hand of the devil 
and said
"you've got one hour to get 
yourself together and shove off. 
don't bother anyone here/ 
we're all good Christians, 
and we always were.

you've got no business here/ 
not with any of us/ 
and if you don't go 
there's jail for you. 
now get yourself together 
and take your thinking 
too

remember -
one hour from now.

get out."

and the man called 
Zarathustra took a last sip 
and erected himself slowly 
secured his bag 
and moved toward the door 
past a woman with a cross 
dangling from her neck 
and a blank stare 
flanked by stringy hair

and looking deeply into her guilt 
he turned away 
saying to himself:
"crossroads towns breed the obscure
and compound their own ignorance."

perhaps its ironic that 
the last glimmer of twilight 
locked this thought into place 
for now
and for the remaining generations 
that man shall barricade 
himself for fear of the 
unknown.