The End of Civilization Celebrated at The Old Cho Cinema

 The End of Civilization Celebrated at The Old Cho Cinema

I wander at night

hearing my shoe clicking 

against cracked sidewalks, 

with your sweaty hand

tight in mine,

following what’s-his-name,

your cousin’s brother’s friend,

through that maze of

broken streets

because we said we wanted

entertainment

“like it used to be”,

before this empire fell..

He led us to that bar,

where a suicidal crowd,

packed in, screaming, laughing

and drunk, smoked fish 

gasping for breath, 

while the old music 

competed with

excited loud noises,

the only light, blue

neon, surrounding a mirror

that reflected empty bottles

and broken glasses

behind the bar.

With the revelers 

heads popping above

one another in a vague

irrythmic dance,

two steps through

a swinging door

and our guide 

disappeared, melted in

that smokey air

in his anticipation 

to share this disease

at the end of civilization;

but you and I, we wanted

to sit holding hands

at old Cho Cinema,

with it’s burnt out lights,

and broken seats, so

as we ran through the fog

and sticky mist, you begged 

me for details so I pointed 

at remembered landmarks

from my previous life.

Before all those thoughts, 

we still stood on broken

pavements staring 

and pointing at a new life,

sprouting in some crack,

while breathless, and damp,

for a moment we stared 

at that broken sign

above a blank marquee

three letters tilting skyward,

like lost optimism, 

toward gray sky,

colorless, a silhouette 

of what was lost, CHO.

You pulled me inside

the lobby, across

worn carpet through

scattered broken glass

crackling like popcorn.

You stood pointing 

and staring at 

ruined displays of 

black and white photos

of my past triumphs

with forgotten friends 

and collegues, each

of our poses selling

lost hope.

Inside the auditorium,

lit by a single bulb,

we found stacks of film,

burnt but exciting to recall 

lines and scenes.

Then we wrestled on 

stained red carpet,

or tried gymnastics,

with you laughing,

balanced on my arms,

shaking with effort,

over my head, eyes behind 

your glasses (firmly in place),

smiling into mine, your

damp black hair brushing

my face as you swayed 

above me, and then

you fell against me,

warm as summer.

It is strange to recall

after my disease took you,

that you had never told me

any of your story.