Some day the warblers will come and the birders
will wander through the undergrowth,
run across the ticket booth covered in briars,
the rusty saplings of the speaker posts.
Somewhere in the thickets they will find
the popcorn stand, where they once
bought a two buck bucket big enough
to last a double feature of Godzilla/Mothra.
They can still sing the shobijin chant,
remember Godzilla’s atomic breath
become a mushroom cloud in the
projector winds— leaving fall out
on the kids munching fried chicken
on the brown roof of a Rambler.
They can recall all the ‘Vettes, GTO’s,
GTX’s, Road Runners, Torinos, Firebirds
exposed in the projection field, all the
bouncing of metal up and down, the
sweet wrestlings of this breeding ground,
born from a passion thin as film.
There is a whistle and a yellow throat
springs to a branch beyond the Kudzu.
Their aged hands grope for the camera,
fumble for the correct f-stop. There
is a click, a yellow flash just as the branch
sways, bounces up beyond the frame,
leaving them with nothing but the memory
of flight, a mourning for the lost picture,
the vanishing flame, the death of cinema.
The Death of Cinema
One response to “The Death of Cinema”
Fabulously depicted. I remember it allLoading…