by Samuel Derrick Rosen

Amen, no more nothingness now, finally the hilarity
of a band of abecedarians getting drunk on whiskey and beer.
We've been in this place since 11 am,
now its December in January

On the toilet cubicle wall are words such as Sorry and Mother,
someone who has just developed a conscience
prays over urinal cakes,
some unfortunate (who looks like Peter Falk in Columbo)
cradles his superego like a woman cradling a dead dog.

Chimeras of pain enter pupils, and every time they exit
leave negatives of themselves behind.
Some of us call for blankness, undream our dream of seeing
until lingers a blindness that binds, the image of impermanence
extinguishing impermanence.
In immortal drifts of magenta the nonchalant widow sits
wondering who else knows what honorable was.
Everything present in this twilight absentia, this almost organic
fusion of estrangement.  The movement of mirrors hemming us in,

repressing the stillness of the shadows we make our toasts.
Absence has its fullness, presence has its void,
there are nights utterly stripped of sound, this is not one of them,
nor does it belong to Edgar Allen Poe, it belongs to no one,
not even to those with a penchant for purgatory.

Would the pulse of inanimate objects dare insult our movements?
Of course it would, it long has done so, it will continue to do so.
None of us here are from a Botticelli painting,
but most of us here are well dressed in this sphere that clings
to its evasion, where insincerities drip sincerities.
Communions of aloneness surround us and we notice

that we do not notice, and in that noticing unknowingly shed company.
Improper times
the masonic clock on the masonic wall discloses,
the ladies and their men make entrances,
present amalgams of artificial roses.
In the throes of apodyopsis I order one last drink,

immerse in the meridian of a Punchinello chorus,
or some passing faith in something that makes still its broken promise.
Polychromatic wheels of pregnant winter nights
coil around the passions of ten penny laughing clowns.
The Christmas lights beckon us to some place that never existed.

Time to indulge in a dose of Strikhedonia!