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The Absolute Goes Round In Circles


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


Sometimes the concrete is mistaken for the abstract
(and vice versa) all those late night movies
(usually the black and white ones) left their mark as we
simulated death, the joy of being still.

If I concerned myself with absolutes
I wouldn't be able to tell if the roof collapsed
or the windows shattered,
wouldn't be able to tell blood on the brain.  Right now

it's as if my limbs are artificial
and I can't sit down and I can't stand up.
But please, be my cabaret girl, long enough to
get back my self esteem, long enough to

know this is less than a dream.  You are the
antithesis of moon and sun, a martyr
for not being a martyr, more than just

inspiration at the edge of smoke and mirrors,
more than the loves of Jekylls or Hydes
or Bette Davis descending stairs
or Lauren Bacall lighting a cigarette
or Katharine Hepburn laughing
through reflections of a cocktail glass.
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