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Where is Vincent Price when you need him?


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


The ghost of Muhammad Ali lingers
beside images of James Dean as Hamlet
directed by Joseph Losey.
SCENE I. West Virginia.
A truckstop before Devils Fork.

You may write the rest....

I guess there's no such thing
as the sun and moon
or narcissism posing as selflessness
or arrogance mistaken for confidence
or butterflies signalling hurricanes
or the embyro of an atom.
I guess there's no such thing

as puddles of urine illumined by streetlights
or noses overwhelmed by perfumes
or silence struck by cicadas
or the whisperings of temptresses
or the fact when you open a window
a breeze will follow.

Where is Vincent Price when you need him?
Tomorrow's double-crosses,
yesterday's fidelities
will sweep across (like the Red Death)
wastelands of the masculine,
until vagabonds and lepers
(plotting their revenge)
seek amnesty, bide their time,

space to throw some punches.
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