Isolate I,
becalmed in an elevator,
dangling in peace and trepidation
above a gentle netherworld,
the nether-basement below me,
immune to up and down but yo-
yo-ing now dreamwise sideways,
timeward, fated against
an evening of literate companionship,
of wit, and one, two or,
well,
maybe just one more—
No, scotch, rocks,
a little water,
not so much . . .
Desires jugged in an elevator between the sanctity of and the professional
word-hoard where I had planned carefully not to get off.
My righteous thirst for the unsullied Plaza Hotel—
blessed years before the thumping and harrumphing and grumphing,
years hungry now for-all-and-nothing, fuming , fumbling, fee-fie-foe-fumming,
trumpety-trum-trum-Trumpeting.
Trumpetless of fanfare in the days of peace and the light blanket of darkness
birthed and blessed by no more than
a gentle ephemeral blackout that threatened then no more than a silly moment
of fortunate eternity—
in the days before the newest exile of the Black, of Brown, of Women, of Poor,
of Sane, of Educated, of etc, etc, etc.
all the many faceless etceteras,
the et alii,
the you and the me and each anonymous pronoun.
Our ninety-nine per cent dreary off-the-rack otherness—
All, All!
“Out!”
In the time-free elevator is peace still,
gliding nohow in gentle protection,
locked free in a concrete empyrean.
Of a fairy tower,
all time jugged together now, while . . .
Outside? . . .
O, our delirious endtime
* No. No, not those DTs, the elected and
its minions. Pretty much the same, though.