All this ambience
is too much,
just too much noise;
I should shut off my hearing aid.
To me
they are allergens;
With these people what I need
is an antihistamine.
Light flashes:
Galaxies of sunlight.
One drink more
and I am done for.
Rocks we are; wanderers,
who are solitary creatures
in Brownian motion:
Quest for a firmament.
What is limbo?
It is irregular irregularity,
a panicky stock market,
a heart in fibrillation.
They all look happy,
fluttery birds:
unaware of the cages in which they flounder,
that imprison them.
Will it do any good
to open the gates?
They, like maenads, I an Orpheus:
They will dismember me.
Oh, it may be better
to float, headless,
in an Aegean
of calm, irrevocable silence.
There, perhaps, is a cure to consider:
Absence as an answer.
Lone bird in the sky, flying.
To be at one with the sunlight.
Or is it groupthink I am lacking?
An honest to goodness welcome?
A kind of quantum entanglement?
Total oblivion? Or just another cocktail?
Writes Lieberman: “Now retired as a physician, basking in the sunlight of Princeton, I spend my free moments plucking words from our ever-stimulating environment, playing the games I dreamed of when I was younger.”
