by Mark Tully

Lawrence I’m waiting for the final word at a table outside Trieste over complimentary after-hours wine, arguing among poor comrades about the new Situationist corner in City Lights’ basement, placed by the heart of my Illinois runaway boy-philosopher.
It’s the first year of a new Gregorian century Lawrence I’m reciting DiPrima requiems under my breath waiting for him to lankily click up Grant in my wingtips with his train-tarred socks to join us, our disagreements tonight then standing for three generations fighting nihilism and further retreat.
I don’t even know you’re still alive and we sip red grape trying to resurrect you Lawrence, waiting for our stubborn impermanence to tap a quakenik that will rip the beat from under this abandonment and hurl it wet up into the face chakra of a perhaps ever-flaking town.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mark Tully is a writer, community organizer, and Playback Theatre practitioner living outside Providence, Rhode Island.

IMAGE: “Self-Portrait with Bottle of Wine” by Edvard Munch (1906).