Death of a Friendship

The mind is a forgotten teatro of shattered glass. The shards are
Beckett's telescope mirrors littering the carpet circa 1985.
I see a Coney Island of Perception. We believe what we want,
use perfect means to commute to broken endings. Do you think so, mon frere?
You pilot your Theater vehicle and a twenty-five year old Saab
before an audience of believers, most notably, the naive graduate student who loves
a nice shabby-chic. Everyday is Halloween behind the Aristotelian mask.
You can fool most of the people by shouting, "Ionesco,"
which is Absurd, but Shakespeare dressed up
as Beatnik is still Elizabethan. Oh, well.
If I say, I love you, in mellifluous Latin Mephistopheles, is it so?
They'd rather hear a honey-suckle 'chinga te' than taste the honest rancor of Veritas.
Ah, the magic of Theater, how it blinds.
To fool and be fooled. How sweet it is. We navigate by sleight of hand.
We watch reality disappear in the rear view mirror.
By the way, your Saab's back in the shop. You'd never be caught in an Escalade,
but I'll sit on the back of Sancho's Jennet
straight to the great beyond. We are Clowns serving Fools
masquerading as Kings. Knowing the ride can't last forever,
I might as well walk to the heath alone.
The show will go on
with or without us, you, Artist, you.
Once, we were friends.
Once, it was dazzling.
I miss you, friend.
Abracadabra.
I've turned magician
just so I can disappear
from this kitchen-sink
matinee.