THE PARTY
He was dancing with a beautiful woman。
He had no idea what time it was； how long he had spent in the Colorado Lounge
or how long he had been here in the ballroom。 Time had ceased to matter。
He had vague memories： listening to a man who had once been a successful radio
ic and then a variety star in TV； infant days telling a very long and very
hilarious joke about incest between Siamese twins； seeing the woman in the harem
pants and the sequined bra do a slow and sinuous striptease to some bumping…and…
grinding music from the jukebox （it seemed it had been David Rose's theme music
from The Stripper）； crossing the lobby as one of three； the other two men in
evening dress that predated the twenties； all of them singing about the stiff
patch on Rosie O'Grady's knickers。 He seemed to remember looking out the big
double doors and seeing Japanese lanterns strung in graceful； curving arcs that
followed the sweep of the driveway — they gleamed in soft pastel colors like
dusky jewels。 The big glass globe on the porch ceiling was on； and night…insects
bumped and flittered against it； and a part of him； perhaps the last tiny spark
of sobriety； tried to tell him that it was 6 A。M。 on a morning in December。 But
time had been canceled。
（The arguments against insanity fall through with a soft shurring sound/layer
on layer 。。。）
Who was that？ Some poet he had read as an undergraduate？ Some undergraduate
poet who was now selling washers in Wausau or insurance in Indianapolis？ Perhaps
an original thought？ Didn't matter。
（The night is dark/ the stars are high/ a disembodied custard pie/ is floating
in the sky 。。。）