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.”

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