Counterfeit Destinies Poem by Benjamin Roque

The cremation was premature,
Bischoff admits when apart from the parade
that rounds the corner of another Sunday—
Cuts urban air into diamonds.
Pendulous cufflinks like nickels wink at his back,
made visible as if by electrocution.
The advance, an underwater sprint,
mocks even a banquet of opiates;
Its inevitable rush
toward absence bookends life—
A domestic slur on anonymity.

Madness in his voice, Bischoff stalks
arbitrary sidewalks, sex worn floors—
The city devours naked language
with unhinged jaw—
Spits a cloud of dust, once teeth
from a mouth painted by Schiele.
From wine soaked hyena laughter,
honesty withers until morning's occupants
emerge, hands knitted beneath a roofless skull—
A bivouac for rats, restless for the next dwelling,
one replica after another.

The faces of a doll rush past,
sealed in train window glass, lips stitched on
to negotiate each variant. They remember
the wrong Bischoff—He paces between minutes
that counterfeit destinies. Room shrinks,
demonstrates claustrophobic dusk,
whose iron-pressed city stages rallies
for a comatose patient. Nobody participates
within the white sheet of the patient's dream:

Upon which, a monument to Bischoff crumbles.