Ode to Winter Solstice
by Kathryn R. Rieber
I.
Come do artists of neighborhoods near and far! Friends of the open door; One of one, Uranian Phalanstery. Elijah walks in with Eve on his arm. Breeze blocks on backs blow in. Solstice Saturdays and Sundays of seasons past.
It is raining, the rain of my childhood. I hear the call, voice of death and life resounding.
II.
Lengthen longitude, an attitude of night to hone. Mourn musk, benevolent glow. Radiance exude satori. Pale moon lays eye on Sugar Hill, heritage site of rapper’s delight. Trickle tap slow move sap; Jaunt down step of stoop, fall to garden level. Tantric engravements of Tibetan tattoo intricacies, emblazoned sandstone. Ash inked on calve and horse forehead and wooden pig’s tail flips up toward the sky. Sundial speak. Shortest day go toward light again.
III.
Clary hums in the air long enough to make the man in the corner dressed in all white and wearing a Santa hat sneeze emphatically. Egyptian hashish permeates deeper subconsciouses of the nice mice and mean ones too, who roam the castle of occult and belief.
Freaks of the night! Freaks of the night! You, who fly around holy, multi faith lyceum temple of pagan druids and devotees. Agents of chaos and writing assassins, vetted upon a once far off, east fourth street, between avenues b and c. Art bunker of the psychic human reverie; Pure Art consciousness, the schizophrenic bomb. The now proprietor and steward of said establishment: a man of silver hair, who would rather remain hidden. Harbor he does, up and down the ancient river of archive, aubergine velveteen molasses river run, upon which he does sit and steward.
There is a hibiscus rumination going on. Wine goes around the room and my problem is solved. This is a mind which walked through a door of perception, the one of the heart. Hoisted up, on pulley systems who whirr, whine, devised to find another way round, by way of spoken word and poetic musing. Write to reach. A staff of mugwort extends itself, exalted, burns, erect, an effigy. Renewal prune upon cream tiled counter top for all to watch, like a shake down or strip tease.
IV.
Who wants rooibos? Hot water on time for tea. Girls get your cups and bring them to me! It is tea time and time for that post performance martini and yule tide log to heat, and expect a little bite of back draft; Just to smoke out the swines who can’t decide whether to sit or stand, say yes or no. Those goers who got too head high on the hashish to do any good, and then so in conclusion must be done with forever.
But don’t kick him out! Cries the man in the corner to the man kicking the other man out on his boney keister; An advocate of un welcomed wild in a forgiving atmosphere.
Leave the ones who got too gut drunk to get lost or get home to me. Good riddance to who’s who, goddamnit, social courtesies be damned, uncovered. Yet you’re not pretty enough to be talking like that, sweet dolly face. Better check your conduct before the night really gets itself off.
Marathon of night, of artists born back to back. Born against walls to walls. Born to lost boys and girls. Raised in kitchens like this one, if there was a kitchen at all.
V.
Couldn’t sleep that night so I sat up tapping as the soup was zouping. Drank absinthe from bottles numbered and labeled with two and five, then knocked out on a sofa of velvet and turpentine. Glass bottles go clack, like molasses her jaw went slack. Drool is the rule, is the word. These are just my words, cursive outlines on the road of diasporadic histories. Walk warmth of the hearth all the way back home to the grave.
No stopping this beat or sound freak. Spun out like a broken train with broken brakes, apres hashish. Can’t help me, so come what may. I lay on the floor of the library. I move to the fire and stare at the flame. Soon, you’ll feel much better, a face hidden, whispers. And soon I did.
Kathryn R. Rieber is a born and raised New Yorker writing prose, poetry, and contributing monthly to The Village Star Revue. Rieber covers the off-off-Broadway beat below 28th Street and can be found mulling about MacDougal on idle evenings such as these, indiscriminately scribbling at round little tables, thinking round little thoughts.
Photo credit: Medhi Matin
The Gotham Guillotine 
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