11-30 Black Out

Black Out


The bolt volts into a transformer        ex-

plods   the top vents blackest smoke

through fried wires across the street at dusk. Winds now

miles Eastward. Power dead wet weight soaking

faint drizzle. Room dimming. I stare at Kubrick’s

monolith suspending on its long edge

in living room pitch. Framed

in this dark shape four figures reach pinnacle

the night sky stippled with stars mute moon owls hoot


One remains awake

gazing sighing smiling at the Pleiades sniffing desert breath

his face bursting nova bright, dimming his shimmering robe

sheening the three sleeping men. This luminous one

speaks with two others until the three jolt awake,

shielding flash-struck eyes until

living room lights blare           the plasma slab glowing into a

Cosmos episode:       the universe birthing igniting from the screen.


The iridescent one

holding the spark.