Blackout
9.24.06

I want to flick with ingrained indelicacy
the switch that promises
to reveal all in a lemony wash
but I know I’ll receive
the same diffused gray stare,
confirming the storm.

Not much to do
in this first third-world
but find the candles
that breathe more past than warmth.

Wonder where the whales have gone,
to deny you your greased lightening.

And we thought these musky, primal moments
rife with natural selection and warring face paint
were converted to starched collars and obsequious denial.

The refulgent desk-sun returns
and banishes this point,
so sure in the shadows,
to vaguely caliginous hinterlands...