He’s not her type
because tonight is just
a different kind of night.
The placement of the planets
like a spiral spinning outward
from the crown jewel just
above where our old moon
spins so much slower in comparison.
It splits apart into the angels
they describe in every bible
in the real sense not that Renaissance
depiction where the harshness
of their form is stripped away.
They string their instruments
and slowly start to play this kind
of bass line that erupts like it can
echo off of nothing if it has to.
The firework and fuse are both disposable,
consuming energy like bright searchlights
fold the darkness back to track
whatever object in the air.
We build computers into the stairs
and by the pace you take it measures
how your heart works under pressure.
Putting things out of their misery
is the past time of the powerful,
but that is nothing when you realize
how much mercy can extinguish
for so little.
A crowd is cheering on a fight outside
a dollar store in every other town like it was
organized in sight with some intention.
No one called help for the losers
with their bleeding foreheads flush against
the sidewalk, and their black eyes
swelling larger until the pitch dark pain
would overtake sun.
The old faces in the complex
share their warnings, but refuse
to ever budge on innovation.
The birds canabalize each other,
in the air, overtop the motel
by the dying road so shattered
by the constant new additions
from the off ramp. The roads
from here on out we’re made of diners
supporting trucks that never stopped
except for coffee or to sleep in desperation.
Two gas stations nearby were in
a bidding war for lowest price
and the traffic shifted right
with every keystroke.
The monumental storm eye sees the outside
of the pure annihilation,
but the greater scene is lost because
it’s covered up by distance
and the shine that fractures
out from from where it’s clear.