An extended mobile of galaxies.
A prided installation. The dark, invisible
matter of a riot in L.A. Three thousand
buildings ripple out flame in the
city of Lost Angels. And then an open sky,
a banquet of beads after fire hoses
roll out the light on any upright
surface. Hollywood Hills are alive with
the sound of security locks. The CNN
anchor-team is too well dressed for
the maddening flames, in the sear, ongoing
segment of a news flash. In the break,
gathered the rain as pure as static,
unseen, but imagined whitely and curfew-wide.
Along the crippled streets in the blood
blare of sirens, night arrived under
the guise of the National Guard.
Heat rises from the grid of these sidewalks
and the spirits of the Indian, afraid
enough of death to die, whoop it
up around the big campfires. I wake,
uncomfortable in the lurk of a dream, and
my breath draws up hope like an
anchor, lifts my thoughts into the day where
I follow. Let us go (you & I) into
the glow, hand in hand with Virtual Reality
and idly make up war-games. Let us pray
that a supreme silence will be down-loaded
at last. Moonrise, and a luminant coal
sifts through the western grate of the world.
In cornfields elsewhere, so remembered
though not so high as an elephants eye,
images pressed round as a hotplate
suggest some mystery or midnight vigil;
this is what we wish, to stamp threat onto
the inexplicable, seeking out totems
and to hold the dance of the primitive sacred:
this city, too, let it stand as Icon.