BLUE LIGHTNING
Hobo, sprawled among November reeds,
cattails. His scattered bones
ache on jagged edges.
A chill is in the sky. Light feeds
the icing-over swamp, the acid-
green vomit (absinthe
effigy of spring). A plinth
of plastic raft supports his dream-kid,
Henry Hawkeye – duffed. In mummer’s rags
of scruffy black, to match
his sullen rage (a match
is all it takes). Here comes Antigone’s
antagonist... here comes Creon, Jason...
Here comes Le Grand K
himself, all brassy
mass and armored mirror – one
half bull, the other carny barker
in a cream straw hat.
Just look at that!
He laughs, he sneers, he boasts, he barks
surrounded by his bulky thugs,
stiletto-dames –
No Shame in Crimes
his badge declares (pinned with slugs
to his forehead). The plastic raft
quivers to his stomp.
This is gonna be a romp,
he crows, & circles Henry, fore
*
& aft. Wispy, cloudy, quiet Henry’s
cornered. By the water.
No weapon (though an otter
peeks up near the scrim). He’s
holding only a tiny pocket mirror,
which he flecks upward
toward the pale sun. Hard
to say what will come next. Your
ghost dance, Hobo, flickers photons
like Planck’s constant
from an old field tent –
where photos of Kennedy, Abe Lincoln,
Martin Luther King hang, haunted (black
& white). The King
is dead, long live the King,
Ave Maria, Henry whispers back.
& suddenly a mass of flame pours out
like pale blue lightning
from a Chartres ceiling
down upon a maze, blazing partout
across the center of the raft. Truth
is our Law, O shallow
prince – our commonweal.
She rules, & will spring forth
again – like that torch-bearing Liberty
all clothed in copper green
welcoming everyone...
So Hobo saw. The raft was empty.
11.27.18
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