In the dark of the theater, there are more fuck yous
than hallelujahs. I came in from the heat to escape
the essential questions — to leave my body and climb into
the white hot cocoon of an atom bomb. I want the thick, kick-drum
of a sonic boom to shift my guts from left to right and all the potential
murderers to shine, briefly, like a matchstick flicked from a book.
I know outside, the sun steams the sodas left in the cars
into a sticky tar, and above, the helicopters shred the air
into chronic whats, keeping time with their traffic watch,
but here, there’s AC, a plot, and the genius of
metaphysics as simple as a shotgun. Here, the cool
scribble of a fan and the tacky floor and the audio
constellating above the heads of the other movie goers,
loving us like no other machine could.
I hear the old people talking in the dark with their cares,
large and anonymous. Cue the music.
Every body aware of the image coming to the screen.
Cue the credits and our seven dollar hope
for the destruction of the world. Cue the density
of our bodies in the seats. Our claustrophobic hearts.
Our throats. Hold us, dear oblivion.