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.