Posted on 28 October 2009

It is the blackout of 2008.

News radio gives it a title so
It is the blackout of 2008.

A hurricane inflates without the rain.
Late Ike, his lurking winds, is lying low
Among the Mason stalks. He goes aloft
To pitch the tarped-pool deck of 4th and Plum.
A tree obstructs the crest of Eden’s hill.

It isn’t snapped in half. It’s just a great
Quarter, steadfast, stead-stuck, and, in the street’s
Three-fourths, its fragments figure into mulch.
In park, I charge my phone. Two children bowl
A tire that stops at nothing but a plate
Of metal. Pick-up games run ragged. I
Can’t hear the Nike’s rubbers crush and sop
Up jimmies, broken glass, the CORRYVILLE
No longer readable, though L and L
Hang loose. They, hinging, roll like windmills when
I joke, alone, today is Armageddon.

The newsman, on the radio, says, don’t
Touch unfamiliar cables. Where’s a fool
When warranted? I see no spark but see
It into happening: spark coked-up moths;
Singe lightning bugs someone should basket for
Kentucky’s new museum’s Creation Fest.
It’s on all summer long. The dj starts.
Fik-it, fik-it—Fire: Adam and Eve,
The sea and all that’s in the firmament
Could use a star that isn’t painted on
The mural (Stay in School) that borders Taft
At Highland. I try to stay up on water.

A wonder there’s no curfew set; we all
Know what could happen when a group of black,
Swift-moving cumuli cuts up the moon:
A hundred stitches thread a needled sky.
The stuffing oozes at its seams. It seems
It’s warmer than September could be, storms,
Humidity, hail heading for the yellow lines,
The EPA’s harsh, generated light.
Big moon. Black moon. The car is on my breath.
It’s 1 am: night’s ended middle. News:
Duke Energy has called on crews from North
Carolina…Red Cross has shelters stocked.

It is the outage of 2008.

It is for sure an expletive construction.

It isn’t safe to be a girl outside
But if this evening escalates to less,
I may just purge my uvula. The air,
Stagnant then sinking, smokes with charcoal grills;
And, all it needs is salt, a wave to topple Big
Boy’s Frisch and Staggerlee’s. The dj’s kitsch…
True fact: a hurricane sans rain can’t make
A flood. The hypothetical, the blue
Midnight just like a person who’s a man
In silhouette, black pleonasm, big,
Black moon don’t melt the butter. What to keep

And what to pitch, the water soiled, town out
Of power? Police tape surrounds the Eden stump.
Across the street, a gold-base floor lamp, clothes,
TV with wood lie on the grass. Some things’
Descriptions serve as benedictions, worse
For words. The dj’s chants wear soft as Nerf.
He spins the record raw, its hand-scratched throat
Sput-sputtering. I swear to God the moon
Goes blue all over Voulez-vous coucher.
When Patti reaches for the hey, he begs
Us all for More. Ungh. Yeah. And another one.

Tomorrow’s earlier. A pinscher’s brown.
Another one. A basketball returns
To no good hands. Ike sneaks away as if
Embarrassed. There is no eviction note
Tacked on the door. It’s not a ghost town. It’s
The present absence of a nightmare’s clown.
How sly the evening and the morning are;
How sly the relatively up and down.

It is the evening and the morning. Now
The evening and the morning are the first.

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