do you feel it?

On May 19, 1780, a Canadian conflagration
brought a dark day over New England.
The moon was red, and the cinders collided with
the clouds to cloak the shoreline from
Portland to Rockland. Although an empyrean upheaval
was the prognosis for the nimbus
that challenged negation
(a run in your stockings? Yeah, that really doesn’t matter…),
the inevitable clarity of blue-skied happiness
pacified the congregation.

Inevitability (noun): a convulsive John Belushi
adorned in a Hartford Whalers jersey
releasing an eructation
(he’d probably headlock me until I change that word to belch)
from the bouncer’s square at the entrance of CBGB in 1979
that reverberates backwards through the temporal helix
200 years to eradicate the pseudo-religious calamity.
His is the raised fist response of the righteous and the raucous,
from black sky to Black Flag.

On May 19, 2015, the ghosts of Belushi and his Whalers
are with me in my recumbence
as Rod Serling shakes and stirs his latest concoction of
spook and spunk for my system,
drops dribbled on my chest like a trail
of the huntsman’s tramp to the wounded Kodiak.

Twilight Zone Episode 146: “I Am the Night – Color Me Black”.
Hate is the night colored black (tie optional).
The noose licks its lips harshly for the condemned man,
the bigot-killer, yet the townspeople
demand justice. The brim of the sheriff’s hat is not so wide
as to hide the shame for the odium of the throng,
the heart of the world prunes and wheezes to
the hate that overwhelms.
Dead Man does not beget Risen Man.
Not even Stan Lee would touch those bones,
the great divorce of sun and man, love and virus,
the bulb fizzles for the final time.
The sailboat suncatcher on the porch door plops to the carpet,
and my cat eats the suction cup.

 Weeks later, the mad bohemians in the classroom

are restless and frothing for the Bell of the Battle Royale,
sneakers laced and vacation-faced, sound the fanfare of the
summer’s travels, untrammeled, unafraid, it’s trampoline time.
The teachers are spinning their pencils in their fingers,
impatient, untucked, it’s Miller Time. Then the lights went out
in Middletown. Naptime for Edison.
Did the ninja lean on the lightswitch? Matt said, “Not I.”
The late afternoon sunmelt provides the backdrop
for the scurry and hurry to restore the
connections as I lower my head.
“Matt, it’s a moment of darkness for Christopher Lee.”
The Man with the Golden Filmography had left us the day prior.
Matt and I hang our heads for the Hammer House of Horror
as the wallpaper starts to peel, releasing sulfurous emanations
and caterwauls drenched in Styx. When the lights return,
the creatures of the night retreat to their catacombs, and
the youth are released to Their Greatest Adventures.

Like Mr. Lee said, don’t play the long parts.
Play the short parts but memorably.
Empathy? See Mr. Belushi.