Trees At Night

Everything is happening all the time.
Performers laughing and crying inside.
Performers laughing and crying outside.
And nothing ever stops. Sitting at home
with my lights on at night, street lights outside
light up a tree that’s never in the dark.



Walking outside, taking pictures of trees,
a block away I see sparks bright as Sun.
A power line has snapped, fallen, now sparks.
Light from the window doesn’t reach the tree.
The street light doesn’t reach the dark sidewalk.
The fallen power line sparks, a strobe light
on the emptiness of the dark sidewalk.
Evil clowns, other things, move in my mind.
Sparks illuminate whatever’s moving
in my mind. Flashes create stop-motion
like bad special effects in an old film.
Policemen, firemen, emergency workers
scramble to isolate the sparking wire.
But it’s as if they are there to save me.
Evil clowns, other things, get beaten back
by electricity—science!—flashing,
turning even the dark sidewalk to light.
Policemen, firemen, emergency workers
scramble in and out of the dark and light
as if saving me—civilization!



And this writing, me telling this story,
is a thank you note, more, a billet-doux,
to civilization for saving me.
Everything is happening all the time.
And nothing ever stops. But sometimes now
falls back, slips away and becomes back then.
And all light becomes something like dawn light
and the dark sidewalk under that dawn light
becomes something like just a dark sidewalk.
There is science and civilization.
And whatever this is. Something like art.
I don’t care about performers and shows.
There is science and civilization.
And whatever this is. Something like art.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



The Dark Sidewalk

Three Clowns On The Dark Sidewalk

That Third Evil Clown