If I re-write the life of an entire generation
could I begin with story-boards of comic sketches based on dreams
or what’s left of them after the waking moments and transfer them
to the unholy barrier of a dimensionless screen?
Maybe everyone could look at and know what it means
when the star begins to fade in slow motion, so serene, against a black-backdrop
of sunrays and tear drops on a cosmic beam that drowns out the entirety of empty screams
that echo, lost in outerspace, bearing conception but not a face.
Overestimating the entire human race and underestimating the speed of the chase
of a glacier running away from the gaping holes of beauty. I begin to feel puny,
insignificant, just a fool with a unfinished script
with sophomoric lines falling from my lips,
just the accident that came at the clash of two pairs of hips
and a little big bang that somehow became into the shape
of myself, watching the Big Dipper dip itself into sky
at which the cannonballs I pelt begin to melt
against that black screen that I can still function within,
though barely, and scarcely, with the context of sin
and the guidelines of an invisible director affront a stage
that I just walked into to find
that there are no walls
there is no audience
that all of these floating balls
never clash and the final applause
is not that of God
but of a whisper from a meteorite
that washes through the sky in its final flight
and when the screen fades to black
is it called day
or night?