The Source

A vociferous blast amongst nothing

A pinhole of light shines through

Casting a cone that ends, faded, at his feet

And then another

And another

And so on

Until what was once merely blackness now appears to have limits

A half-dome

Kept from being complete by the very ground you stand on

These holes are just holes

But someone made them more than that

They are looking-glasses into heaven

They are evidence of the realm of gods

As seen from the kiddie-table

They pull us

Guide us

We name them

Connect then with imaginary lines

And then give another name to the product

They project all things past and future

As long as you know how to interpret them

They are most numerous where the air is the clearest

Cleanest

Without them we would still live in this paralyzing midnight

The black dome blushes bluer until it is blue

As the rapturous light takes over everything

Too bright to be captured

Blinding those devout enough to try to see the source

And the holes disappear

These violent declarations of a waking gunfighter

Who fired into the black

He who first revealed the limits of the dark

Daring the emptiness to do something

Anything

Pleading with the design to show itself

But it never does

They fade and retreat into the gradient flush of pale purple

to red

to orange

to almost green

to the truest of blues

And mammoth cotton clouds arrive

To protect them in their slumber

And still the gunfighter watches

Laying naked

With his back flush against the smooth desert floor

His skin too thick to be burned

And he sleeps through the day

As he waits for the next coming of night

To once again challenge the source of this immense light

To at last reveal its true form

In the hope that as a result

He would finally understand

Talent at Union Square

Waiting for the Train...