LASER LIGHT
The following piece is in response to Read Write Poem’s prompt #90 – an image of a street performer balancing a flaming star. Rather than accessing the scene, making my way down that street or even turning into the performer, I waited for the picture to lead me to a title, via the first words it prompted. Those words were “laser light show”.
LASER LIGHT
Smith decided we should drive to DC for the weekend light show.
It had been ten-years since he, Patrick and I
were there together. A reunion of sorts.
Patrick lived in Arlington. We called on the way.
He told us to leave him alone. He had Reserves next weekend.
He wanted to take it easy. By the time
we showed at his door he couldn’t do anything
but offer up his couch and spare cot.
Smith brought acid. He didn’t tell us about the acid until
we were already half-drunk from a few hours
at a Tiki bar along the Potomac drinking Mexican beer.
None of us needed acid at this point in our lives. Patrick
had done two tours in Iraq. Smith spent three-years
in prison. I was an absent father of two children
with different last names.
But we were all feeling good with limes in our beer, fireworks
going off for some nondenominational reason,
together in the nation’s capital remembering the world of 1999
when ours lives went by in a fury of jokes about the president
and thoughts about the end of the world.
Now we were three old lumps surrounded by a table of empties.
Patrick with his razorblade haircut, Smith who smoked
like he was trying to burn himself inside out, me
with the spare tire around my waste that wore like a retread.
We decided to walk through the Capital on our way to the show.
Smith wanted to go see Lincoln. Patrick said we couldn’t.
Jefferson then, the Washington Monument. Patrick said
none of that mattered now, it wasn’t on the way.
We passed all the lights and strange glows in the periphery,
statues kept awake under security and patriotic flares.
Two-hours with the acid in our system, Smith said lasers
were already teeming in his head. Patrick crouched behind things,
regretted the whole night, regretted whole other nights
that didn’t include us. Whole mornings and days too. A whole year
and one whole long episode that was so classified
the hallucinations had a hard time reaching it.
I hadn’t planned on being the smart one, rarely was,
but got us to the field and our seats. We blended in
like we were anyone else, just normal people who’d never
killed anyone or beaten someone to near death
with a bar of soap, had never knocked up
an old friend’s girlfriend then another, never
had to decide which one to send checks to.
Just normal guys riding out a strong trip waiting for the lights
to take our minds off the fact our minds were gone.
People nodded at us like they knew. Tapped their noses
because they saw our eyes and identified.
They couldn’t understand. Our ghosts were our own.
It didn’t matter if one of theirs chased them up a tree.
We were stuck with ours, so far from our skulls
that the only words any of us could mouth
where things like never again and can’t come down.
But there’s that point, like when the Space Shuttle goes up,
where you’re not sure if it’ll break earth’s glass face
and get out toward the moon. Right as the boosters
jump off and the ship’s all alone, just its crew
with rations and the one bathroom they share,
the bird edges a straight line against the sky
and is gone –
That’s where we were when the music fired on. All the world
except for cigarette tips got dark. Then lights zoomed to life
in a panoramic grid, made water out of thin air.
Behind the sudden brightness and noise,
the faintest cry of crickets set the universe soft.
–
Tags: acid poetry, poetry, Portland poet, Portland poetry, ReadWritePoem
I think this poem is quite brillant.I don’t know why.Well
I do know why but I don’t want to say.
Thanks rallentanda – I’d love to know the “why” part, if you’re ever so inclined.
Who needs the whys and hows? I liked it too!
geometry of fireworks cuts into me
It’s a good story. There’s a lot in there. I like that space shuttle metaphor. Would that be the Discovery?
I like the slingy feel of “But we were all feeling good with limes in our beer, fireworks going off”
and episodes “so classified the hallucinations had a hard time reaching it” are unfortunately familiar
I love how visual this poem is. I kept wanting to close my eyes and visualize what you had written. This line particularly got my mind’s eye tripping: “All the world //
except for cigarette tips got dark.” Bravo!
Thanks Vinnie. When I set out to write it I didn’t anticipate that the laser show would actually come at the end, and it’s funny just how visual the whole thing is even w/out the lasers. Thanks for your words.
Thanks Barbara.
I thought about using a proper shuttle name but wasn’t sure which ones are still in commission. Discovery seems like the best choice.
Thanks Gautami
What a fascinating story…you kept me hooked from beginning to end wondering “what happens next”. One thing, I don’t know if it was intentional, but using the word WASTE for waist worked really well…the characters all seemed to be a waste…
That was excellent. I felt a deep sense of dislocation, yet you took me there.
Thanks Cynthia. I’ll leave the “waste/waist” question open for now. The narrator is quite a waste, as are his buddies. Thanks for your comments!
I appreciate you reading from across the pond, Anthony. I appreciate your note.
“I hadn’t planned on being the smart one, rarely was,
but got us to the field and our seats. We blended in
like we were anyone else, just normal people who’d never
killed anyone or beaten someone to near death
with a bar of soap, had never knocked up
an old friend’s girlfriend then another, never
had to decide which one to send checks to.”
I love this part – I think it gives a perfect glimpse into the mindset of the speaker and what the men think of themselves. Nice work.
Poetry spans a large spectrum. This piece seems to lie more on the prose end of the spectrum than the poetry end. I have some advanced training in how to comment upon a poem, but I have no advanced training in how to comment upon a prose story. If you would like to explain to me this piece so that I could understand its genre better, please go ahead.
It’s just a long poem about friends trying to escape their present condition and reconnect with something that is no longer there.
Thanks DJ – one of my favorite parts too. Sometimes my narrators tend to hide out a little bit, and it felt good putting this particular stanza down. Thanks for your comments.
Dave,
This poem is quite a “trip.” It’s very effective narrative verse, really pulled me in to the story, and has numerous deft cultural allusions and a haunting finish. I love that it takes place in Washington.
Wow, Dave. This is beautiful. You’ve got the tone, the detail and the narrative to make a whole world here.
Thanks Nathan – thanks for the great prompt that got the whole thing started. Fantastic photo.
David – I appreciate your comments. Glad you felt pulled into the story. Something about DC made the poem possible. Not sure if it would work elsewhere.