Do you know where you are; you are standing
in the middle of a washed-out climax in a film
of silence; mouths trace echos longing for voices
and tears are the bombings foreshadowing laughter;
just what is the difference between you and I?
Stop and rewind the suspenseful moments
and let the panning shots steal your heartbeats
so the audience would applaud at the marvelous
interruption played out of the blue from a film noir;
kaleidoscopic dancers confound your senses;
do you need your femme fetale to snatch your
tattered love away from your secondhand heart?
Jazz musicals only dance
to your cinematographic blues,
double-featured in the deserted,
desolate drive-in theater for
the whole world to ignore, horrific tales
stitched only to be clawed again by villains.
But your retina holds every moment
for a fraction of a second, tugging
at your life story in slow motion until
your thoughts become a film coming
to a theater near you: inside your head.
It’s cinematographic blues, your fractured soul.