Death and the Planetarium

Short Dark and Handsome;

he has a rendezvous with death.

Not on some disputed barricade,

or even here, early '55,

at the Planetarium,

with the artificial constellations

whirling out of control across

the blue-black concrete dome

of Heaven.

One of the lesser constellations,

he edges close to the warmth

of the Dark Star as they wait

for the next setup.

The sixteen-year old co-star

seems shaky, tugs his sleeve,

telling him her last night’s dream

of death by water.

The Star quotes "The Waste Land",

giggles, biting down on the filter

of a Marlboro Red, turning up

his red collar against an early

wind driving down from Highway 99

like a death hand, squeezing his heart.

The boy in the knife fight.

The boy in the race.

The one who didn't make it

out of the flaming car.

The one who'll drown.

The one who'll shoot himself.

The one who'll twist in an unlit closet,

going undiscovered for years.

And this one, Short, dark, handsome;

stabbed in an alley for $18 and change.

The false dawn brings false death.

No bullets in the gun.

The corpse rises,

a girl hands him a steaming cup

of black coffee.

The star hurries off to catch a plane to Texas.

Each a poseur, a secret agent.

Even the astronomer, walking across the quad

at dawn, who feigns absent-minded puzzlement

at the clutch of cop-cars--he's the director

of this picture!

A real sun is rising now. Rising on a morning

so blue, so miraculously clear, you can see

all the way to the Pacific. You can see the

cars taking the hard turns on Mulholland

and Sunset.

m.shepler 1/14/05