He’d tried so many varied
pursuits before ultimately finding
his calling. Burned his fingers
picking bacon from a frying pan,
dipped himself into scalding
bathwater, took a – at first hesitant,
then frantic – stroll across a bed
of glowing coals. And then finally
on that one glorious magical day, while
struggling with the cord of his portable
black-and-white TV set, he made
first contact with the universal loose
connection, saw stars in his basement
bedroom, tantalizing taste of all
that was to come: fierce midwestern
thunderstorms, power lines twisting
like copulating eels, voltaic fluxes
and random static discharges.
Hyper-excited electrons run mad
across his torso, currents spin,
reverse, rebound, seek out the path
of least resistance. He perches
on hilltops at midnight, transisting.
See him now, arms outspread,
flourishing the baton of his office,
the mad meta-conductor, beating
out the time, looking for someplace
to go to ground.
