Come closer, beckoning
witch finger,
curling, crunching
                    in shade.
                                   Summon the night
gallery, hanging Homer and Waterhouse as distorted oil
oozing into a
disappearing act.
My feet are a detached movement
upon semi-real
floor of tar-black
tile.

Scraaaaaaaaaping———

Where is the lapel suit
of my Rod Serling dulled
by bad agents of
                 thrills.
Have him string me
up, a hoisted body settled into daVinci
wings of plain wood and
curvature like a waxy bird's.

The pig's blood waiting
above my head,
                        Serling signaled
for drama.

I see the false teeth of the planetarium
twinkle, an engulfing omnitheater's
air that I am crucified.

Serling behind the casque of gauze
to young Shatner and wandering
starships of lean men and
the end of this star system into
               galactic
                   odyssey.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Was Mister Spock ever tossed from
Olympus and forced lame in
the heart, a shell that is far
from hollow—what only
a mother could hold.
The bow figurehead, awaiting
corrosion.