It’s no Citizen Kane (An Apocalypse in Noir)

The detective shot

tequila like it was water.

He was alone, his office

black and white and gray

all over. Smoke stings

his Humphrey Bogart eyes.

Some soliloquy in his mind,

Pointless in its noirity.

Something about his ex

wife, or how this city

is in the shitter. It doesn't

matter. Telephone rings.

On the other side a lady;

scantily draped over

an embroidered couch.

Red dress, red lips, gray.

She's white, or light gray;

all the femme fatales are.

And she lies about some dead

husband. Says the detective,

I'll be there as soon as possible,

thinking with his lower head. 

Though he's been drinking

he drives a dark black 

green car to the scene

of the crisis. The city 

is dark, illuminated

by flicking white street 

lights and a projector. 

It's always night,

the day's too bright

for the cameras.

She stands below

A street lamp pure

white light in her

blackish grayish brown

hair. The detective reaches

her, he kisses her, no question 

of possible assault. Only kissing 

forceful on the lips on the street.

No cars really. The sound stage

is empty, the producers could 

not be bothered 

with financing more cars.

They still kiss

music swelling

with his bulge. But 

instead of him entering 

her, a bullet enters him.

She smiles and says something

but the audio distorts. Her

mask will be revealed but,

the film is spliced weird.

He falls back and from his wound

the film begins to melt. The growing

break in fake reality overwhelms 

the detective sprawled out.

His features shift, his eyes

drift. Time extends 

and slows, his shoulders

separate from sternum.

She smiles, it grows 

a mile wide. The audience

is restless. The detective stops

he looks out on those observing.

Who are you? Who the fuck do you think you are? 

His burnt face has a hole in it. He continues.

I die for my sake not for yours and not for the writer. 

I spit in your eye you sadistic voyeurs, my life

is no film. I am no character, I am God.

His face is large and mouth split in two, 

the audience shifts nervously in their seats.

Apostate! I call you all apostates! Heretical

is your fascination with death. I am your God.

I did not create plants so you could fabricate 

cellulose. I did not give you language

so you could create maccabe theatre.

The femme fatale screams. The audience

shudders. Somewhere in a dark room

a man wrestles with a projector

Revelations, my impudent children.

The tequila on the detective's 

breath burns the first three rows

the screen is set ablaze. Popcorn

embers fall on foreheads.

The dark red aisles run black 

and white. The lights raise. A gray 

ginger man attempts to get a clap going.

No one reciprocates. Families 

leave into the midday sun;

men with their mistresses,

women with their detectives.

and one sweaty critic, who gives it

a 2 outta 5 stars, "it's no Citizen Kane"

Tomorrow is the rapture.

No one is taken.