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Matinee at the Eden Theater
By Keith Moul
Only John Wayne’s heroics light the screen of the darkened theater.
Kids crowd the matinée to be noisy, free, thoughtless for Saturday,
ignore as faceted light bounces, squeals ricochet, John Wayne struts.
The projector ratchets to its stop: lyddite ignites to shine on Adam,
born here, now, his first moment in this theater’s center; popcorn
and screen equidistant; God rips Adam sans umbilical from dream.
Naked, blind, Adam knows nothing but need: senses to see, to hear,
speak, eat, to speed encounter with Eve and Eden any way he can.
“I acknowledge my lineage from this miracle, my genesis from its light.
I deny any pretender’s performance, as second fiddle, as never Adam.”
“I am a man: born to covet, to possess, to arrest, to hold light as hostage;
own light for me alone. I refuse to bargain with God for control of light.”
My senses return me as well to the world. I withhold belief. New Adam
May not exit the theater, with or without his protecting Duke, to the sun.
Eve, like blond Marilyn, so many blonds, slinks to Hitchcock memories.
At the door a serpent tears tickets: Flash Gordon precedes the next dream.