The New Yorker says the end is near...

...I say that I always wanted to live in a Thunderdome.


Espatially

B. was trying to trick
enough ohms
out of an old Buick
to power our modest little Thunderdome.

Big red clamps sparked all night
and lit up the outside of our tents.
Inside the older ones remembered television,
and the younger ones thought B.
was a dangerous god.

Dangerous little gods
are under every rock out here in this desert,
but electricity
is still the only thing that scares me.