Thunder rumbles through the house shaking loose windows
the back door slams open and Louis C.K. is slammed down
into a ring-shaped dampening field in a desert night.
A lanky trickster glides out of the shadows
and strokes the cylinder until it rings pure
in the tones of observance the comic twitches.
A swarm of fairy folk swirl overhead,
in its wake orbs dance and fall and merge
lullabies and dusty magic explode
into a nebulous secret message
the comic pounds silently on his cell
The trickster addresses the audience,
“You know what the comedian’s fear is”
“Hecklers!” shout the audience, “writer’s block!”
“No…” says the expressionless host,
“it’s playing to a dead room.”