Power outage

I awoke in dark silence.

-just another power outage

on the island.

My cell phone lit my way

down the newly empty hallway

found some candles on the sideboard

that I'd set up for an intimate dinner

but had never yet

been touched by flame.

Brewed my coffee by candlelight

but didn't  I stick around this morning.

Take me to the city's light,

take me to BART.

A poster in the train says ACID solutions

from a company called Fauna

promises to manage damages

from chaos.

I don't recall acid ever doing that.

I suppose it must be something tech.

When I get to the office I have to check.

The news and book store

next to the exit from BART

is piping Gershwin to the street.

And Mike who sleeps

somewhere on the street

has his shopping cart and milk crates,

his graffitied flags and rags,

parked in the entry way

of Chase bank.

He's got his headphones on,

he's hopping from foot to foot,

dancing, singing, talking to the air

in his non stop

twenty-four-seven stream

of motherfucker this

and motherfuckin' that,

delivered in a voice

laced with laughter,

-vocal cords as rough

and raspy

as Wolfman Jack.

No customers as yet

in the predawn darkness

for the Newport shorts

that he sells one by one.

So apparently ACID stands for

Atomicity, Consistency,

Isolation and Durability.

Ensuring that ACID compliant databases

can complete transactions

in a timely manner.

Right.

I understand that about as much

as Mike's croaking rants.

It will soon be time for Chase to open

and he'll move his cart and crates

to the exit from the 12th Street Oakland

BART Station. Heart of Oakland.

Where he can cackle and laugh

at people coming up the escalator,

sell his cigarettes and bottled water

to people undeterred by his Tourettes.