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.

I 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 I didn't 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’ll  have to check.

The news and book store next to

the Oakland 12th Street exit from BART

is piping Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue

out to the sidewalk.

And Mike who sleeps

somewhere on the street,

already has his shopping cart and milk crates,

his graffitied flags and rags,

parked in the entry way

of the Chase bank on the corner.

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 crackling voice

laced with laughter,

-vocal cords as rough and raspy

as Wolfman Jack’s.

No customers as yet

in the predawn darkness

for the Newport menthol 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 shopping cart and crates

to the escalator exit from the 12th Street BART Station.

12th and Broadway, 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.