by Quincy Troupe
there was no screaming to announce hale-bopp comet's second tail,
no screaming when those 39 people left their bodies--
their containers--behind, covered their faces with purple,
silk shrouds, folded triangles, laid down smiling & fell into the steep sleep
marshall applewhite had prescribed for them deep inside that death
mansion in rancho santa fe, they knew themselves as angels,
sleuths at creating websites, cruising internets, space angels
flying on wings of ancient dreams upward to hale-bopp comet's tail,
(& the only way to get there through the invisible doorway of death)
launched through skies of their minds, they willed their bodies
on earth, as people of jonestown did, to be recycled through sleep,
bodies board-stiff & bloated, looking for peace, skin purple,
going black as clothes they wore, covered 39 faces with purple
symbols the color of lenten holy week when jesus rose up to join angels,
39 travellers wore black nike shoes, weaved through 39 catacombs of sleep,
dreamed themselves up like 39 shooting stars to hale-bopp comet's tail
of silver ice, where they would transform their bodies--
18 buzz-haired castrated males, 21 females surfing death's
internet--to pass through heaven's-gate's needle eye--& death
not even a stopover here for these souls to rest dressed in black & purple,
quarters for phone calls, 5 dollar bills for whatever urges their bodies
needed--before flying through space 39 dreams, they would be truly angels
rendezvousing with the mothership hidden inside hale-bopp comet's tail,
live with extraterrestrials there in a sleeve of silver ice after sleep
cut them loose to flow through steep mystery above as sleep
like rocket fuel, fell away over stages, left them asphyxiated in death
after phenobarbital, apple sauce & vodka, they knew the silver ice tail
as a sign they were waiting for to cover themselves with shrouds of purple,
leave behind computer screens--skies--they flew purely as angels
now toward a higher source than conflicting urges of their bodies--
a tangle of websites, conquered & controlled, their bodies--
surrendering the improvisation of living, they swam in sleep,
drifting slowly as motorless boats on the sea, were homeless angels,
took 39 pot pies & cheesecakes for their journey, they kissed death
hard with dry mouths, 39 people down from 1,000, pursed lips of purple
open in wonder, they flew up to enter hale-bopp comet's tail
of ice-silver particles, gaseous bodies grinning there like death
skulls flashing inside sleep, inside where I am dreaming now of purple,
faith flashing bright as new angels inside hale-bopp comet's third tail
Quincy Troupe is a professor of Creative Writing and American and Caribbean
Literature at UC-San Diego. His most recent book is Avalanche (Coffee House
Press, Minneapolis).
