Afterblog

Last night while drowsy eyed
it was decided,
that were Darth Vader to get a DUI,
he would sit solemnly behind a bar
beside a moped that works one day and not the next,
and with labored breath,
and black helmet gleaming
in orange glowing street light,
he would consider every possible outcome
from every real and exaggerated personal failure.

With so much power,
wrapped up in his own greatness,
his weight would outweigh him,
and wrapped in machinery, his cruel will,
by virtue of it’s cruelty would lash at his insides,
savagely cannibalizing his imagined legacies.
Hunched and clinging to himself
he would vomit and wake up on his back,
the night sky wrapped entirely around him,
Mr. Vader at the center of the cosmic mystery,
scheming on subjugating existence in it’s entirety,
but wholly unable to stand on his own.

After considerable consideration
he rises slowly,
and his labored breath emenates outward
into the mid autumn chill of this most embarassing display
of yet another good time gone bad.
He speaks.
His voice as authoritative as ever.
All the power of the empire resonating
from that human voice, behind the mechanical mask.

“Luke…
Pick up your father.”