Some Adjustments

Disco search lasers didn’t help locate the dark man of above-average build who opened fire on the late-night indy bookstore laundromat, much as at the nearby junkyard where, paler than reported, he hid under an Eero Aarnio orb chair in salvageable condition, the bark of the chained Rottweiler, producing a tone like the lustrous synthesizer on Funkytown, failed to alert anyone, as indeed the broken home from which young Gurevitch, the shooter, emerged, cracked in a zigzag direction from roof to base and finally, amid luminous vapors, sinking into the sullen waters of the tarn, failed to excuse him from the crime as comfortably as might other forms of home brokenness we could conceive in a flash of stubborn morbidity like the bolts of blue power glimpsed at a sleepover, on a TV show never since identified, shot from the fingers of a boy misfit, though with real friends, maybe detectives, solving important crimes, which thrilled us with a jealousy, childish but fluorescent enough that this life, for all its promise, as it turned out more or less fulfilled, couldn’t hope, until these late strokes of lunatic human lightning, if only dimly, to turn down.