(Do not count the population) Coming from the light in the ceiling fan

A structure of people coming
from the light in the ceiling fan –
at the crying radio porter train
hell rings light and agents,
both physical and numerical light;
staunch stairways to theatres
where French-speaking auditoriums
occupy an opaque speakeasy.

A lonely Johnny Cash without the sun
or a dozen trailblazing horsemen
goal-men locked in entrenched lines
of southern nostalgia and lovely grift,
whether we part we see the corduroy
couch the population of the Southeast

come raining down from the ceiling
roof fan light between skipping fins
in the rays of light and filling the room
we all have so much to discuss,
suddenly have come from light
so progressive and so full of love.

No blues in sight and no history
of suffering or punishers or constraint.
This life from light saw Johnny escape
out the backdoor while we counted
the population against the orders of God,
against our better knowledge,

but this new population of light,
this peoples of shinning bulbs showed
so much promise we assumed new framed
regulations; this canopy, this screen,
rotating air fanatic is old to me, says God,
“I told you not to count the population.
Why would you try to contain the light.”

Such a manner could not wait or delay,
I said. We were brightly espoused,
we were giving an emanate cure for a Friday
night or Saturday morning or two. Falsetto
plot twists that portend erasure for the sake
of a favored skylight alternative, lights grossly
shinning on why Johnny escaped out the back.