three times into a mirror
before rodney kings’
apparition appears

                at least you know who i am
                most kids just see someone's
                dead bloated uncle

this ghost glitches
between analog and digital,
symptoms of being overly
rewound on VHS, 

the backyard pool
that held his last fall -
its coping lines
his decayed lips;

you were always described in hindsight;
a beaten midnight in freeway’s sky; 

why WorldStar?

                product endorsements,
                click bait revenue,
                heaven’s got a commissary 
                who places bets and always collects
                from my addiction of hitting rewind  

the weight of the video
cassette catapulting days
of death measured not from
your body's toll but
the days it took for those
cops to be  acquitted;  

a single
burnt match
your ghost
still tastes; 

and a fire ignites itself anew,
every time we hit rewind,
billowing from behind this
apparition’s skin; melting Rodney’s
edifice of face, sirens and flames
blaring from hairline to chin, 

a ball of flames on
two legs staggering
backwards now into
the mirror, its glass  

into talons
pulling him back
through the window
into the beyond - 

a wall of shattered,
torched shards
which, from my angle,
bears something
of a reflection.