A girl named Lucifer

peers from the dimensional peels she has spread above Main Street. A bus exudes black pollution and she ingests it.

She holds it between puffed out cheeks and lustrous teeth and removes her head from the tear. Nearby, in somewhere else, a glittering disco ball, three yards in diameter holds our center of gravity inside. Eight people wearing reflective club pants stand on it, the very image of an unenclosed plasma ball. Lucifer emerges in the ether around them and exhumes the smog cloud through the spaces between her teeth. They don’t notice.