the earth
turns.
and so I
wait, patiently sometimes
other times,
crumpled on
the floor
crying
cursing
craving
death
also life.
it doesn’t
make sense, but
I don’t see
how it could, really
one day in
the middle of it,
climbing the
steps, crushing darkness but
the next
gutted on the floor
the next
slamming my head on anything hard
with
aluminum solidifying my lungs and creeping
up my neck;
it means to do me in-
next
rounding the bend
then waiting
waiting
I don’t know
why. It
doesn’t make
sense.
the earth
turns.
That veil,
vaguely painted
in the minds
of some people
the other
side of the door
others: a
dark cavern open mouth swallowing thoughtlessly
or a beam of
light
or a wisp of
smoke from
a candle
blown out.
It doesn’t
make any sense
the birds
are chirping and
daffodils
are rising and falling
a pale robin’s
blue shell burst on the ground, smeared
on the
pavement, it’s baby yolk
intact,
untouched
it’s mother
wondering where it’s gone to
reminds me
how close we are to life then death
how close we
are to nonexistence.
It doesn’t
make any sense
Earthquake
after earthquake, what
now, four in
one week? More?
Is it el Niño
or is it the slow death
of the world
creeping up
on us, finally
after it’s
unhurried exhibition for the last century
following industry
and heat and heat,
fossil fuels
broken out off the mantle
causing our
own kinds of earthquakes
for profit
for
production
to employ
people, quick, before it’s over—
and we won’t know,
when it’s
over
because
ceasing to be is very quick
that veil between
us and them so
thin
not majestic
no choirs
we could
have died a thousand time already
and had no
idea.
the
multi-verse singing its ever quiet song of enveloping galaxies
swallowing
dark matter and stars whole like a python sick with a fully
skeletal
rabbit. Filaments and superclusters and universes collide and
it’s
anticlimactic. All the bad hard shitty stuff
already
happened. It’s already happening
in front of
our dumb-by-prolonged-exposure eyes
and even as
we yell, “I!” like it matters
“I!” like it
makes a difference. It doesn’t make
any sense,
but
as winter
turns to spring and
earthquakes
shake the crust of the world
opening
mouths for us to fall in,
while the
earth catastrophically implodes--it
does not
need us, for sure.
It does not
need us.
It means
to wash away
the blunders of a parasitic malady;
to wipe our
existence away, quick and efficient like a mother’s soft hand
wiping ice
cream off her daughter’s face. It’s quick and virtuous
like the
thousand times before this time, tired from years of no sleep
from the
pain of birth to the pain of death, tenderly she holds
a wet cloth
to mop up the mess we’ve made; her daughter’s face
a world of
possibility, a planet just starting to spin:
and the
tumult of a toddler learning
she can act
on her own. But she’s sticky
with that
pinkish anarchy, its melted remains: half ingested,
half
plastered half dried down her chin, and
the mother
will do her job,
the ocean
will do it’s job
the trees
will wilt and fall
the wind
will carry on without a thought to us
age old
must, rocks crushing into dust
the void,
the galactic nuclei
screaming on
and on in noiseless space
for thine is
the kingdom the power the glory
forever and
ever amen.
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