Plague rises over the horizon, an unreal distance, late arrivals leading to a million new discount diseases and we contrive our flights to arrive at a time that is neither yours nor mine, we crash and we don’t survive, we are the only ones running toward the light.
Deceptive December brackets around my name and punctuation tearing up my family life. Bottle-rockets Budweisers Bentleys Beatle Boots beatniks Beamers British Petroleum and thirty thousand dead rifles on the last road out of Baghdad.
I want to burn all the letters you ever sent me.
And when they shot me out into space, I didn’t regret this new trajectory. I didn’t sweat scream or stop thinking about eight billion souls trapped inside the soggy shoe-box. I didn’t even think about you.
But tragedy is a relief for the comically inclined, and when salt water boils and rises over our hallowed homes and lifestyle at least we’ll be an ocean view. At least we’ll be the meat in this planet stew.
Kings of nothings assailed with a million holy missiles
singing songs of surgical strikes
cooking piles of our desperate breatheren
they flash-fried a nation on the television
while we tried to heat a frozen dinner.
And yet one day I fear
we will be the helpless ones
thrashing in confusion
like flies drowning in soup.