Ooo, Baby, Baby —
How long must this millennium be
in ending? This apocalypse drags on and on
like tired movie plotting.
The buxom heroine’s unsure of her lines,
but she’s frantic enough alright.
Seven Angels, Wormwood, the Book of Life —
all that jazz was supposed to fizzle out flatter
than yesterday’s pop, but here we are, still singing.
Someone’s got the thread of time, and they’re yanking,
ripping stitching from the temple’s seams. I follow
the thread, but find it piling at my feet :
the scribble obscuring a deleted word.
Last week a river near Akron lit up
like a dried-out Chrsitmas tree
strangled in sparking strands of light.
They tried to extinguish it, but turns out
you can never douse the same river twice.
Experts assure us fire will pass to sea
And the band will modulate to D
soon as the Third Angel’s solo comes round. Meantime,
Mary’s likeness intervenes in a bowl of Total,
yet I remain unimpressed. I was promised Eternity —
damnation, sure — but Eternity still.
It’s not like I haven’t tried,
Lord knows. Lord knows,
I’d like to settle into crises’ manic grooves.
I’d like to feel those sixteen hooves
tighten-up, tighten up.
I’d like to hear those trumpets blow
like Maceo — make me wanna shake my hips,
and sacrifice my will to rhythms of becoming.
But I’ve got no ear for chaos.
Just resolving chords.
I’d like to dance. Really,
I would. But it’s hard
what with this trashheap of an apocalypse
always stinking of ending.