Entry 4:
Obviously, this is a poem about climate change. Unless, it's a poem about war. Except, it could be about oppression. Or, maybe the curtains are just fucking blue And I'm a font of wretched, naval-gazing drivel. This is a poem about the first apocalypse I lived through: 9/11. And the second--The Great Recession. And of course, Who could forget the most recent one, COVID-19. The funny thing about the post-apocalypse is that It's neither the first nor the last, and no matter how Prepared the world claims to be for the next one, It's near-impossible to be ready. Far more impossible To cleanly delineate the new beginning of the new end. I daresay the least prepared are those who talk up Widening gyres, falcons and falconers, beasts shuffling to be born While misunderstanding (purposefully, often) the Original context of those dread images. The boogeyman is never the cause of the end of the world. But he would like you to think he is, that clever Ever-evolving shapeshifter. Except I just told you: He is not the culprit. We are not the culprits. They are not the culprits. Having survived three apocalypses so far, I understand Why finding a tangible scapegoat is so tempting, so soothing, Especially when there are those who carry blame for Something related to the newest end times, should face Some sort of consequence. But it's always bigger than only Them. No one wants to admit they've passed the point of no return. That the old life, at some point, became obsolete. That your door to your world has closed and locked. This is a poem about when you realize the apocalypse is a Persistence hunter, and it has finally caught up to you.
Fossil Record of the Apocalypses | < prev | next >
