Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Eschatology #1

NOTE: I wrote this, apparently. Then I never published it, for obvious reasons. But now I am! Because what the hell. It's not as though there aren't plenty of OTHER embarrassing old posts here.

Last night my fortune cookie said:
Repent, sinners. The end is nigh.

The lamb lies down with the lion,
Or so I've heard,
But it's hard to see with the violent orange clouds rolling by.

I can't sleep for the sound of metal grinding against metal.
Stumbling out the screen door,
I can't see the forest.
The trees are gone.

The dim streets refract endlessly,
Hip-deep in discolored fog.
The ghost of air-raid sirens hangs in the air.

The teevee doesn't work.
It goes from white to white to white.

She appears, beslippered,
Yawning, hair askew,
And asks what's happening.
We've reached out credit limit, I tell her.
God is foreclosing.
So you're not going to work?
There is no work.
Oh. Want to make love?
There is no love.
Oh come off it.

Later drifting in and out of the world
I find that sleep and waking have equalized,
Like lukewarm water.
If I lose consciousness
Will I ever wake up?
Will I know the difference?


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