(Im)balance
Evolutions spun out of control
will cling to the void
utter darkness
in foiled hopes to grab hold of blind balance that never was
Evolutions spun out of control
will cling to the void
utter darkness
It’s chaos right now and the people around me know it.
They start farms and google how to manufacture gasoline.
They buy astronaut food that will keep for years
if they don’t have to eat it, in which case
they give themselves seven months, tops.
They practice starting the generators
and they’ve learned to cut their own hair.
These are the skills we’ll need
when we have to depend on ourselves to survive.
I do not have these skills. I do have a generator,
but it’s in the weird outdoor building,
probably crawling with spiders, and honestly
I’m more likely to spend the last of my money
on fast food and a hotel room so I can die
in comfort, but that’s just me. I don’t have a cellar
but in my family, we start preparing
for the end of the world at birth. It just looks
a little different than trying to stay alive so much.
Maybe that’s why I’m relatively sturdy about this.
Maybe that’s why I’m so calm by comparison.
Or maybe I’m in denial and it’s really going to suck,
it’s hard to say. All I know is I need to feel okay
or I might forget what okay feels like.
So if you need me, I’ll be online
posting that on my way to work today
one of my Two Songs I Will Always Crank Up
and Roll the Windows Down For came on –
for me it’s Rebel Yell. White Wedding.
Billy Idol at 50 mph makes me feel like I’m alright.
What does that for you?
Now that the supreme court has officially
made women chattel
what’s next
The equal rights amendment died
A woman no longer controls her own body
Bring out your coat hangers
your secret elixirs
Open up your backrooms your basements
Bring on the underground railroad
guiding women to the places
where they still have a voice and a choice
Beware what comes next Obergefel
Loving
Brown vs. Board of Education
All on the verge of a purge
The bell has already tolled
The bad nerves start somewhere in my belly,
spreading and sliming out across limbs
with a nauseous grip down to the bone.
There ain’t nothing to be nervous about.
That’s one of my many failed mantras.
I used to try –
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
But my own answers to a lighthearted question
scared the ever lovin’ shit out of me.
There ain’t nothing to be nervous about.
But it’s in my throat now, tight and wet,
barely contained by deep breaths.
The bad nerves, strangling my sense of reason.
It’s been, O, I don’t know, perhaps
seventeen years since I buried you.
(Angel seventeen notices, perhaps.)
That rectangle box lined in cloth
resolved back to dirt by now.
Somehow I thought you’d be gone
—as in All gone. Bone gone.
But you’ll never be gone, will you.
Just out of sight, out of this side
of the vailed curtain. But deep
enough you can’t float back
above ground. Except as dirt. Earth,
the resting place of all. Not a sound
in this world drummed like your voice
once did. And I am so glad. I’m so glad
you’re out of my nightmares.
If I could be anyone,
it would be Joan of Arc–
straight to saint-
hood, with-
out even becoming a nun.
