“OUR SUN”

beyond the last gasp of man
will live on to burn;
Bleaching our buried bones
as the Santa Ana winds blow.
This world, like a souvenir shop
on the water, will sell out,
shut down; To be inhabited
by whatever life manages
to sneak past the cracks.

So as you stand there, Mr. Congressman,
trumpeting the soul and pulling a rainbow
of handkerchiefs out from your pant legs,
forgive me if
I cannot help
but laugh at your bill banishing the condom
in favor of a sacred seed or magic beans.

Yes, the waters do rise.
Yes, the floods do ripen.
And I, like a centurion, am ready
for one last ride of the Valkyrie
before mobs and murder rule the landscape
better than pen on paper or the clatter
of a father’s belt unbuckling. Run for the hills,
little girl, the savages are coming.

So as you stand there, Mr. Congressman, let me ask you:
If the last man on Earth dies and
nobody is there to mourn him,
did he die
and did we
ever live?

Nothing is protected
from the impermanent
nature that is nature.

Nothing.

To learn this now is probably too late,
but it might help you choose
what you do with tomorrow
and the remains of this day.

narrative poem written on 06-10-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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