For Donald Francoeur

I. January

It’s 9 AM. I fill my light blue coffee pot and listen:
Deagle says that China has its missiles poised from Venezuela—
Soros means to make the USA a third world nation.

I bought canned oysters—that cold current spares Korea,
runs northwest through the Bering Sea,
those cans untouched, clean of Fukushima.

They’re spinning out another scheme—
a plague to kill the whole Pacific: whales float
now, belly-up, their food chain bleached.

Dear nephew, what concerns me most
are prophecies—Christ, Daniel, and the Revelation:
an asteroid off the Venezuelan coast

turns our axis, throws up land and mountains
just to free the Gold—with seven billion avatars created,
parasites to eat the oil slicks, replace the humans.

Ancient wheels of Masonry and Priesthood
raised the pyramids, with blocks that weighed a hundred tons,
just like that man in Florida, way down in Homestead.

Secrets lost in the land of the dead:
Gravitics—just Google that. My work is done.

II. March

It’s 5 AM and the house is flooding.
I go room to room by sound—electric pops
in walls, same current Grandad taught, upending

what the dikes were built to hold. This rain
no accident—the solar flares burned
all of Wichita to dust, Black Sunday,

1935. Too cold to riot now, but They’ll return
the first hot day, as sure as wheat breaks open
on the plains and June tornadoes start to churn.

Dialysis is hard, dear nephew, Grandma Verla’s end
now mine, much colder than the flood
and going under, week by week, and then

the aftermath—Arby’s and three Seagrams in the blood
with speakers on the RBN, my weather radar green,
my Ruger 9 still cooling on the Nova’s hood.

The trees bud right on time to give us shade; it’s spring,
our people sealed in cellars then, before the Bowl,
like spirits kneeling in the dark, like carnies,

nephew—I mean canaries—
in the winter coal.