apostrophe, I’m channeling Whitman—

he says that his atoms are rushing through

the veins of another revolution,

he’s quickly assimilating into

phosphor dots, trying to form a sincere

face– he is easing through our labyrinth

with a new heart, pulsing in the cursors

in a remote chat room at the first hint

of the apocalypse—now the future

is pixelating into his beard, his

singing hushed:  A million Trojan horses

on the horizon are circling the skies—

beware the dark dreams spinning above you,

beware the dark dreams spinning above you.

 

The rough beast does not slouch, he walks erect

while speaking at rotary club luncheons,

charity balls, and a late-night public

access channel, building his dominion.

He is pudgy, hardly a feral child

brimming with preternatural powers

(an unassuming grass-roots antichrist),

yet he has been cultivating his charm

since the advent of sin. The world won’t end

with a whimper, but with a mobile phone

ringing out the Requiem Aeternam

beneath the seat of an El Camino:

then at rest stop near Idaho Falls

he’ll catch the endgame from a bathroom stall.