It has been said that inside every cynic is a disappointed idealist:
Pt. 1: Apocalypse
When I was a boy, my blue eyes were bright.
When I opened them, behind frightened irides
On one side of the screen,
I sit comfy on the couch, eating a bowl of Napoleon ice-cream.
I like vanilla and strawberry is tasty, but
someone else can deal with the chocolate.
On the other side they screamed their sensational routines:
“—Why would heaven let us in? We’d tear down the gates for walls!
The oceans boil, volcanic skies roil – I’d say that Hell is here.”
“Alrighty, well, that’s farmer Dell. I’m sure we’re not his cheese.
Cassandra, dear, you know it all. Some weather, if you please!”
“Jim, you have to get everyone out of there. This time tomorrow all of downtown is going to be swept up in scorching afterwinds and irradiat—”
“Ho-ho! Unbelievable! Sounds like a perfect day to catch some rays!
Head on out folks, don’t delay – you wouldn’t want to waste away!
Coming up: They said and swore that power lies behind closed doors.
With qu(wh)iet men and loud paper but they’ve never seen our leader!”
“I’m super pure. I bought the cure. I brought the lure. My clean dollars.
My claim; dejure. My reign; furor. My opponents were – facts are my words.”
I glance around the room,
refuse to deal with my refuse
– it’s all I can do to take my meds –
maintain sanity, norms, living.
I wonder when mom is coming home to put everything the way it ought to be?
Pt. 2: Borkalypse
The canine, Bork – if he had a name – smells something lost amongst what once was a home.
He digs down through dirt and rubble for his prize, a bowl-shaped pelvis.
He gnaws on it with bright blissful, blue eyes.