Author’s Note: this piece is NOT a forecast of doom, not in any way.
That is incredibly important to note. Instead, it’s two things.
First, it’s a snapshot of things which have already happened, as well as my disappointment and anger about how the situation has been handled, thus far. It is one artist, responding to real world situations, through the medium of art. That should be easy enough to grasp.
Second, it is a warning NOT to behave as if nothing is wrong or different and NOT to behave as if the world is ending. Neither extreme view is correct. Something real and dangerous is here but need not be catastrophic.
I write poetry for a variety of reasons, one of which is what I refer to as a personal “exorcism“. It’s one of the ways that I personally get my thoughts together, for what needs to be done.
In writing out worst case scenarios, I get poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where they might be properly dealt with, in an adult manner.
That being said, the following is not at all a pretty picture. Fear is a constructive tool, when properly guided toward preparedness and prudence.
So, I encourage you to allow yourself just a few moments to wallow in the fear, as well. Then get busily back to the business of a productive life.
Happy Friday the 13th!
sweeping
uninformed leaves rustle a bit
and roll over the usual yard
nothing yet, appears to sit
in a space entirely too soft, nor hard
while standing in the cues
of what sounds already are,
in the distance, hear the clues
of misery, sweeping wide and far
an invisible, mushroom leverage
lays its breaking boot of
concrete and leaden sole
atop the teeter totter
leans down, shifting its tonnage
with devastation under its
unforgiving weight
bar graphs fly off their easels
ticker tapes spin out and fizzle
time cards shred themselves with panic
and punch clocks fall off walls
to dive bomb the rows of empty desks,
which explode into kindling
all around
file cabinets are set ablaze and
the rodents are overworked,
spinning all those little,
interlocking wheels
of the intercom system
it’s entirely too loud
in the staff room
and the commandant
can get no sleep
despite his bedtime story
being piped through
the loudspeaker
outside is the warm normal,
a blue sky, serene balm of certainty
a textbook spring,
assurance nestled
in the obvious dream
but some strange worm
has crept into the ear of the dreamer
and wiggles its way
down to the lungs
where it cripples
the casual breath
combat is hand to hand,
through negotiations
sterilization weaponization
settling old scores,
between complete strangers
the best assassin is always
one the target
already knows well
taking dinosaurs
right out, at the knees
pyramids and castles
close their doors
refusing to check the coats
of the newly and arriving guests,
the overloaded sled of dead,
pulled by black, wheezing horses
turned away at the door,
on account of their
inconsiderate lack
of a reservation
or at least the common decency
to drag along a chest of gold
with which to bribe the bellhop,
he who rings that iron bell
that sullen, tolls,
reverberating and shaking
the whole of the kingdom
wide and through
a brown bag sandwich lunch
sits near the front door and goes stale
there are no baby cubs to suckle
at the teet of intelligence
since, all the babies‘ eyes
have been pulled out
and stapled to screens,
screen doors and screened mouths
and boxes of screens of varying sizes
each drawing buckets
of unhealthy surprises
from the freshly dug,
poisoned well
trees, a currency, vital commodity
their crushed skins all disappeared,
the traders find none of their
hides in the markets
now more prized than gold,
is a simple mop
to wipe away the mess
circles form and fall apart
sticks fly at one or the other
or both at once
funny how the numbers
play their cruel tricks
allocating the meals of the masses
to boards of a few dozen
or six
as digits of ones become thousands,
billions divide into segregated pockets
of six, five, four or less
eventually,
someone
or something
must come along
and mop up
the mess
kings decry and verily decree
a restless tribe
casts lots,
to question the gods
whether to dig in or to flee
but the answers are yes,
to each and every question,
so sayeth the oracles,
in throwing up their hands,
choosing instead,
to call in for a sick day
no parades pound the streets
one must turn the earth to gather eats
wall off the oceans, sink all the fleets
dim the lights, freeze the meats
a foul wind wails over the dizzy heads
and through the nervous heart
scout upon the watchtower and wait
as machine belches and cranks to start
a breeze blows in
unhappy news from the east
a mad king crumples up the paper,
stoning the raven messenger, dead
as if it mattered, not in the least
soon ancestors say their prayers
closing their eyes, just for practice
all the ice rafts are full
and shoving off, with final waves
their lanterns go dark
over a feverish horizon
quell, if you, will the wild rumor beasts
it stops not the hunger,
nor the need for the priests,
for divine protection and
rites of passage
into the never
of night and time
emptied halls and banquets broken
plays where nary a word is spoken
cold feet frozen,
chapel coughs up people
stockpiles of goods and caskets
confusion, gratis, in gift baskets
and praying hands, pried from steeple
minds blinking, frozen, in their tracks
the wood chipper roars
for more easy snacks
like lining up dominoes
or graham crackers
the wounded’s IV unit,
given to campaign backers
since some lonesome despot,
wrapped in mist
must sit the wake with what remains,
rule with the iron fist,
over the land of the dead but free
the endless hordes of weeping
hungry, Dickensian urchins are we
hand me down frowns
and mouth to mouth, creeping
beat and fan the furnace flames
ideas, flailing and failing
burn all those treasured sames
arson greedily replaces sailing
as the new sport of official Rome
gather wood and gather tinders
slaughter the calf
and smoke over cinders
and nail down the doors,
seal off the hearth of home
leap now, two whole seasons far
and spy with that digital, electric glass
what evil now, cometh nigh
and just how twisted
is that monstrous thing?
the Heavens hold an angry star
Titans conduct a foul, black mass
Distracted by pointing fingers at why
a wretched agenda for the blacklisted
who bear worst, the brunt of the sting
when mansions, missions,
shacks and shelters
close all their fearful shutters tight
to ward off invaders
riding on gargantuan wings,
hydra heads
hunting through the choking day
consuming through the ravenous night
the monument must,
by necessity, be
simple and we imagine that it might say
there once was, here,
long ago, that is, ‘til today
a clueless band of marauders
who conspired to steal the fires
of eternal life
now they vanish
more each day,
leaving a legacy
of fledgling understanding
and a salty, palpable,
useless strife
nothing
is ever anyone’s
to steal
or to
own the right
at most,
all things
we briefly borrow,
to quickly stroke
and hold
what hubris, it is
placing strings
on a temporal,
flickering light
one so easily
blown out
by a simple, new
draught of cold
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
(Magus)
The new book is out now, on Amazon:
Chaos Comes Apart
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