Anticipate the fate of the world within two breaking news stories about the decline of a colony of bees
The muted sounds of a thin, pale-shouldered woman in the den shaking off her knee-high boots
No cliffhanger, no pit of perpetual fire, only swift drafts through a window, picking up dust and circling like small tornadoes on a kitchen island
You'll open your bag, take out a pad, a fine-tip pen, write where you are and blow kisses into the clouds
Your last day will be as normal as a park walk with three freshly-shaven pit bull terriers, slight wind chill, housewives fast walking to the beat of syllables about freshly-cut bread
There will be no one there to shut down your Apple Store accounts, to cancel your gym memberships
Unlocking doors and locking legs, we will be in patterned onesies with O Magazine in hand, letting steam from a mug obscure our vision of the oncoming apocalypse
Our once congruent words will fall, mid-sentence, lose meaning and twist into shards of verbal wire
It will not all be fire and brimstone, no, for we will continue to exist within the bounds of a picture frame, vicariously being, only furniture until we become fossils of an engineered past
As quiet as an insect's legs on a barren mahogany floor, the proverbial ground will slip beneath our feet, cascading us into the big sleep

09/10/2013

Posted on 09/10/2013
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