Introducing
Darrell Petska
When the Zombie Apocalypse Arrives
And they are eating everything,
house and home,
reducing the world to a mere skeleton of itself,
and we the people are going
or gone for good from our former selves
weeds will overtake city and field
and critters inhabit our houses and businesses
and walk along our byways
trampling the pantheon of gods
and the denizens of the underworld
then in time some bug or bird or fish
will grow too big for its pants and prance or preen
across some venue worthy of notice to posterity
and begin to speak in tongues,
requiring creation of gods to make sense of it all
and newspapers and sporting events or their equivalents
and Tuesday will once again be Tuesday
or its equivalent,
and versions of poets or philosophers
will attempt to sound learned
as the next apocalypse begins gnawing at their appendages
and Earth drifts ever closer to the sun
and new gods wait in the wings.
Applications of Hawking
Our most senior professor we dutifully
congratulated for single-handedly
setting Twitter and Facebook ablaze
with huzzahs
his clever rimas dissolutas,
he was "honored" to announce,
had appeared in "the" journal "to great éclat"
(privately we rhymed him la-di-da
and cited Hawking's planetary mopes):
surely dozens might skim the tropes
marching our old prof's lines immortally on
at least till he's gone,
but if Hawking was right,
and 100 years or so from tonight
we receive the ultimate finger flip,
that big daddy rejection slip,
advertising our worths
in the face of Mother Earth's
potential demise is gratuitous.
And we felt a little less jealous.
The Cryonics
Dead man, be quiet. A fool of a merchant, who'd sell good earth
And Grass again to make modern flesh. from Jeffers, No Resurrection
Zombie-like wander the resurrected,
minus a part or two frozen beyond recovery,
and complain of conditions:
Could someone turn down the heat?
Where'd the trees go?
What's with gondolas navigating Times Square?
Longing for deepful sleep,
they disparage the young for their youth,
prate about the dearth of faith and beauty
and shirk all blame for what life has become:
Fools, selling their rest for current flesh
when their only bargain was then.
Eentsy Weentsy
My legs hear allmadam wants me dead!
Expunged from my lush philodendron perch.
"Fred! Quick! Get rid of it!" Ol' softy, Fred.
Because the world's such a mess,
surely Mrs. God has said to her Mr.
more than once
"You know that splendid blue-green paradise
I had you make? It's crawling with vermin.
Sweep it clean!"
Yet clamor on, people do,
the seedy seven billion,
though why I haven't a clue.
And busy spiders like yours truly,
thanklessly ridding plants of mites,
aren't allowed to be?
I say, on earth as in heaven!
Whered we all be had Mrs. God,
finding her Mr.s errand undone,
eaten him?
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