The Day The Sky Exploded
What kind of space hero
sets out to save the world
wearing only a stern scowl,
a plaid sports jacket,
and no tie?
Especially with all these post-impact
arch-enemy of love asteroids
crotch-punching the sky
In a world in which Ground Control
can be bribed for a thong-toting trust fund
and a half box of Ritz Crackers
and Space Stations are forced to consume
entire medicine cabinets full
of your mother’s vicodin
in a vain attempt to remain airborne
despite their overly-nurtured fear of heights
a love like ours
well,
it just didn’t stand
much of a chance
But then, what does these days?
When Flash Gordon is no longer considered
part of the food chain pyramid
and Buck Rogers has been pulped into
a goddamn vegetable
Extinction is currently getting an overly-priced hand job
in a rusty Men’s Room
that smells disturbingly like Taco Bell
Earth Location: Terminal B
near gate 37
Denver International Airport
aka DIA
(you no longer love me?)
its arrival a mere three or four dozen strokes
away from being considered predictably emanate
sensing the true fate of such things
our Love’s animals start behaving irrationally
flying into shit they wouldn’t
ordinarily fly into
jumping off tall cliffs
in huge numbers
when ordinarily they might be
more inclined to sit glaring
behind their foreclosed zoo bars
plotting half-assed escape routes
and daydreaming about
eating tourists
sticking their dicks inside
promiscuous Recycle Bin’s
doves strapped up in dynamite
terror bombing
any establishment that sells greeting cards
or his and hers tattoos
(I already miss you)
and the sort of pricks
who throw parties
and rent clowns
(old poem that almost made it into the Aftermath book but didn’t)
Multiverse Johnson 