The Day The Sky Exploded


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


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)

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