For Every Action, There is an Equal and Opposite Reaction (Or So They Say)
My love for you was scientific;
I always liked art more.
But you see, I think I get it now:
you mix some reactants,
get an explosion,
and this is supposed to be good.
Well babe,
I mixed all my love
and my hate,
and bottled it up with some regret.
You accidently drank it,
not knowing it was toxic
and it killed all the hope you had left.
And maybe I’d be sorry if I cared about anything,
but you see,
that accidently burned up in a lab,
one testing how much love I had left
to give you;
the results came back negative
which is just as well,
because love is overrated,
anyway.
End Of The Line
What if this bus were to enter a worm hole
somewhere near the campus physics lab
en-route to the downtown branch of the library?
What sort of planet will we land on?
Will we be able to find our way back?
If not, we’ll have to start a new human colony.
Does the driver automatically get to be leader?
We’ll soon find out if Lord Of The Flies was inevitable.
For the short-term we need to inventory the food on board.
Granola bars, candy, Gatorade, a couple of apples.
Not much to divide among twenty-two people.
I hope the plants here are eatable.
Who’ll be the first to try?
And, if the plant life here is intelligent,
do we eat it anyway?
It’s important to understand, if there’s no food supply,
the Donner Party’s biggest mistake was in waiting too long.
You have to eat your fellow travelers
while the flesh still includes some fat.
If we survive long enough to start our colony
breeding will be of paramount importance.
We’re in good shape there
with thirteen women and eight men,
a ratio of one-point-six-two-five to one.
But all these thoughts are irrelevant now.
The electronic message board is flashing:
End Of The Line.
On Average
It’s hard to imagine that the average world is dead
—of dark and low energy irradiation—when all around
life teems with wonder, albeit with struggle and dread
that too is buried underneath the bustling life abound.
It’s hard to imagine that really is the average world
when even at night there is no such corner as dark
no such color as black attached with fear; truth be told
it’s become a pollution—not an amazement—to the sky.
It’s hard to imagine of a world so empty when to me
it’s about “cherish, relish, embellish” and then “reduce,
reuse, recycle”—I’m trapped in this closed imagery
of abundance calling for an endless, careless abuse.
Until perhaps when the mother Earth we must leave,
will we finally realize what normalcy we brought to cease
