Who has the hands to fix the world?
Between the invisible hand of laissez-faire
And the omnipotent hand of government
The tiny hands of the Donald
And the mighty hand of God
I can’t help but feel we’re all being a little unrealistic
[Somewhere near miracle street, Pennsylvania Station]
The apocalypse is etched in his sagging eyes
More bombastically than poster-board repentance
Nostradamus lullabies quell his poetry;
His lips parched for the Blood of Christ
Dr. Tyson has succeeded again at capturing the kid scientist in me on Sunday by a quick review of the Earth’s history and, in part, it’s future. I’ve always thought ancient species were the coolest thing. Looking at a fossil is almost like looking at an alien, but from our own life. It’s a humbling reminder of both the creative power of evolution and the incredible aptitude of life itself. I remember in 8th grade Earth science one particular page of our Reference Table. It contained the entire history of the Earth detailing the age of the Earth, it’s continents, major species, and major extinctions. I marveled at the apocalypses these ancient aliens faced, too primitive to do anything about it or even understand what was happening to them, and wondered what’s next for Earth and who will survive. I struggled to imagine an Earth completely covered by water, an Earth completely ruled by trees, an Earth with hellfire everywhere and barren of life; it’s very much an alien world that always changes it’s face. And yet all the history was so easy to find—you just have to dig underground to find the past. Since I didn’t want to look at rocks for a living, Earth science waved goodbye to me back in the eighth grade. But I never forgot about the expansive history of the Earth condensed down onto that half-page Regents Reference Table. With it, I could predict the end of the world. Continue reading
When go to bed
I want to dream of angels
Trumpeting, trampling, trembling
Teaching their anthem to delight us
And they sing each note so smooth
…
Slowing the beat of the drum
Satan tills bells ringing dumb
Silencing the bawling screaming demons
And bringing nightmares from the crack in the wall Continue reading
In blood and longing,
The word “apocalypse” is written
In scarlet letters on her arm
She screams
At it every day
The muscles never give way
And Isaiah never comes
Post-Quantum Poetry 