John Fenlon Hogan
I never thought I’d be the one to elegize the walking dead—
Sooner Hitler. Sooner money. Sooner my father,
preemptively, or, preternaturally, myself.
But here, in The Age of Sequels & Remakes, I can’t shirk the image
of taking a nine iron to the Western Hemisphere
of my best friend’s head.
I begin to wonder if human ingenuity amounts to just that:
betrayal and blunt objects.
Where is my fire-and-brimstone?
Where are my sins spread out before me for even my mother to see?
It never occurred to me that the Apocalypse is a disposition,
that it transpires on the inside—
I suck it up and do my best, and then I do my best
to keep my aesthetics to myself—