John Fenlon Hogan

 

 

 

Post Apocalyptic 

 

 

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— 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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