Heat Death



The return to mother Ocean is what I was born for. Once I thought, told my family and friends, anyone who might miss me, When I die, bury me in a forest, let me fertilize the trees. Yesterday I felt differently. Take me to the ocean. Take me out of reach of man. Unclothe my body and return me to the womb. The cities, anyway, will return on their own. The dead, buried, anyway, will return on their own. In swampy Louisiana they bury their dead above-ground or their bodies resurface, and I don't mean reanimate. I imagine the end as our forced reconciliation with death. The earth rejecting us like a transplanted organ. Our coffins, jewelry, dog tags, bones and bones and bones, emerging out of the sod like pus expunged from a wound. Like the ocean's rise is antibodies. We've misbehaved and mother's come to collect us.






Subconsciously, I’m obsessed with the apocalypse. For about five years now I’ve had reoccurring dreams about the end of our world. But the strange thing is that in these dreams I enjoy the apocalypse. Impossible events take place: the sky catches fire, pools float, stones rise, grass turns blue—and all of it feels real and wondrous. Maybe I’m aware, on some level, that I’m dreaming, and so can delight aesthetically in what in real life would terrify me. I’m not sure, and I don’t know how to analyze it. What I do know is that destruction, when it takes place imaginatively—in dreams, art, jokes, and so on—can be cathartic, subversive, ‘creative,’ and that the whole ‘creation vs. destruction’ dichotomy is misguided, not to mention clichéd.





Many thoughts, mostly two. One is sharp, the other round. The sharp: is this what the concrete looked like to Eric Garner as he was losing oxygen screaming for his life? 


The round one doesn't matter.


Reading this sentence will render you unable to ever not pay attention to the screams of those in need.





Though this vision I’m about to describe is now almost a decade old, the image has remained fresh. The vision starts with all the clichés of a post-apocalyptic city; skyscrapers down to their knees reduced to a crumbling grey and glass; weeds and trees finding freedom in the cracks. Never ending smoke rise from the city’s many orifices, providing the only clouds in an otherwise clear sky. People are in a perpetual panic, punched with grief and horror. Everyone seems to be running in every direction looking for no place to go. I’m taking all this in when I spot a silver object descending over the scene. It is slow and proximity reveals its massive size. Its large shadow announced its coming and for a moment the commotion stopped and attention was given to the sky. A porcelain man was affixed to the crucifix with shiny nails resembling silver saucers. Deep burgundy dripped from the puncture of each nail. Crystal tears dripped in file down his smooth cheeks and I noticed my own cheeks beginning to burn. As the crucifix touched ground, the hysterics resumed and cries for forgiveness continued in endless waves. People had fast-built a makeshift stage around the crucifix and people formed a line to pay visit to the man who until that point, retained the glaze that cloaked his eyes. I must have protested but my words were drowned by the wails of every emotion and all I could do was stand back. Flashing lights and neon wreathed the crucifix now, marking the height of the fandom. It was only by mere coincidence that I was the first to spot the second crucifix coming down from the sky. It was not more than eight feet tall made of cedar, pine and cypress. But similar to the first crucifix, a man was also nailed to it. The second crucifix landed with no event and people continued to file into a line for the first man. And then rapture. 




“It’s a permanent prediction,” I’m told, but fear’s historic litany can't assuage concern. To think back, from a superhot summer spent swimming in a sea of liquifying creatures, to previous paranoias is almost darling. Imagine a time of barrels, candlelight, burlap and superstitions. Twin baby goats born conjoined at the head in spring, seamed terribly at the sides of their skulls with one uneven blot of a middle eye staring lidless and fixed, a mouth opening double long to scream at what it saw.  An autumn when the apples came in blue. A child running out to kick fresh tracks in soft snow freezing calf-deep in millions of maggots, seeping like pus from the soil. Rely on mass burning for comfort. Bad omens evolve. 







10,000 years
and we’re breaking up like this.
Like the ice
between the continents.
We met at a beach fire,
I devoured your every nature
but inside I know you’ll never be enough for me.

oil and 

Years in the wild
and now I can’t break my need for wanting
the next thing I’m designed for conquering.
We were young and in love,
I built you into religion
now I mine your body and refine your blood
that’s my generation.

arable land






The Chauvet Cave in France has the earliest known art work in the world—cave paintings dating back 30,000 years. (40,000 years ago, bears were already scratching the cave walls.) Crystal formations started to grow 5000 years later, after the landslide sealed the entrance. One of the archeologists dreamt of real lions after seeing the set of paintings of lions in the furthest chamber. The same chamber is where they found the only portrait of human life: the lower body of a woman connected to a bison head. It lies in partial view on a rock pendant that protrudes from the cave wall. Nobody can see the back of the pendant because crossing the fragile charcoal ground would destroy the human tracks. Let's make a pact to guard each other's secrets when the end comes. This is mine.