UNTITLED DOCUMENT

wasn’t anything the prophets said
changing their stories to accommodate the end
not the people
with their 
politics of convenience
it was James Hansen on the Senate floor
punk rock and Cornell West
though any bearers
of truth or prescience
died with it or told
to sit down so they did
whoever it was
knew this Century would be the last
we’ve lost them
their message sunk
by rank rallies for a system
kept our eyes on towers while beneath us
the floor open-mouthed, wide
no comfort anyhow
to have known then or know now
fate’s circling it won’t land
everything’s moving there’s no skin
left on the monolith
the old gods turned over and
tumbling
my
backyard’s overgrown
the charming blue petals
strangling
in root and tacky vine
overrun
with lizards
red-necked and blue on their spine
looking at me sideways with
their lizard eyes
through the window
through the glass door
standing at my desk
I must be
like a meteor to them
an event
they splay stuck against
planks of the wood fence
between my little rented square
of briny moss and tall grass
and all that’s out there
beyond
the tree-line
across the roofs
and the vast sky
giving me their darting
unblinking
side eye
waiting.