Apocalypse Visions

I rolled around with you kissing at the base of a green landfill.

Your pearl white skirt like a lamb’s neck in my hands being strangled.

A hot beam of sun pointing directly at my eyes made me squint.

Turned you into a thousand octagons of primary colors between patches of sky.

Slowly I turned my neck away from you, impersonating my last breath.

A dreary pond of chlorine water somewhere burbles like an upset stomach.

I take my hand and pull my fingers through your hair, which smells like flowers

bottled in a factory and kept alive forever in a plastic bottle in your bathroom.

I have apocalypse visions while I am kissing you and they are of canned fruits

and vegetables filling up all the junkyards of the world, the ones not opened.

And I am waiting for the interstates to crack open because of the roots of trees.

But long before the interstates are cracked open the trees will be gone.

The apocalypse of the world will not be an empty thing.

It will come like a tourist walking through Manhattan, between blocks full of traffic.

It will look forwards and backwards and left and right and not see anything different.

At some point it will be incapable of walking forward any longer.