DOOMSDAY FORECASTING
written transcript of a spoken word poem
it's the end of the world and i'm
running late for work.
i can't decide what to wear since
every day is a funeral, and while i
don't like to start the day cynical,
i opt for all black anyway.
the forecast says we're experiencing
biblical rain --
the sky is falling under the weight
of our inability to change --
and that shame lands shamefully
brief
while western winds heave sighs of relief
since we, the privileged many,
can confidently say
overhead for us only ever falls rain and
i try not to despair in polite company
so at work I say hi.
I ask how are you?
I say my wells and it's complicated-s and um-s
I ask about the small towns
all my coworkers are from.
i don't ask how we're supposed to
live.this.way.
i don't ask what the point of money is if none of us can afford
to be brave
i do say: I'm beginning to understand why my grandmother's bones always ached
before a storm.
and a storm is underway.
if you ask me why i'm a doomsday prepper, i'll tell you i have a dream
where i'm running full speed
towards a busy intersection
like my feet don't belong to me.
i'm yelling
i'm yelling
i'm yelling like these
lukewarm pleas
would stop machines
on a warpath down the street like they'd
listen to me, anyway
Thoughts and Prayers
Incremental Change
i'm yelling as i crash land
time of impact: inevitable
cause of descent:
waiting for the other shoe to drop
i'm the latest edition to a list of
brown bodies blamed for blocking traffic,
steaming in a policeman's kettle,
rallying cries covertly covered and
sidelined by a
byline in a broadcast that just reads
we
apologize
for your
inconvenience
Before the broadcast ends,
I'm admired for coming pre-plucked,
pre-skinned,
pre-cooked,
de-fanged,
and dressed in my funeral black.
It's not enough to be the perfect victim, so I'm scanned to see if I'm a good candidate for reanimation
[redacted for space]
but
i have eyes on what i hope comes next:
bread and fish.
community.
shelter.
built by love and protected by anger.
i'll tell you that it's not enough to
bring an umbrella
and hope the rain will pass
that one day
we'll wake up and be forced to face
the aftermath
when today is the end of the world
yesterday was doomsday
and tomorrow likely brings the
apocalypse
so surviving this
means we must undo all that needs to be
undone
cuz the only way to control a storm
is to become one.
so once they measure the shame in my gut,
check my tongue for
um-s, and
it's complicated-s, and
I guess so-s, and
deem me respectable enough,
they offer to trot me out with arms full of accolades into the spotlight.
I get a chance to shake hands with the Obamas in exchange for the chants in my throat
and a promise to play nice.
I'll want to tell you I'm terrified that this is what my parent meant
when they say they brought us to this country to have a better life,
of the implication that
the only way to whether the storm is to enter the eye