the INLAID EAR

I had an Armageddon dream. The terrible explosion nearby sent its heat-maddened shrapnel scudding from a cloud like a decorative bottle. City center transformed into a great candle. Then the mind’s innate drive toward its own survival shifted the dream’s setting into a new panel. In this segment, I was recording the prior end-of-days scenario into my journal. This dreamself explored the symbology of fire in futures untouched by the Ragnarok fractal. In the later dream, I told you of the terror we felt standing in the hot hail of the world’s fall, now passed into the safe angst of a dream’s prior dream; but your face fell, and fell away, the final bell of the morning’s first alarm. I want to call life a blessing, shadows and all. But today, you’ll please treat me to your soft voice and a tender smile. Truth is, I'm not sure about this poem, but I so love the drawing by Heather Wilcoxon .

by John Yoyogi Fortes Post-apocalypse for dummies Food and water. Guard these with guns, and if you can, keep them loaded. The Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups stockpiled by two boys, ten years old— open your mouth and walk right up. Some kids might not shoot if beseeched by an old man with six orphans. Make your fort far above the ground. You’ll need a swing set to get in. Postcard blockhouses in the sun wait nervously while mobs of men rock and topple the clock tower. Sip water and watch. The children are quiet with their vantage view. People are living on the bridge. The honeybees became too few. There’s nothing Superman can do.