No More Fish

Mostly, I am able to circumvent
and short-circuit all the doubts
each morning, insisting in
the mirror that no one really
sees me limping, that the sky
is not in fact falling, that there
are still plenty of fish in the sea.
The Truth does have a way of
rearing its ugly face, but my
daily efforts to obfuscate the facts
continue nevertheless. I fear it
is not for too much longer that
I'll be able to run and hide. It's
one thing when little pieces of
the sky fall bit by bit, but when
the whole thing falls at once,
there's just nowhere to run and
it becomes nearly impossible to
pretend the firmament still
actually hangs up there. Even
worse is when the ground
beneath your feet disappears.
I mean, I grew up fishing.
Some of my dearest memories
involve fishing with my Pop on
the open ocean. Still, this will be
the last century that knew
fish not raised on farms.
The sky has fallen people,
there is no more north pole,
no more fishing with Pop,
no more wild, no more
tomorrows, not really, if we're
frank with ourselves. Where
are the choirs of apocalyptic
trumpets, the string sections
to welcome the twilight of our
days, the mad mallets of tympani
to usher in our pitiful ends?
Where are the voices of our
conscience and our dignity?
Oh, right, sorry, forgot--
they're off fucking in the fields
of Abandon and Avarice,
making each other cum hard
amid the stumps of the groves of
our collective terrestrial being.
I just wanted to say Goodnight,
good luck, and remember that
we once lived on a planet with
oceans full of fish.

(2006)