Kneeling

Kneeling's curve exemplifies
our day and age,
steadily and continuously
rising, ever upward
and outward, like
some kind of wayward
phallus. "Fuck you,
all of you," it screams,
"We were here once. We
used the planet exactly
as we wanted, twisted it dry
and ran ourselves into the ground.
So what?" Exactly.
Who will miss us, exactly,
when we're gone? Doubtless,
the roaches will have a
harder time finding food,
but surely they'll be
happy to see us go.
Nearly every living thing,
including all the fish,
will be dead in due time.
Will our greatest works
have been in vain with
no one to see what we
left behind? Will
the Emancipation Proclamation,
will Gandhi, will
Nelson Mandela be remembered?
Or Leaves of Grass,
or The Importance of Being Earnest,
or Dave Kneeling's
earnest and selfless studies?
Will they all just wash away
with our corpses, into
the risen oceans, into
oblivion, into dust?
If so, what are we to do
in the mean time? They say
the answer to love is more love.
Oddly, it seems that should be
the answer to our deaths too.
How to love the deaths of us?

(2007)