“Doom is there staring, everywhere/I go, like a brazen coyote/dead center of the road/half-starved so it doesn’t care anymore.”
A dying off of threadfin shad
as forest burns inland.
Elsewhere, gold leg frogs, distressed
by mist
climb to the top of the glass.
Deer take refuge
near wind turbines. Dolphins
beach themselves
for a respite.
Fling yourself into the abyss
or drink sassafras tea
either way there’s a lump
left in your throat
an unswallowed rock
more dirt to digest.
Apocalypse is a deck of cards
shuffled once too often
that can’t be put back
in the pack.
Doom is there staring, everywhere
I go, like a brazen coyote
dead center of the road
half-starved so it doesn’t care anymore.
As you reach for the paper
this half-wolf casts its yellow eye on you.
A state of nerves
taut as catgut
ripe as a cantaloupe in
open midday sun
the fruit that fell outside
the Edenic trash bin
under the blue window bleaker
than what Robert Lowell said
only now his dead crows
can’t maunder. Instead, they pick
at desiccated seeds
as if reading the tarot with their beaks.
I’m a mere witness
yet I blurt out “SPF” on a regular basis
while rubbing sunscreen into
my reddening face
as conversation veers
from bouillabaisse to fascist plots
from family ties
to family plots. I gaze
into steaming pots
as into cloudy crystal balls
for both are as turbulent
as urgent. My noodles
get overcooked
otherwise, it’s all ambiguous.
I’m living a life based on
texture, not ideas.
Earthquake, hurricane, blizzard
rainstorm eclipsing the road
while lightning strikes the earth
I’ve been through all of that
and thought I’d seen the worst
but I have not. You can always add
another thousand locusts
to the pack, goose up the wind
or pour another river into the cloud.
Like the apple snail, I’m adaptable
yet lacking gills, I’ve crossed
off water as my new habitat
and have also rejected interplanetary travel
for now, at least until I get
my affairs in order, which probably
means I’m earthbound
subject to the sudden flux
of the material world
despite not being materialistic.
Somewhere in a storm sewer
there’s a mood ring I lost
one I really need right now
but probably won’t get back
until the next biblical flood
brings that vital trinket right up on my front porch.
I’ll slip it on, smile bravely
go to the garage and unhook the kayaks
that will take me, my dogs and loved ones
into the new frontier
wherever that might happen to be
at any given moment.
Johnny Payne is the arts editor at Merion West. Johnny is a poet, novelist, playwright, and essayist. He has worked extensively in Latin American Studies, especially literature under dictatorship and Quechua oral tradition. He directs the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Mount Saint Mary’s University, Los Angeles. He earned his doctorate from Stanford University.
