"The Final Call," a poem from The Incentive of the Maggot


Is this the end of the world?
No, just the end
of the language that describes it.

So the end happens
but no one says anything.
It’s a downturn, not a collapse,

an economist explains.
The pair of polite apostles ringing
my doorbell are in no rush to die.

In the literature of the last days
there are many typos.
Dead, dread, bread, take your pick.

Whoever is saying it’s over
refuses to specify demands,
makes no ultimatums, it’s just over.

What kind of language is that?
Analysts are antic with interpretation,
think tanks are flooding with thoughts.

The global information network
backs up the data, streams it up
to one of Jupiter’s moons.

The ram’s horn heralds
our coming from the hills.
We’re enslaved by that sound.

We’re called to hang-glide
from hilltops into the open air
where we verify and counterpunch.

Ah, another soft landing.
Though this time a rather large sheet of sky
tangles and trails down after us.