[While going through some old poetry today, I discovered this little ditty. I couldn’t resist posting it.]
I am sick of the postapocalypse. Here we are,
eating human flesh on the Strip in casinos burned
by atomic fire about to devour some successful
rancher’s son while masked a la Eyes Wide Shut.
We’re supposed to converse w/ what seems like
an AI but we’ve gotten curiously sidetracked,
this awkward looking young woman and I
as we’ve traversed the terrible wastes doing,
well, whatever it was to do that came along.
We’ve passed through this night waiting
for someone to sneak into a guard tower in
an old airport control tower. In real time.
Here we are, perched on a hotel in Vegas,
a high enough vantage point to see the bombs
go off in the desert. Here we are, burying mountains
of nuclear phlegm beneath plaques bearing the universal
hieroglyphic for, well, death. The postapocalyptic
has infected us. We breathe its miasma and blow it
out our eyes in radiant spectacles of retro-horror
nuclear nostalgia from an alternative twenty-first century
in which some mysterious stranger rolled into town
w/ “a big iron on his hip” and we were her, blowing
ghouls away. We’re all patiently waiting for the MMO.
 Nudge, nudge . . . Bioshock (Quincey, MA: Irrational Games, 2007).
 The future can only look like the past.
 Marty Robins, “Big Iron,” Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs (New York: Columbia Records, 1959).