Anna Cates

The Second Coming

 

Political smut overcasts the sky
the dust bowl
rushing across the plains
while the white pines
whip with the wind—
a pathetic fallacy.

Lobbyists hustle Washington,
full of passionate intensity,
tiptoeing into negative capability,
the futility quivering.

The world’s a troll that’s turned to stone.
The poem’s a lie,
a Disco Word Orgy
that moons the sky
now kingdom come.

Read me! Read me!
it cries. Stanzas
stack up pig pile
like skyscrapers
then tumble
down to dust.

Deserts fill with dragons. Witches
ride their little brooms
like Halloween in July. Oceans wail.
Tectonic plates shift. Planets
line up like skid row inmates for lunch.

The sun shies away with wounded pride,
and the gay men green cheese grin.

Crows grow old beneath their feather boas,
waiting for the beast.

Turning, turning,
the world keeps turning,
waiting for the beast,
hunched on his haunches like Pan—
hairy, breasted, phallused—
Hecate.