The Cerebral Catalyst

Be Prepared.

The Apocalypse could come
on angels' wings,
or on a baby's
breath.

My own children used to
mock me for cruising around
in four-wheel drive
with crates of supplies
under the seats.

They laughed
about my bottles of water
and the Plen-T-Paks of
toilet paper.

They didn't think that
the survival knife
was necessary;
or the Stay-Dri matchsticks
stashed in its floating compass
handle.

Then their mother died.
And the Chinese Red Army went crazy
shish-kebabing half of Asia.

The quarantine cards
got too hard to forge.
But, eventually, there was no one left
to check them,
anyway.

My last son died
without even having a shovel
to bury his neighbors.

But I stayed strong,
fueled by PowerBars and Tang,
and cowboy stories of the Wild
West.

(Fool me once, shame on me...)

I headed for the hills
and dragged my crates
up into this cave.

From here,
the sky is chromium
blue and the sunsets burn
like depleted uranium.

My own desert orchard of toxic
fruit trees sprouts from piles
of protein-rich compost.

The last soul alive,
with my crates —
and my fears;
no one to share...

(Mission Accomplished)

Who's laughing now?

______________________________________
Christopher Danaher lives in Pittsburgh, PA, where he writes twisted poetry and illustrates children's books. When he's not fighting rival kung-fu gangs, he rolls with the syndicate at Raw Dog Screaming Press.

posted 11.12.07.

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