Y2 O.K.

by December 8, 2009 0 comments

Midnight’s moon: the only ball that won’t drop. Music
TV’s Prince caroled, the hit could make the Mariner miss.
“Tomorrow’s tomorrow; as normal as piss!” some assume.

I wanted to meet, “tomorrow”—Jinx or just January and
see what the Milky Way had to say and Maybe I’d get
xxxxxto see the dead city lights of Doomsday.

Last century’s last winter was too warm for jackets or socks so
xxxxxgrass spears etched white spots; soles so comfortable in
Texas Decembers, a warm-coolness: an old man’s skin.

All I heard were (hopefully) my last two double A’s
as some spinning nightmare spaded brain cells; as
gypsy curses from pundits and safety nay-sayers sang
inside—
MTV didn’t captivate, so I went out to stare at midnight
to see satellites and civilization fall: anarchy’s alright
with me. “We’ll be fine at the end of ‘99”. I had to see.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxThe
kitchen clock’s pug faced ticks told me the Minutes to Midnight
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxOutside—
All the stars looked 2K Compliant; inhumanly calm. Me:
xxxxxwhite as headlights; as plump as a guinea; captivated
wide eyed for the end of everything—and it’d be alright with me.

Damn happy—I might not need to tie a tie, harass
Honesty, or worry about shaving or passing Driver’s
Ed. Tomorrow, we’re all going to be animals. Just

me and the cock roaches running the world. Everything
xxxxxevil, crazy, cozy, and easy—in just jeans and a tee.
Shoes laces and boring bondage would be last century.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxAlone Outside—
Drilling for soda in Styrofoam, watching
specks flux in darkness; wanting to catch
some airplanes or snowflakes—neither came.

….

waiting for Midnight, to see this “compliancy”
….

waiting for Twelve: Midnight— and maybe this “anarchy”

I checked the
kitchen clock
12:06

Civilization seemed to carry on: complacency
and all the lights streamed as steady as ‘01.

Diesel engines licked the curbs with black spit
xxxxxas high schoolers shot at mailboxes and
scattered pimples on STOP signs with shotguns.

We were still the apexes of humanity;
in perfect compliancy: complacency.
Only I was anarchy: I
wasn’t

even

wearing
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxshoes.

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