First, we’re expelled from the garden, then
slavery, the ten plagues beginning your disaster
is my miracle (“and so the Red Sea rose up”),
Pompeii leaving a crusty museum, the Black
Death sweeping Europe under its rug of sputum
and pus, the ocean’s white tooth rising from
its dark gums to crack the Titanic, then Cindy
ditching me when I was seventeen and not
ready for ditching, Chernobyl and Bhopal,
all quiet on the balmy beaches of Phuket,
Haiti tossed into the blender, hurricanes and
quakes, and then the entire menu of prophesies
laid out like a buffet, Nostradamus, the Aztecs,
the Doom-Man handing out leaflets at 41st and
Avenue of the Americas, Armageddon Online,
my best friend’s diagnosis like a death sentence
(hell, it IS a death sentence), my son’s marriage,
the mess arising from the over-reach of power,
the knock on the door, the nervous soldiers,
everything we know changing in an instant.
Change your name. Change your clothing. Change your habits and your commonplace routines. Change the routes you use to move across the city’s warp and weft and change the many tools with which you lay your hands on such conclusions as you may.