.  .  .  .  .  . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
   .  .  .  .  .                                       In dedication to
 .  .  .  .  .  . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm     everyone who was lost
   .  .  .  .  .                                        or lost someone
 .  .  .  .  .  . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm      September 11, 2001:
   .  .  .  .  .                                           Anada 440
 .  .  .  .  .  . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm      "Apocalypse Again"  
                                                           by Desert 
 mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
                                                           09/30/01
 mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

 The paper wafted out
 of the world trade center
 flew 3 miles across the Hudson
 in a last-ditch attempt
 out of all this madness of a 
 3rd world war; they say
 these things come in threes
 [no man of woman born
 shall harm Macbeth].  
 An hour away
 Rebecca studies to teach
 maybe.  Now nothing
 is certain.  
 We repeat horror over and over.
 Video loop trying
 to make it real as the
 world screams: make it unreal!
 Make it unreal!  
 Make it real until
 our skin breaks collectively
 until we are all under
 tons of rubble and
 suddenly childless.  
 Make it unreal because
 it is terrorism's victory again;
 because today 
 we are not saying revolutionary, these
 are not our chosen rebels.  
 After breaking news
 after the hysterical laughter
      [campy, this, and overdone]
 subsided, I sat
 in the hall of my high school,
 silent.  
 Watching the sky through
 a high window, the blue
 complementing the
 color scheme of
 lockers walls and carpet,
 small clouds passing
 and meaning nothing,
 I tapped my feet 
 together, feet in
 fishnet stockings and 
 black plastic mary janes
 heels two inches
 telling myself a story:
 In the story
 which is as real as anything 
 the morning of world war III
 I can feel my feet.  
 And I can.
 I can feel the silence thick around me.
 Even now the TV is on, has been on
 when the car coughed and ran
 when the tape deck played and 
 voices on the radio spoke to me
 and lying in the graveyard
 eyes closed hands crossed sensing
 the silence filtered all, thick
 as fog around me
 hours ago I thought of my suicide
 hours! --and felt life was hard
 and cold strange broken.
 This fog, thick as
 phleghm, 
 temperature cool as corpses.
 It is [not] OK.  It is 
 [not] going to be OK.
 World war 3 was
 something like boogeyman
 we threw three words around 
 like we were immortal, 
 would never be drafted,
 had no relation to New York,
 would never face atrocities,
 never discover
 humanity versus inhumanity.
 My math teacher is
 trig-passionate
 he closed his text and 
 said "math just seems
 futile today"
 24 hours ago I
 joked like death wasn't 
 on the back porch
 2 hours ago Afghanistan
 was not a part of my world
 --another reality.  Mine
 could get no worse.
 Pills I've got
 don't knock me out.  
 Yesterday's nothing is
 more than 6000 could
 dream of.  
 
 mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
 . . .------
  * * ------  by Desert                              (c) anada.net  09/30/01
 -----------
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