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2025 collection: "Living in the Anthropocene"
week 01 dropping 01/01/2025



The hurricane came.

Greater than her sisters

Who swept through before

More magnificent, more original,

A new storm


Animam Agere

A cosmic whirlpool

Seen from space.


Lenticular clouds

On a cell phone

Shared over coffee

On sixty sixth street

And Amsterdam


With eggs,

Bagels,

Onion & tomato,

Our favourite diner,

Cited for vermin.

But still we go


The papers

Over a breakfast, late,

Show:

A UFO

A scout

A wheel

A herald,

Over the ocean,

A new Jericho.


A sky mirror

A water spout

A white roundel

A corryvreckan

For the ages...


"Evacuate

Get out!"


"Trumpets of angels,

Like an atom bomb!

Blowing up

The Eastern seaboard!"

The headlines shout.


The hurricane came

She began

With the wind turbines

Off Rhode Island

Crosses for dead giants

Spinning their blades

With an accelerated perfection

Before pitching them

Gravewards

Into the sea.


The grid oscillatory,

A stab of polygraphic energy,

Like a lie discovered,

A climate changed.

Already.


The hurricane came,

Myrtle was her name,

Quaint, old fashioned

Like she’d danced in,

Ja Da

From

The Jazz Age.


So she disguised

Her murderous purpose

Her mission

To castrophise

The city

Where other storms had failed


Visiting the sins of the present,

On the present.


The hurricane came.

And so she wailed,

Bansheed up the coast

Bending palm trees

In to queues

Of praying pilgrim maids


The hurricane came.

All the way to

Rockaway Beach

And wrenched the famous donut sign

From the famous bakery

Tossed on giant waves;

A lonely life ring

With no lives left to save.


The hurricane came.

In the city

She shook the buildings

A thousand fires broke out

Fires on flood

Cable hydras spat

Electricity


Subways sunken,

Darkened,

In to caves.

Watery graves

Cenotes

Footnotes

For the holocene age


The hurricane came.

And took

Those souls left

Borrowed from a future

Of wild fires

Storms

And scorched earth


Brown plateaus

Rising tides

White skies

Too bright

To see

Our children's misery.


The shopping cart

A while ago I read about the so-called

‘litmus test for individual self-governance’

A simple question’s asked:

Do you return the shopping cart?

Ever since I’ve been engrossed

watching customers in parking lots

While you have nothing to gain

from returning the shopping cart,

we all agree taking it back

is the right and easy thing to do

(except in forgivable emergencies)

It is also not illegal to forsake

your shopping cart, nor will anyone

punish you for not returning it

Your actions will not be

applauded, or reprimanded

So will you do the right thing

without pressure or reward?

Elsewhere I read society

is on track to collapse

in twenty years




In Lagos, a photograph of Marilyn Monroe watches me

in my hotel room as I scrub my body

like it’s a house preparing for an estate agent’s visit.

I think Marilyn wants to say something to me,

the way her mouth is always open

like a cheating husband’s zipper.

My mind carries more weapons

than all war-­torn countries combined.

Every day I survive is worth a medal or two.

I celebrate by buying more clothes than I can afford.

I must be rich; my void is always building

a bigger room to accommodate new things.

Today I woke up surprised I was still alive,

last thing I remember was my body swinging

from a ceiling of inadequacies.

In my head I have died in so many ways

I must be a god the way I keep resurrecting

into prettier caskets.

Marilyn’s photographer, Lawrence Schiller, said

Marilyn was afraid that she was nothing more

than her beauty.

You can call me arrogant, call me black Marilyn,

come celebrate with me,

I am so beautiful death can’t take its eyes off me.

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