Apocalypse Witnessed from the Furthest Seat in the Theatre

Apocalypse Witnessed From The Furthest Seat in the Theatre

(Dear readers: just because we're busy fighting the fascist takeover of America doesn't mean we don't need poetry in our lives. Here's a "stream of consciousness prose poem" written shortly after election day by our friend Aaron Lantz from Kansas City, Missouri. —Marc)

From the furthest seat I have no vision. I have no way to see the stage where they will decide my own future, and yours. Here, the dust blows all around, being in the middle of the USA and bright with golden sun, yet gray all the same. The clouds aren’t here yet but I can feel them coming and because I can feel them I can almost see them and their gray is in my mind. On the stage they speak, and being unable to see them I remain unable listen to what they are saying either. I quietly stand up, and taking my black coat and black scarf, I leave the theatre and am followed only by a solitary wish to never again come back to this spot.

“Good-bye sunlight!” I cry as I walk. “Good-bye coming gray clouds! Hello storm in my own private night! Hello black coat and black scarf! Hello carrion birds over my own foolish head! Hello champion of the bitter declarations! Hello arrangements made for my eternal disapproval! Hello guardians of my closing eyes! Hello radiance cowering in the back of the theatre as I leave! Hello masks covering every face but my own! Hello thoughts that misunderstand every feeling! Hello bellowing hovercraft lodging itself in the weary moon! Hello feet trampling down the last blades of grass in the glassy sand! Hello curiosity quieting itself in the face of mad decisions! Hello happiness exploiting itself in the indulgent but fleeting summer! Hello running mountains and crawling stars! Greetings to the last emperors of the resigning universe! The rest of us call out a surrender in unison! We give up! We lie down in the streets and ask for silence! Tonight, everyone will leave this miserable theatre shouting in a sacred chant that the play is over, the spectacle finished. This is the last time that the curtain will make effort to fall. Out with the script and its multitude of meanings! Out with the directors shaking hands with their own lack of transparency! Out with billionaire dynasty disputes and rogue troupes wandering over deserted plains! Out with disagreements minted for our destruction!”

Joined in my solitary ramble by the multitudes sharing my horror, pain, and sorrow, we fall asleep into a new night of watchfulness and apprehension.

Later on, in that restless sleep, I see every flag that ever flew twisted in agony by the anarchic wind. Now those clouds that were coming early on converge and make a tornadic convalescence of humanity. We might actually recover. This sleep might not be the last and the silence may not be unceasing. Maybe we don’t surrender after all. I break off from the crowd and look out to the north. Another curtain appears in the distance. “Save me and my fellow souls from another play. This life of performance must end here!” I cry out again. Turning the wheel of the massive ship, I reach out my shaking hand. I want to strike a match on a new direction.

Nice! Very Allen Ginsberg. In McClure / Burroughs Kansas writing politics. And ending with some Kerouac hopefulness.