Some of the Old Gods

Fame. She’s blinder than Justice. Age does that. 
Fate burrows in the desert
like some lesser chicken. 
Listen closely outside Needles and you can hear fate laugh.
Philosophy is a consolation still,
to some degree.
Prophecy has a new podcast on Spotify.
Alex Jones locked Providence in a dooms-day bunker in upstate New York.
Academics who love Chaucer, Love O’hara and his lunch break hum-drum.
2022. The whole world tries to make sense of something,
and nobody can tell me what that is.
The old gods aren’t returning calls.
I’m still worried I’m not cut out for this.
I’m stuck in what I know.
Roland was drowned and I can’t let it go.
Dan was hit by an 18-wheeler. Ty too.
Tabatha overdosed. Paul was shot.
There were suicides. So many. I can’t let them go either,
though the names seem to have faded.
The rest of us struggle to read the portents.
The world is not ending. Humanity may be in its twilight.
There’s a job to be done. And here’s all I know:
Everything existing Is absurd. Random particles.
Logue got ahold of Aphrodite,
a thousand swords turned to doves. And scattered.
There are those who remember the sound of a pay phone 
ringing outside a public library.
I have a cigarette and a mug of coffee.
I love the things that try to destroy me.

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