Bruce McRae


“He who fears he will suffer already suffers what he fears."
There isn't enough time.
Feast, fast and famine,
there aren't enough bullets or ballots,
minutes in an hour,
bread and circuses, wine, jellybeans,
shoelaces, pencils, kerosene . . .
Grab whatever you can hold, a storm
is coming, night is coming,
the Mongol hordes, a flood, a hurricane,
an edict of outlandish resolutions.
Count your fingers. Mind your head.
Are you prepared? We're not
prepared for the worst at best of times.
Because here comes the fire
mother warned us would burn
through us and all, across bourn
and county. A cleansing fire,
an insatiable yearning, a furious curiosity,
a blessed inferno, its millions mouths
a locust swarm, demon spawn, a plague of weevils.
Save the children and the gold. The cat.
The family bible, handed down
from son to son, from sun to sun,
the Earth shaking its molten pudding.
This is your captain speaking.
We're in for a rocky ride, downdrafts
and turbulence, wild-eyed kinetics,
a submolecular chain reaction.
Buttercup, it's best you buckle up,
we're in the arms of Jesus now, fate
is destiny, destiny fate, our blighted future
not so fortuitous as planned and Venn diagrammed.
Gather up your cargo, war is coming.
Sound the warning bells of wide renown.
Run, rabbit, run, the vulcanologists' decree
states quite openly and obviously
the end is nigh, the bulls are running, tides are high.
Swallow hard your raggedy-assed medicines,
we stridently disagree to disagree —
it's an asteroid the mass and gravity of Amsterdam.
The sun's gone out. The moon
has fallen down. We're doomed, I tell you, doomed. 
As sure as shooting, darlings, as sure as sugar.
The psychic foretold all this to me, but would I listen? 
I would not listen.