Monday, March 14, 2022

Canto 14 on a License Plate by the Getty Center

I saw the pictures: a Dante-esque
The 405 swathed in flames,
The trees and buildings
                Aureoled with Hell.

There were accounts of children rescued
From the vast crypts underground
             The Hollywood Hills,
But it was hard to see, 
                   From the visuals,
How that could be, how anything can
Withstand the fury of traditional perdition.

But now there is no trace, not one
Smoke-scarred tree or
            Shadow on the marble,
As if it never happened, 
     Gaia's easy profusion
             A sort of revenge.

But nothing is certifiable as real anymore,
         Not even symbol-rich infernos
         Or reports from those one knows
Of apocalypse's found
          And narrowly averted.

It happened on another timeline,
     Where the old myths were destroyed 
And the things that would disable our will
                 Were lifted away
           Like liens off a baby

And we were left with the impression
                             Of innocence
     We had before it began:
          No alien/human hybrids,
          Porcine DNA, adrenochrome,
          Baby torture, clones,

Just mediocre art from a nasty plutocrat
      In a wheelchair 
To make us slaves go "hm"
           In voyeuristic disgust.