We live in a bubble speckled gray

gardens withering since the sun ghosted,

it visits now again mostly, it’s memory

wrapped in popsicle, with water tube noodles

beach balls and pails in comparison

to genuine mirth, because the sky is gasping

overgrown with rapid fungus hoisting

up on a petard I found with my cracker jacks.

Now the cover’s gone, so we all wear

like spacesuits walking and staking

vampire wannabes, they only want blood

to bathe in, driven mad by the greenhouse

fruits and vegetables rendered soulless

soylent chicken of the sea, knowing it’s people

we shrug and que sera, for humanity’s final

chapter is called cannibal reckoning.