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.