A Poem

Who IS this dude?  

This perennial badass 

continually striding into shot 

John Wayne smug 

to tell us that Man

with all his accolades

is no match for the MEG

for the alien

for the storm

for the

…whatever. 

And why is he so damn confident?  

He’ll have proved himself wrong by the end  

So what’s the fuss? 

Why make such a production out of it?  

I suppose it’s because we need it.

Psychologically, ya know?

Compared to some more 

unpleasant realities we’ve got ahead of us

it’s pretty comforting to just 

focus on the big fish. 

Lately, even that once-glamourous new hire

on the Board of Ideologies looks like 

she’s crumbling under the workload, 

and neither Bowie nor Prince 

would share with us that clandestine chord

intended to bring on the Rapture. 

Don’t even get me started 

on the Fermi Paradox.    

Oh yeah, Sugar, there’s something big coming down the pipe.  

Something absurd and horrific and 

inescapably human.  

It’s the same shit the /b/tards have been 

mainlining for years, and you don’t want to know 

where it took them.  You’re not ready.  

So let’s cook up some lesser demigods,

something blustery and dire, but a little top-heavy.  

After all, we’re still 

finding our legs. 

And in an hour or so,

we’ll have a little bit more confidence, 

enough at least to smile along 

when Statham doles out the old 

coup de gras to that frightful miracle,

delivering it off to blockbuster Valhalla… 

girded in a halo of Zbrush gore

and a eulogy of…

well let’s be honest,

probably something dumb.