On the Eve of the End

On the eve of the end, the Mayan-made end of all things

I sit and drink coffee, writing and reading, unwilling to meet coming darkness sleepy with unmarked pages

On the eve of the end, the Mayan-made end of all things

I sit and worry about whether I should worry, scarring my final hours with wide-awake meta-worry

On the eve of the end, the Mayan-made end of all things

I sit and notice that no one seems too worried really, unable to see the dark comet hurtling at us

invisible, uncoated with ice and stone, heaven’s stealth weapon

On the eve of the end, the Mayan-made end of all things

I sit and wonder if I shouldn’t have outgrown my Mayan stage in junior high, counting vigesimally

–we are at about 5 in our countdown from 20 to nothing-at-all, a real zero

On the eve of the end, the Mayan-made end of all things

I sit and ponder Max Stirner, who set his cause on nothing, and consider what he would have thought

since both his ego and his own, and all the hell else, are about to be naughted, regardless

of whether they are naughty or nice (A Christmas Apocalypse, Dec 21)

“I have been so naughted in Thy Love’s existence that my nonexistence is a thousand times sweeter than my existence.” Rumi said that, and I have stood in his place and looked up at

his turquoise dome beneath the azure Turkish sky, the latter about to darken and the former about

to fall

On the eve of the end, the Mayan-made end of all things

I sit, and I wait, and I expect

nothing