Today it begins

The humanities are already dead,
shocked through a faulty surge protector.

Dirge projector.

Purge director.

Urge erector.

The beat goes on. and on. and on.

The humanities are already dead, twitching but
not beating, not on life support or feeding tubes.

Dead in that way they make movies about.

Dead in that spiritual way we use clichés about,
in that psychological way we go on about,
in that mystical way we throw crystals out
onto dining room tables covered in yesterday’s news.

The humanities are dead, long live

What?

The inhumanities? The Hindu manatees? The inconsequentialities?

The forgotten face of Socrates?

I’m an Aristotle man, myself. Dig that rhetorical rag.

Let’s pretend a glorious sad death
on the rocks at the bottom of a pacific cliff—
a shattered bottle glistening on the speckled gray
beside a twisted corpse.

Assisted force? A fisted horse? Hysterical source?

A suicidal course.

A note in the breast pocket of a tweed sports coat.

“In a shaker filled with ice pour
two oz. of gin.
Shake and strain
into a chilled glass.
Garnish with a lemon twist.
Mist with a whisper of vermouth.”