Hollywood doesn’t lie:
we are destroying ourselves.
But it’s more likely
one thousand years
from now
that rogue archeologists,
not aliens, will unearth
us and piece together
what once was.
With movie burnt eyes
and a cold front outside,
comparing my life
to their theories
seems as good a game as any,
and a comical one at that.
My body is a neatly
sectioned garden
marked torso,
extremities, and miscellaneous
with white plastic tags;
the traces of imported food
that line my small intestine
a ‘how-interesting’
muttered from
the inside of a dusty tent.
Will my petrified lungs
paint pictures of migratory
movements,
or simply tell-tale the joint
I smoked in my Freshman
dorm’s bathroom?
Funny to think
that my every action has
an equal and opposite
reaction on the history books
of the future.
How I’d love to carbon date
my bones a few thousand years
for good measure,
add tree rings
around the spinal cord
just to keep them guessing.
Tomorrow I’m nameless,
with a toothbrush,
chisel, and blunt hammer
between my ribs.
Today I’m alive
and no excavation
can label me otherwise.
LOCATION: Trinidad, Brazil (After watching the movie District 9)
