All the clocks stop at midnight.
A butterfly flaps its wings,
and they shred under the brunt force
of shifting poles. White-jacketed scientists
in white rooms stand passive as two colliding atoms
give birth to a black hole—ravenous child
that drinks and drinks, and is never sated.
An improbable combination of zeroes and ones
creates silicon sentience; every computer
experiences epiphany; every machine begins
to erase the futile gestures of humanity.
Saucers hang like lazy silver cigars, each full
of little grey aliens with little grey zap guns.
The dead get up, take a stroll, and famished from their repose,
crack open skulls like walnuts. The four horsemen
(those real live cowboys) ride in, whooping, hollering,
and make a great ruckus on their express train steeds.
A meteor swings in, joins the hullabaloo; the sun swells
and bursts with pride; and mushroom clouds bloom like poppies.
Meanwhile, Christ and Muhammad slice open wormholes,
and usher refugees to salvation. Buddha sits serene
on a Himalayan mountaintop, grooving to the poetry
of unraveling reality, palms open as if to offer
a last chance at transcendence. Beneath the curve
of a porcelain blue tsunami, Cthulhu stretches
his long, long limbs and crawls out of bed. And in Tokyo,
Godzilla offers his home town a final flaming kiss goodnight.