A small group of Cassandras warns of a looming disaster,
but no one heeds their words.The mountains lift themselves to gently slopping
peaks, wavy hairs running up their spines in old
lines of ascent.We make our way, living and dead smelling of
Freud's stale cigars and Einstein's scrambledeggs, re-membering the animals
slaughtered, caged, or enslaved.Perhaps we'll begin again, worshipping cloned
wild beasts projecting their powers in lightless
caves or around the fissures of sunburnt walls.
A small group: J. Mcbrien,“The Banality of the Anthropocene.” European Journal of Sociology, No. 3, 2018.
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