Doug Tanoury
1998

I Wanna be . . .

I want to be a successful survivalist,
Sitting cozy in my basement bomb shelter
With lead-lined walls, counting cans of
Spam and sliced cling peaches, lounging
About in my bathrobe, barefoot late into
The afternoon, cleaning a shotgun that's
Never been fired, running the pickup of
The Geiger counter across the walls, and
Trying to calculate the half-life of
Plutonium on my mini-computer.

I want to be a successful survivalist,
Snacking on crackers and pimento olives,
Watching "Star Wars" on the video recorder,
With the volume turned up to shut out
The faint tapping of someone on the
Outside, pounding on the blast-proof
Ceiling with a lead pipe or slab of
Concrete, a slight noise, barely audible,
Like a mouse scurrying across the attic
Floor, annoying only because you know
What it is.

I want to be a successful survivalist,
Safe in my hideout in the holocaust,
My air pocket in the apocalypse, lying
Naked on a green army cot under a sun lamp,
Listening to Beethoven's "Pastoral",
Bathing in quadraphonic sound, trying not
To think of her buried in the radio dust,
Or maybe still alive, crawling through the
Ruins, sick and hungry, balding, bleeding
At the gums, perhaps pounding on my shelter
With a hunk of rubble, lifting it with her
Last strength.

I want to be a successful survivalist,
Spending the nights calculating the
Half-life of love.



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