WHAT THE DOOMSDAY CLOCK SAID

by Howie Good

As of January 24, the Doomsday Clock sits at 90 seconds to midnight. Jamie Christiani /   Bulletin of Atomic Scientists

The chemistry set I got for my 10th birthday came with glass test tubes and small bottles of dry chemicals in jewellike colors, plus a booklet with precise instructions on how to rubberize a hardboiled egg. It was the era of the Space Race. The scientist in the white lab coat held the Cold War rank of cultural spokesperson for progress. We were taught in school to worship science, as thousands of years ago a many-eyed beast with a body like a leopard’s and feet like a bear’s was worshipped. The clock declares it’s now nine seconds to midnight. Down in the street, an addled homeless man waves his arms around while remonstrating with a vicious-looking companion only he can see. 

Howie Good's latest poetry book is Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems from Redhawk Publications. He co-edits the journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

NEW SHEPARD

by Monica Mills

the billionaire space race

is one without a finish line.

space tourists auction star

costs, haggle down heaven,

as latitude chokes the poor.

on supersonic joyrides white

collars pray greed into hemisphere.

on Earth oceans thrash aflame.

souls without homes look for sky.

find smog. find dollar signs

disguised as constellations.

the shepherd is a wolf. steals the herd.

no scapegoats are leashed

in fields of crumbling infrastructure.

rampant thistles, dandelions,

leeches of the grain root deep

into soil and call themselves farmers. 

Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. She is from Maplewood, New Jersey and has a bachelor’s degree in political science and English from Rutgers University. Monica’s work appears in journals such as The West Trade Review, The Anthologist, The Normal Review, and The Quiver Review among others. She enjoys rainy days and ginger tea.