My apocalypse theory scatters beer bottles across the porch. Is all armchairs and armageddon when the power goes out. But my shoes are all lined up, toes pointed at the door just in case. I was drowning in the beginning, but what I lacked in oxygen, I made up for in radio static. My apocalypse theory likes my hand in his pants sometimes, my mouth as warm and soft as butter in the dish. My apocalypse theory is nothing if not resourceful. I have six rolls of duct tape and a vase full of plastic dahlias. I have a pool cue and a mustang beneath a dusty tarp in the garage. I am nothing if not ready.
from apocalypse theory: a reader 2
My apocalypse theory begins with wasps and ends with too many raccoons knocking over garbage cans. It's all mongrels and barbie dolls, and nothing to do with Jesus. Only a small breathing, some quick-hearted thing moving under the stove. I was doe-eyed, dolled up, and standing in the center of a ring of ponies when it came for me, the circle collapsing inward with the weight of it's own emptiness. My apocalypse theory was nothing if not crudely wrought,. Nothing if not over the top. We referred to it as the "Scottish Play" but everyone knew better. All the small horses wore exquisitely embroidered headpieces and sad caged looks. The end of it all was at the end of a great big rope. The end of it all was moving faster toward us, but always farther away.
from apocalypse theory: a reader 3
My apocalypse theory begins as a tiny machine, gears turning over and an approximation of feathers. My apocalypse theory is inconsolable when I say no, huddles underneath the overpass and calls me at 3am. He says there is too much Texas in Texas, too much wideness. I tell him what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger, but he keeps adjusting the wax wings on his back and mumbling about airplanes. There is too much highway in Texas, bright and clean and filled with taxdollars. Too many open spaces and combustibles. His gears crud up with oil residue. I imagine him with a smear of ash across his cheek and a pocket full of rusty bottle tops. I imagine he is holding a match and just waiting for the right wind.
-- Kristy Bowen is the author of several book, chapbook, and zine projects, including the forthcoming books the shared properties of water and stars (Noctuary Press, 2013) and girl show (Black Lawrence Press, 2013). Her work has appeared recently in Spittoon, Projectile, and Fifth Wednesday. She lives in Chicago, where she runs dancing girl press & studio.