Preu’s Wager

A rational person, or collective of persons, should live as though human-caused climate change exists and seek to reverse human-caused climate change. If human-caused climate change does not actually exist, such a person, or collective of persons, will have only a finite loss (some pleasures, luxury, convenience, etc.), whereas they stand to receive infinite gains (as represented by the perpetuation of the species) and avoid infinite losses (extinction).

Preu’s Wager

Huron Cemetery Poems IX

August 22, 2018

It’s too hot to sit with the dead today
     so I float above them,
     hanging on for dear life to the strings
     of a bunch of many-colored balloons.
Up high, where the air is much cooler,
     the oxygen less dense.
The vacuum of space waits hidden above me;
     a black, gaping maw poised to chomp.

Death above, death below, dying in between,
     one hand gripping balloon strings,
     the other trying to choke down a mustard-soaked sardine sandwich.
In the distance, beyond the curve of the earth,
     a thing so monumental its name cannot fit into a human ear.
In the distance, all lived pasts and livable futures.

There may be a mustard stain on my crisp, white shirt
     but I’m afraid to look.
Perhaps the dead have asked me to stay away today.
It’s probably not so hot outside after all.


Huron Cemetery Poems IX

A Meow in the Wind

I dreamed of an oscillating fan built to temper and tame near-feral cats. They called the fan The Cat Whisperer. What luck! For I co-habitate with near-feral cats who shit where they please, rob the birds of every song, and carve my furniture to shredded signs of true ownership. I turned on the demo unit and the fan whirred to life. I wanted to believe The Cat Whisperer would work. I wanted to tame that which the wild had first dibs. I wanted to interrupt nature so friggin’ hard.

A Meow in the Wind

The Vulgar Mistake of Dreaming

Come up, come up

Let us show you the attic

Easy now, mind the dust

Mind the dust everywhere

Stand up, stand up

Tall now, look around now

There’s a box of old books

Too fragile to read through

Those cobwebs in the corner

The prior owner’s condition

Gaps in the insulation

A real character builder

Now step over here

There’s something to see

Look down, look down

Yes, that hole at your feet

You see? Sleeping soundly?

Not knowing you’re up here

And oh! how you’ve wondered

And held your suspicions

How easy we’ve made it

For you to never stop watching

Never stop, never stop

Who’s she dreaming of now?

The Vulgar Mistake of Dreaming

Give sorrow words, not antacids.

We were all so arrogant, yes,
     to think it wouldn’t happen to one of us
     though all of us are dying a little every day.

A maudlin fog grips the city
     that you’ll never see again.
A million icy particles suspended
     right in front of our noses,
     too tiny, too gray to make out as individuals.

Your son and wife are in Florida.
Only they know why.
In Florida, waves of melancholy
     lick the dirt-sand shores.

In Florida, seagulls gripe about their diets
     so the children feed them Alka-Seltzer
     and watch them fly away.

The children hope to pop the birds
     like balloons past their prime.

In California, children also hope to pop the seagulls.
The children have turned toward a cruel science.

Where will we be when the fog and the cold lift
     and all homes but one are warm and lively;
     when the ladybugs think they’ve found holes in the windows
     then spend the rest of their lives
     in a pane-centered community;
     when the rainwaters drop and the rivers brim with water poisoned
     by our desire for more life and our desire to grow,
     grow as fast as we can?

Where will we be when the woods
     call us back to make love in the forest,
     to make masks of shed bark
     and clothes from fallen logs?

Where will we be when you won’t;
     when you won’t ever again?

We were all so arrogant, yes,
     and arrogant still.

Our children are ignorant and growing.
The trees promise a wild, quiet fog.
Ice hangs from the leaking gutters.

Give sorrow words, not antacids.