POST 

MÜLLER:

A PRAYER 

BY THE 21ST 

CENTURY

DEARLY BELOVED, 

WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY 

TO GET THROUGH THE POEM 

THAT CANNOT TAKE PLACE 

TAKES PLACE

After the destruction:

He is left alone 

on the defaulted stage.

With no home in sight, his memory 

will have to be enough.

He is now Ophelia’s shadow:

 red lipstick and wedding veil.

There are hints of Diet Coke in the air, 

maybe cyanide. Maybe 

Amazon.com and the ax 

of genocide. Maybe foam at the mouth,

not unlike the foam of the sea 

upon the rising of Venus. He is stunned

(drunk?). Maybe yearning for sunsets 

in the horizon, fondly remembering 

the Marlboro Man. Maybe overwrought with

“flores, flores para los muertos.” 

Maybe jealous he was never a woman. 

Maybe still zealous of that night he once had

with Horatio, many years back, 

when he was young.

His footing is unsure. 

The background is insecure;

the dread of not finding a cure. 

He takes an uncomfortably long pause

before addressing the audience.

Something is not right.

One can tell something is not right.

He is present and she is also a ghost.

And they are both in want, in want.

The future is indeterminate.

Somewhere in between, they are

sifting through the wreckage.

In the name of ©—there is no pulse!

Some kind of alert croons in the darkness.

Missile airstrikes provide us the bass line.

The audience should be scared.

We all should be scared.

We are scared.

We know we have to make it

to the other side, even if we end up

forgetting how we get there.

He swings his iDevice

wild into the air, headphones

cocked onto his red neck—he takes

a big puff off the orange ape.

Nuclear silence.

Lights up.

      HEEERE’S HAMLET!

Hi

Hey

I WAS HAMLET

Cam?

Ok

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