The cancer we get was always in us,
we're told. Sort of sleeping, we might suppose 
in order to sort of see it. I do sort of get it—
as we age a thinning or thickening in our cells,
perhaps, wakens the quick engine of a life 
all its own. We erode; such is our wyrd. 
Certain doom. Listen, I can't even tell you
how the light bulb works. I do like how my tongue
executes a quaint little dance in my mouth
when I say the word tungsten. I know nothing
right really, and I'm not loath to say so
often in order to wear the wisdom of humility.
Since we're all just waiting around
for the cancer, my gentle message of unequivocal
ambiguity works, whereas, for instance, 
no one likes this latest know-it-all expert
who's glooming about how we should spend
money on the power grids because the sun
is due to spit out huge gouts of fire 
that will fry all our wires together, though I do
enjoy pursing my lips and then baring
my teeth to say neutrino. Apocalypse,
apocalypse—O loosen up and sway your hips.

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