dumbfounded. "We?" "We?" Who is this "we"
they're always on about? It's got nothing
to do with me. I'm just reciting little prayers
to nothing because we aren't getting more
than this. When I see an infant I think:
who—who was so satisfied with Alzheimers
and bladder cancer that they dragged you
to this party? I'm guilty of always seeing
to the end of things. Life, the palimpsest
traced lightly over a skull. Everyone has a little
taste of hell under their tongue. Like Tiresius,
I have a problem with my eyes. I figure my
allegiance lies with the ancient astronauts.
The fish has not yet come. The appetizers
have been cleared. You are playing with
your knife as the bombs explode across
the tablecloth in tiny silent plumes.
With my fork, I taunt a pea escaped from
the innards of some devoured pastry shell
around the flowered circumference of my
plate. Would Jesus have worn mismatched
socks? How many calories in a crucifixion?
Whither flies the cream canoli?
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