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What Happens when the World Thinks it's By Itself
Imagine me, alone, in a box.
As I keep struggling, the box gets smaller and smaller.
My atoms move, the box shrinks.
Soon, I'm squished into nothing and the box disappears.
A frying pan walks up and says, "Bin's the brakes, Binky." Then it walks off, humming an old Ray Charles tune while the spoon and the knife go at it over the fork, who's really in love with a sieve.
My head reappears and I ate the chicken. It ran around in circles, spurting blood from its neck. And children laughed.
The planets align and the sun is blotted out by yo' momma. The man in the moon rejoices.
And I've just gone absolutely insane.
I have PASTA! The italian woman screams as she bangs the frying pan into unconsciousness.
The spoon laments his loss, but doesn't give up fighting even though he is sure
to lose.
The knife is blood-thirsty. Pray he doesn't win the day or else the fork will pay.
Mother Goose ran in the room to see why there was laughter,
The dog ran out and cavorted about
and the Baby went crawling after.
Dadaism is my favorite sport and I like to write soccer balls up and down
the page.
I hate to beg. Begging on my knees.
Knees that touch the ground in prayer.
Prayer to a God I've never seen.
Seeing is believing, but I am blind.
The wild wolf howls...
Why is he crying for there is nothing to cry about. His wildness is undefined, untraceable, untameable. He'll bite you if you try to feed him.
His call is forlorn. Perhaps his mate died. Perhaps his pack is dead.
Perhaps he is just my imagination here in the suburbs.
Oh, I pledge my allegiance to the Flag of the united homes of Suburbia. And to the tyranny of the homeowners, for which they stand,
One subdivision,
Under the Governor,
Divisible by seven
With boats
and lawnmowers forever.
 TempestuousSeas · Mon Apr 30, 2007 @ 12:48am · 1 Comments |
