Swallowed by onions
June 15, 2012
Don’t Tell Anybody
Voices on a machine. Answering questions that were never asked. And all of humanity sits like a Buddha. At the foot of circumstance. If dogs had evolved as the apex of the food chain, would they be eating babies on Sunday mornings.
Prometheus is my cousin. He believes in private health care. Tied to a parking meter. He loves liver swallowed by onions. And curried almonds. Any talk of recovering from this situation we find ourselves in is met with cruel laughter. Its like being pregnant and sending in the Marines.
Fingers on elevator buttons. Stop at every floor. There’s a headache. Wracking my tempos. Inside this box I can’t tell if I’m moving or standing still. No one is talking. Everyone’s eyes politely looking away. I take out a photograph. Of my children and weep. This is all a trick.