Yesterday, I was thinking about my deliverables. Thank God the machines know who we are. Ever since high school, I’ve not been very good at answering questions. Like Zeno’s arrow, I’m always about half-way there. Naturally, I taught myself the secret handshake, so whenever I mingle, I’m able to use my inside voice. Last Sunday, I saw those baby robots praying in that little white chapel outside Wal-Mart. Damn, if they didn’t get unruly, but I didn’t pay any attention to their ornamental radioactivity, because Dr. Science says it’s impossible to cure the worried well. No, I don’t know what kind of person I really am, but this music makes me hungry. I’d like to speak to the person who’s responsible for the order of the alphabet. Maybe God misplaced his favorite planet? How big can the universe be? Fortunately, all property is theft.
“Satisfactory Answers Were Not Forthcoming,” at the Headlight Review, November, 2020
