How It All Works Out in the Long Run
I think of Drone Zombies. I think of the Confederate slave states. I think of good intentions weighted down with corruption. I think of spinal meningitis and ruined sex. I think of video tape, fondly, with nostalgia, and the digital death of the circle.
I think too much. I switch gears into hope, drop off into dream, begin hatching plots against sand castles and turtles, sea urchins and stingrays, the inky embrace of the octopus. I wave my fist in the mirror, deconstruct, reconstruct, knock it all into shambles. I chalk a square on the kitchen floor and wage an invasion. These are things you can do if you live alone and eat sparsely.
In the front yard are warning signs, grass coming up purple, robins dead on their backs, ants lost under foot, Japanese men in suits with too many cameras. By now they should know what happens when you bomb the ships in Pearl Harbor.
Odds are they won’t come for me, but if they do, they won’t find what they’re looking for.