It felt in the hand as it had looked on the tree.
It felt like watching Showgirls for the first time.
My cashier opened a drawer holding the wadded-up corn husk
of the universe. Digital pictures of lingerie, drooping
pixels in this filthy limelight. Patriotism
is replacing purpose in American business. What we are here
we are everywhere else. What he told his right-wing father,
the post-structuralist, about saving the world
when he sounded just like a parole judge. So
let’s forsake this talk about feelings, about letter
jackets and negative dialectics. We’ll try out new things
in the image of terrorism. We’ll start our own Human
Ecology Fund with the money we save from the morgue.
We won’t need cashiers in the future.
We’ll all count ourselves until we’re sick,
then dispense with the concept of sickness altogether.
What remains we will kick up in the dirt
burning like flashlight batteries in transit from
the Holy See. What remains to be seen
is whether we can even be saved. What remains
to be seen is whether you’ll recognize me at all.