Who are you going to be when the world ends. Are you going to be the guy standing on the corner with a permanent speech bubble “the looting’s begun.” Are you going to be hurling babies out of burning buildings (at acceptably low speeds). Are you going to sit there with your dandelion blowing white seeds into winds already sodden with glitter. I mean, are you going to saunter down to city hall and do one last sashay around the seats, pick a chair at random to spend your last dance on. How about cranking that last gallon into that mutt of a Harley, head down the coast until the moon gets bashful. Hang out your hair in all its glory, no laboratory grease, pure head salt christening these remowable roads. Or are you more of a deshelled calculator button(s), hoping to be cleverly repurposed as an elbow stand. Are you the one who gets a sawzall to the top of the stairs and says more like sawzome! When a drizzle of black beetles alights on the quad, will you wellwell techni-scutely these cannota been locusts judging by theys cankles. Will you turn up at Electric Avenue with jumper cables and a ukulelian heart. Will you take down that surfboard that is a mirror and use it now as a mirror that is a surfboard, finally chart a route for Valinor. When the skies part and raise a finger to their lips will you insist on discorama overdrive deluxe. Are you even now a little relieved that you won’t need to contact customer service to end your subscription. Are you the reformed majorette who reloads her rifles in the manner of John Wayne. The postmodern technopsychic who communes with dead cell phones. The child handing out twigs and choice pebbles whom no one has the heart to question. Are you some tiny crane pecking up bits of glass to build your rosy nest. The one with one glove and an endless supply of nasal spray. Befriend a raccoon via Newton’s Cradle and be widowed of a Newton’s Cradle via raccoon. In the seventh year scratch out your entry of the postworld zodiac, on some bench fragment, in some former park, in some begotten world, and that new bird peering down at you will be diagnosed with cancer (right then), and the bird doctor will avoid making eye contact, which is easier for birds but still awkward, until a merciful drop of especially potent acid rain pelts through that-and-every-other bird doctor’s skull like prepostworld hot sauce through a lastworld scavenger, and when you curl up on that bench to rest, know that I am hoping you will sleep okay but don’t know what it is you’re sleeping for. Whatevermore. Sandman has run dry. No dreams now, just tears. This is a post-credits, post-exit, post-post reality stripped of fiction, reaction, resumption. You can’t even go see a show on Broadway, or on off-Broadway, and without hope for one day witnessing a well coordinated musical, or at least a reposted, subtitled, animated image encapsulating one of your top 1 most emaciated emotions, what else remains to drive one forward from each utter moment. If it isn’t the monologuing cannibals then it’s the novelty booby-traps or the Ivy League rodents, each more insufferable than the last.
edited 23.12.11
saltednotion 