Any second now, I’ll put on my special glasses that along their thick frames say ‘Pew Pew Pew’ – for when the pollinator comes flying over my q-tip collection. All color except street halogen must be daubed out to see my white-wigged nation fill the City. Wearing them, I will not see what in actual fact is there: a nest of savage gape-beak cheeping, cheeks cotton-stuffed, bellies taxidermied with wet bread and feet with the roots of trees and Internet veins.
Wearing these special glasses, I will feed across the sun’s pessimistic Uzi barrel, will only sleep when my pajamas decide it’s time to sleep, it’s a rule anyway – but I think their fibers will be laid to rest on the streets tonight and these glasses that say Pew Pew Pew along the side – formerly worn by
the Acupuncturist, the maid turned Obiwan-style god who hated my collection and always popped their fertile zits then flushed them down the toilet – now finally fired at age seventy to the accompaniment of a bedbug’s spinal crack, a blasting, invasive sound – will see offal competing against each other because of what she did:
instead of death, Futurama will be filled with high-tech toilets in the form of spacecrafts and sleek white lounge chairs. Flush away my q-tips, she will? She gave me her glasses because it was ugly, she said: the city’s glow when the Shape flew over and scattered its parachutes. When she pricked the streetlights with needles she said afterward she had a migraine made of pornos wrapped in what amounted to the flat wooden inflammation’s tablecloth: i.e. a frilly apron.
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