Page 30 of The Bread We Eat in Dreams

the Chicken of Tomorrow

breasts heavy with saline

margarine

dehydrated ice cream

freeze-dried coffee crystals

Right now, monoculture

feels soft and good and right

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as Minnie in the dark.

It’s 1940.

You’re not ready yet.

You can’t know.

Someday

everything runs down.

Someday

entropy unravels the very best of us.

Someday

all copyright runs out.

In that impossible futurological post-trickster space

I will survive

I will become my utter self

and this is it:

I am the god

of the secret world-on-fire

that the corporate all-seeing eye

cannot see.

I am the song of perfect kitsch

endless human mousefire

burning toward mystery

I am ridiculous

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