In the Dust of This Planet
Are you fucking kidding me? A fly can't land on a fruit tree without permission first from the Mafia. Time is burning. It isn’t really me doing it. That’s the new thing. Don’t you think NASA should hide this? Behind the bookcase there’s a wall, and after that a door. A woman shouts, and dozens of us hear her and ask her questions, but she can only use a stone to tap in response. I just keep thinking that it’s so easy to run in a dream without getting out of breath.
So much is coming at us that we jump, turn clockwise, and cut with the kitchen knife through the beer belly of the Republic. My daughter could be in there bleeding. This place is very dangerous. There are countless dead rabbits. There might be someone with a gun. People send us their children to get healthy but they leave in ambulances and body bags. One accidental martyr screams, “Open that door and let me out! Right now! It’s a travesty! Open that door!” You suddenly become the protagonist of crime scene photos. Why cry about it? We have always lived with fire.
A man’s dead. The gunmen got on the bus and shot people point-blank. What else could you have expected? They autopsied him as you would an ordinary body, took out his intestines, said, “Yup, it’s all there,” and put it back. We were standing outside, staring, just trying to see. I prayed so hard my knuckles were white. Today we go about things entirely differently. But the process, we can’t control it. There’s a silver Audi in the parking lot with the lights left on, and the tracks of gulls on beaches, and somebody who’s going to jump out of the ambulance, and we feel like it’s all in our heads.
Image by Alex Nodopaka