Friday, September 7, 2012
Sonnet After Kilgore Trout
The flattened portion of the universe you are currently viewing
is best displayed through soporific filter number seventy-nine point
sixty-three. You know the one I mean, don’t you, gentle reader?
It resides in a golden box, composing itself from ashes and modern
construction materials like citizenship and looming mortality.
A new tower built of bony fingers with missing legs upon its painted lips.
That form gives a rumbling grandeur to what was poured into it.
Infinity and nothingness make for subtle yet utilitarian hinges.
There is even a subroutine designed to increase the vividness and
the saturation of spring. Subsequently, the summer sun burns hours
into crevices available for entertainment or observation in a manner
similar to the power of photographs prior to their silvery obsolescence.
I have never been more hopeful about America. Smoke a cigarette
and masturbate. Ask your robotic assistant about installation options, today.