Friday, December 08, 2006


Sealing myself up in a container, I ward off everything that could contaminate me. The TV bounces its radioactive rays off other eyeballs consistently seeking gruesome surprises. My stereo blares rock and roll noises I twist away from; mashed notes splatter against walls like rotten potatoes; the speakers Macarena then commit suicide by unplugging their wires. Even the kitchen microwave can't cook me anything I'll eat; popcorn wishes it had stayed in fields for crows; frozen pizza remains boxed in its own personal hell. I see an invisible hand coming toward me, to carry my bag to shelves. Where will they put the sales tag, when will I be purchased from life, who will receive my clearanced soul?


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