By Tyson Bley
In Moscow, on their Facebook there, egg avatars bob up and down
to influence the way they’ll hatch.
Choose your own setting and means: in a greasy tool shed,
your egg’s cartwheels may ensure a benevolent Tzar
would crack open its pocked cyber shell with their
version of a hammer or ax, the version they use there.
In the bottom corner of the screen –
Charles Darwin makes his famous beloved O-face.
A heavyweight champion.
An ululating towel that pwns Broadway.
Are you telling me these fantastic hallucinations
are all rooted in a gristly cyber molecule, in the boring toxin
in the vein of Russia’s Facebook?
Brain damage? Alchemy? Or, closer to home, a small green smiling pea
sitting deep in the inner recesses
of a flabby X-Factor contestant’s bellybutton?
If you call being hit by a flying sock at
Jurassic Park a hallucination, but you’re not really convinced,
you’ll nevertheless not be prepared
for the actual technical explanation –
namely, you’re full of shit. The ‘sock’ was actually the
result of a toilet paper dispenser malfunction in
the gorilla cage at the local zoo. A wet warm gorilla shitslap behind
the head too mundane for you?
How about this: The only remarkable thing any alchemist has ever
come up with? Fucking cardboard. And when you
fuck me [my ethnicity is not determined though], actual turbulence in
the great subsequent chalk-belch
will be pretty visible and distinct and pretty.
Jurassic Park is real? And HIV is real?
And Walkman sterilized countless
men and women by peculiarly altering their gaits? And right
now there’s a group of beautiful young people on a wheelless,
cabriolet restaurant bus somewhere eating food
ethnically indistinct waiters
come by to sprinkle pepper over from offensive-looking pepper mills?
And if you starve fecal matter of the swamp beneath its glaze
depictions of the cloud’s bottom
from which it had unceremoniously fallen
will subtly, beautifully distort?
And there are flying socks?
Just not these kinds of flying socks.