"The Newest Blockbuster Hit: Now In A Theatre Too Near To You"
No-D stands for No-Dimensional: I don’t need
any more dimensions. The 3-D glasses required
for entrance to the self-surveillance booth only
decrease its dead appeal. There is no draw to this
concert show; the admission is free. The concert is
a cigarette and the cigarette is a roll of roaches
repressed, radically cross-legged, suffocating their
reproductive organs, screaming about the merits of different types
of underwear, even though they all wished they lived in nudist colonies.
I squeeze pulpless
juice from the electric fountain. I press the button nice
and hard. I treat it as I would treat a house cat or dog or rabbit. I am allergic to
its electrocuting fur but I can take it.
Do what you want, I told myself, even though I didn’t want to.
The rash on my back is gone. It left my concern. It migrated to my head.
It couldn’t find labor. Fucking migrant scum. I have tried to stop
scratchingscratchingscratching, but I need to make sure
that my lips and cheeks and noses and foreheads are not chapped.
I don’t care, but I will. People will be watching and I will be
close. They will breath on me from a few feet away and I will smell
their eyes. I will sit in my room alone pretending to masturbate
to their eyes. I will offer cries of love when I come and mispronounce mumbles
of apathy when they go.
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