Half of One, Six Dozen of the Other

In love with otherness, the reading of extractions, expulsions, changes in season is only a device to allow toxic white males willing to assume higher than average risk and be reidentified, recategorized, and reclassified in order to get away with murder, a protection fee before our attention zip lines to our lunch, crispy pheasant breast, I think, in some kind of cream. I’m a stakeholder with my personal unified theory of everything, but I’m not at the table, I’m at the practical, versatile and economical drive-thru window and I’ll be dining in my car and trying to figure what’s my next move. There’s some wacky tabacky being hit in those suites, like a sonance of sea lions all bellow and bask, hauled out on the rocks, oiled up and voluptuous, reinventing what has yet to be invented. You know me and animals. I start to tear up.

(photo of artwork by Juan Gris)