balls refuse to fly.
They like the contrast of the sand
against their moonly trail. They roll
Thank you for calling. To continue
in English please press 1. [1 is pressed] This is America,
right? English should be automatic
ally assumed. Otherwise, press 2. I pressed 1
already. [1 is pressed again.] I’m sorry. I cannot process
your selection. To continue
in English please press 1. [1 is jabbed repeatedly
with forefinger.] Did you get that this time? Thank you.
How can we help you today? To pay an outstanding balance
please say “make a payment.” What? Outstanding
balance? I paid my bill last week. Would you like to make
a payment? No, no I don’t. I don’t
have a payment to make. I’m sorry, I did not understand
that. If you would like to make a payment say “make
a payment.” Would you like to make a payment?
[Visibly reddening. A deep breath is taken.] No. Thank you.
Would you like to go to the main menu? What? This isn’t
the main menu? It’s the main 800 number. Shouldn’t I get
the main menu by dialing it? If yes, press 1. If no, press 2.
[1 is pressed.] I’m sorry I couldn’t process
your selection. Please try again. For the main menu . . .
[1 is pressed so hard the button gets stuck and makes annoying
beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep sound.] There’s your fucking
1, you arrogant electronic bitch! Can I talk to a god-damned person
please! I’m sorry I cannot process your selection . . . [Phone is
banged against forehead in frustration.] . . . please hold for our first
available operator. Hallefuckingluya!
Billing Department, this is Cindy, would you like to make a payment . . .
Deep Fried Barbie
Barbie wanted out. She was tired
of being forced into whatever
occupation the marketing machine
gods tagged as trendy that year.
She was sick
of the ridiculously impractical outfits,
a nightmare to get off
and on over unbending joints,
shoes that never stayed
on her feet, an assigned significant other
with an annoying smile and hair
that never moved.
Barbie secretly dreamed of growing
old and fat, of having wrinkles and gray
hair, of no longer living out someone
else’s fantasies. She tried slitting
her wrists, but she couldn’t bleed. She jumped
off a bridge, but couldn’t drown (she doesn’t
breathe, does float). Finally,
she found her way out. She threw herself
into a pan of oil, happily melted into a pool
of plastic oblivion.
The Road to Abnegation Road
falls (painfully) short of its idealistic intentions.
Waivers at the sight of its own
blood flowing freely in continued sacrifice.
Genuflects on scabbed knees for forgiveness that never
comes. Maxes out
its credit at corner of hammer and nails, pools
pieces in semblance of sacred
circle under signed
guarantee: 4 strikes and never