I work in the BLACK HOLE wing outside Bern (on a machine
that looks like a spinning jenny) placing umlauts over
the ‘a’s in war to turn them to ‘were’which is why we who war
translate German into we were. I’m all for planetary annihilation,
all for pulling the big red umlaut-lever
down to make the final BLACK HOLE. Don’t like your house?
Don’t like your face transplant, calf implants, husband, dog?
Well, compress the extravagance of your visionary despair
into a facet of being more humorous: Imagine two
standard poodles walking down Obergoldback Straße in baby blue
sweaters with hanging pompoms, hand knit by their grandmother.
Don’t like your shabby address? Here I am ready, set to solve
your shanty town problem so far from these Swiss bank accounts,
so far from the safe where my boss keeps The Potato Eaters
and her frozen eggs. All she has to do is whisper
sarcophagus and then our life saga will zilch the iceberg, will smell
of negative sage, will be neither freeze nor thaw, mummy
nor scarab pendant. Minus frenzy. Plus zoo. Minus Sinai wandering.
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