The Mayans didn’t say the world would end. Their calendar ended. Orson Welles didn’t mean to scare everyone but he sure as hell did. Michael Jordan was great. So was the great wall. They vilified the ocean. A hole was being made in the sky, at the top of the Earth. The old men at the tailor sat confused, waiting for their clothes to be tailored. The men stand in line for specific validations: $4.99 for a pair of shoes, a twenty-dollar haircut, dandruff on the lapel, the sweaty, semeny, cheeseburgery smell of college dorms.
We find the world’s smallest chameleon. Half a fingernail wide with tiny bulging eyes. Back then, we were looking for the correct recipe for fried chicken, dinosaur bones in the sand, certain mountains. The emperor wears a suit – an awkward pink tie. For hundreds of years the Pope’s mitre looks like a penis. Relevance on the line, the Presidents wore wiry mustaches. Stern grins capture the man’s heart – distract the women from their pies and hosiery.
I am not sure which side I’m on. There are basketball courts and dump trucks lining the avenue. There was the sun inside of man. The tree falls and there is only the sound it made. When they excavated silence from a cave, we are waiting in the future to rename it uniqueness. There is a pause and an error – the donkey and cart moved over the dry hills. Next Christmas they will give each other framed photographs of Christmases past.