Fortune

Searching surgery mortality statisticson phone in waiting room returnsComplete Concordance to Holy Scripture,“I beheld, and, lo, there was no man,and all the birds of the heavens were fled.”Thank whomever I will not returnto my old job baiting vermin traps,hands damp in surgical gloves, thumbingpoisoned cubes of food all day into plastichollows then go home and drink beeruntil I have to go and buy more. Workersof the world, my brain knows betterbut my heart’s a Communist, redistributingwealth in perpetual revolution. No joke,the specters. Hunger. Poverty.Late-Era Capitalism, what next? Yes,the long nineteenth century repressedthen killed everyone. Yes, all historyplague and conquest, tangle of skeletons,every extremity of What We’ll Do for Money.Yes, life mostly tedium when not histrionicas opera. For years I carried the fortunein my wallet All of your troubles will soonbe over. Pixels across the Internet portrayanatomy and famous people’s babies.Names create in the mouth and brainthe pucker and taste of things, fish, pepper,onion, lemon, but do not, alas, replenish.And now, thank whomever, among the 99%surviving this procedure, you and your 1,200thread-count laugh in the 900 thread-count air.