Steal This Parlor


   I fly back to confer with Peters.  I am once again in that airplane, plying those free drinks, my
mind absorbed in many things at once.  I look at the little kid with the sexy mother in front of me.
He has his head over the seat, well fed child looks at me, his eyes reflect all that is mysterious-
reflect the inside of this aircraft- giant mechanical thing of which we are both parts.  He smiles
at me and I want to grab him, bring him up close and tell him what is wrong with the world.  I hold
off because I know this would cause a scene.  I can stare between the seats, get a glimpse of
the mother, but no longer fight feelings of lust.  I can do other things though.  I can fight a war in
vain.  I can kill for My Cause.  I can put the barrel of my extra-long killing machine to a head and
blast away.

   I look at the window and beyond the glare from the red sun see shiny small cities below domes
the roads clogged with the hubris of ground travel the thin smoke trails of lingering industries the
slow moving sludge of the canals.  I imagine the cities going up in the light heat blast nausea of
atomic bombs, the ultimate consumption that will happen because the order of nature is violence.
The earth is an altar on which every living thing must be sacrificed without end, until we are all
consumed.  Until my petty insecurities are gone and death dies.

   I have lost control, I am an addict of action to absolve myself of all my unworthiness.  I should
want the woman ahead of me.  (I bet in that head lies a special talent.)  I wonder what keeps the
world in line, what keeps us from taking the things we want for life is short and desire burns bright.
That well-fed boy, in the third world he would hold special value, nay- not very worthless now if
what I have heard is true.

   Huge mills have been set up in the third world.
Little (very valuable) third world boys lie strapped
Down on the conveyer belt,
               whirling knifes of
               awesome machines
               ginzu sharp dicing
               blades (machines
               substituted here for
               purposes of ritual, do
               not doubt- people
               could do this job as
               well) harvest the
               organs that fly in the
               air like mince-meat,
               collect in the funnel
               and get shot out
               of the nozzle blood  gore   organs    skin     vessELS      hAIR       boNES        eYES

               The only things left are little bits of fingernails and shucked feces.

   It is good sacrifice.  Like the Indians with their buffaloes, nothing is wasted and the herds are
thinned to keep us strong.  Everything is transplanted into the rich and powerful with little waste.
No one questions the source of these raw materials transported in small plastic coolers packed
with ice, what!?- they come from the vats of altered monkey cell culture!?