Hosanna in Hand


On a grander, holographic scale, Earth wobbles nauseatingly in vertigo. She’s become too weighed down by humanity’s progress. What started as an itchy case of something brewing beneath her panty line has spread and engulfed her entire surface. It has become an epidemic. It has become cancerous. She has become shaky. Her remaining teeth are yellow and spongy. Her oceans are bubbling with cigarette butts. Her terrain is sinking beneath the weight of skyscrapers and the skyscrapers are amassing rapidly.

The world we know has become a tumor grid of cities building atop themselves. Television has become the ultimate energy provider. Offices have become apartments. The corporations have found a way to become organic. People are lining up to become part of the machine. Feelings of stagnant purposelessness are medicated by the inhalations of flat screens.

Supervisors guarantee a splendid sleep. Channel surfing forever on the clock means these jobs aren’t going to remain empty for long. And there’s enough for everybody! When one floor fills up, another is built atop it. Everybody! Move your families in! It’s a new movement on the human storyline! There are people sleeping in cubicles and eating on the couch. Rectal tubes serve dual roles of feeding and recycling. Grand Master Time Clock sucks at humanity’s fat, digesting life into a concoction of corporate sustenance.

The old 9-5 becomes a beacon of heroism. It is more honored than submitting to the American Dream World. The coinage of human souls clinking through ethernet cable sewer causeways. A world surviving upon the transfer of human energy. A world hypnotically lit by signal receptions. An inverse atmosphere glowing purple air particles and neon green clouds. Wireless radiation transmitting smoke stacks are pawned off as sexy. Rabbit ear cameras are taking pictures of people’s brain waves and implementing artificial faces upon artificial landscapes. Real life has become a comfortable community of people ingesting painkillers and feeding others their waste. It is a world of pixelated love and hollow joy. A world where functioning vocal cords are noisome and canned laughter is euphoric.

Adam has to keep going. Running feels like the only sane thing. Poor Musette… She’s in a better place… This world ain’t fit for the ragamuffin…