“…I saw the sign for American style pizza…”— B. Kapil
Who is to say how ideas form in children in these communities full of children full of ideologies like a burrito bowl is full of some man’s genitals in the mess in the alley in the rhetoric rolling behind the Chipotle corporation. Who hasn’t noticed the gun barrel full of animal bone dice at the entrance of their ass and throat and ears and eyes and nostrils? If you haven’t noticed, like I haven’t noticed, can you not tell me in the silence of your ignorance why you acquiesce to the constant occurrence of police brutality, even as you post critiques on your twitter account like pictures of kittens posted inside of pictures of kittens, much like I post pictures of kittens and police brutality. Why do you have a twitter account? Maybe I am making dull questions for reasons I cannot explain because I cannot explain why I also acquiesce to this violence in all of these weapons that are literally hot and everywhere and becoming into us, into all of us who stick our violent society up our asses like we’re no longer welcome outside of ourselves except for on the internet? There is a machine full of children like a pasta machine full of play dough that everyone is eating and vomiting because it is a salty and slowly poisonous rainbow in the truth of light that is florescent like the true sun is fluorescent. In the wake of evangelical thought we are all evangelical like children, like the world is so weird and violent and sad that earnest dumb children are some minor but important force phosphorescing, like the world is so weird that I am including earnest dumb children in my poem, because all the rest of us are obsessed, are seemingly in our seems, in our seams, obsessed, with overcoming things like “pizza culture” like children by eating salads while smiling like it is grotesque and subversive in our childish minds where we are childish against children as we make voting politically incorrect because it is offensive to immigrants, immigrants who are immigrants like we are proximally and for the most part all immigrants, immigrants who, for the most part outside of our privileged communities, probably privileged in some way if you are reading this, communities, writhe under the violence of our childish avoidance of the vote, of those of us who can vote in this sad contingency, as we are still cheesy in our politics like Chipotle sauce or the stretchy matter that connects all of our severed bodies inside of the box, inside of the pizza womb of the pizza world that drowns out the womb of the world that was always already drowning in cheesy puns that are only subversive in China under the anti-cheesy-pun-laws, in China where you’re unlikely to change anything through your vote, in China that is a sad site inside of your own heart, a sad site that still doesn’t erase your complicity with the bodies a block over, or a mile over, or a community over, or a city over, or a state over, or a nation over, Child. Child, bodies you can be close to in some minor and slow form of hope which is maybe not there in the vote, but that is maybe not erased by 20 minutes of your dull and childish life in a line with other children, child, because there were things on the ballot in my small community that mattered to the bodies in communities set in recess to my community, and few children I know, so few of these children who are maybe often more beautiful than me when it comes to politics, voted, and that is fucking sad, child, sad like a child bound into a pizza culture with no pizza, with nothing but a childish death like someone still gave a shit about existentialism at the site of a single childish body, like someone still thought the revolution was coming in some straightforward way, as we all curdle in the rotting milk of our lives, as we all become partially in the failed substances below cheese, as none of us are really escaping “pizza culture,” not that I’m much more than a child, not that I really understand what pizza culture is as I become in it.
All of the dancing children jiggle their coins softly out of their eyes and screech gleefully “I am going to stab you in the neck and chop off your head until you are like a bloody puddle in the wake of an IED.” When confronted the children say “we didn’t mean puddle, we meant poodle, like a soft pink tuft extruding from an animal.” When confronted the children say “we weren’t really going to do it,” but neck stabbing and decapitation statistics are on the rise near every dog park where children pick up dog shit in little doggie bags after dogs eat dinners made out of diamonds. Another child says “I am going to blow your face off” and then mimics holding a rocket launcher, as rockets are shot into the faces of children virtually from a computer in Arizona as the drone of the desert of capital becomes the drone of drones. Death is dribbling off of your chin child, like your mouth mimics a wound full of blood, even if you can’t see it, even if your eyes are unaware of the ocular proof of “it” in this playpen where all of Poe’s orangutans are pretending to shave their faces like children pretend to shave their faces while making sounds that no doubt sound foreign to some bodies in the fauna of many bodies. There is an eye set into every wound like a cubic zirconia that is like a diamond in that it is retrieved from the wound of some body and placed into another body like the dog shit of ideas in this glass cage where we all eat shit and this poem isn’t being metaphoric, really, it is being sad and violent like the potential in the violent words of children who say murderous things silently before saying “don’t say negative things, you can’t unhear them.”