2010

2010

It is two thousand and ten.
I look around for something
to prorogue. I decide to
prorogue the search for
something to prorogue.
— How small is it?
Wait: this minyan is so small.
That’s what I was talking about.
You can fit it in a phone booth.
It phones god. God phones
for Chinese food. Walks around
for days with fortune cookie
in pocket. Let me try
to explain another way:
“Black obelisk for sale. Barely
used in nine years.”
The primates have learned
nothing. Art has not yet
been invented. The closest thing
is a guy who stuck his head
out the window and yelled:
“This, this, this, and this!”
I am filled with tiny slips
of white paper. I open my mouth.
One flutters out. A talent scout
sees me pursuing it and thinks
I am doing a new dance.
The best thing since.
I sign contract. TV loves me.
But I prorogue my success.
Right now, I require the broadcast
of the heartbeat of everybody.



Stuart Ross
1 January 2010