Vincent Van Gogh
Vincent invites me upstairs to his room. Stumbling across the slanted floor he suggests that I take off my shoes for better purchase on the pixilated peanut butter planks. I try to slip into bed but the covers are made of jam soon I am sticky and red. He offers to massage me with linseed oil. No thanks. Instead, I sit on the wobbly straw chair. I tell him his paintings are crooked Vantage points these days, he mutters. Armed with bristles we excavate this odd dimension for fossilized perspectives. Your body looks familiar, is it a Picasso? Body plagiarism is the bane of evolutionary progress, you know. Genetic scantron bubbled in ATGCTTCGGCA You won’t get your wings this way. We are in the eye socket of a clone looking up at a cerulean cerebrum. I am the goddess of god knows what, dreaming in alphabetical order. The Arecibo Broadcast © 1974 has finally reached its M13 audience What a dopamine gift—this galactic Rosetta Stone… The air in here is opaque and stifling can we open a window? He squeezes a tube of white into my hair where the sunlight hits it at an angle. Praying mantises believe in life after frost and Jesus the plumber, died for our sinks. I spend the next eon trying to wash the sunlight out of my hair. When I have an idea I will hold a light bulb over my head and wait for Chinese angels to turn the world around.