the potato chip. the plastic baggie. the wallpaper sample.
some things deserve an ode, but are somehow beneath us.
we (oh the great us-ness of it all!), we shall appear before
our descendants trailing high fashion, the aperitif, and ten
thousand flashbulb artifacts to suggest that we have truly
lived. life was ours, report the microfiche, and not just some
pedestrian life, but the thing itself, the experience of which
no one after us will know anything but echoes. archives of
grocery line rags will speak it: cower! crawl! remember when!
in this delusion we are most our cruel, petty selves, more
vested in some future projection of our times than in the
trashy here-and-now survival which we pull an hour at a time
from the slow spool of fate. in laundromats and drive-thru
queues we strategize the pulling-off of another great sham,
someplace where many will see, where the humidity is just
right for our hair and where, with any luck, facebook photos
will be taken. all the while, the true pillars of our daily grind
don’t mind our inattention. the instant potatoes and junk mail
coupons realize their essential worth even if we fail to write
and sing their praise. the used carlot. the bag salad. all
the velveteen rabbits of our terrestrial life realize that one
day, having served their turn, they may push through at last
into the eschaton of the real. the loved. odes notwithstanding.


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