John wills the creation of a farm in Times Square. Tobacco crops smash through the pavement, sending fire hydrants and sprays of water skyward. A cow commutes to the pasture, forcing crowds to press themselves against store windows, suppressing their ability to breathe. I guess I don’t really know much about farming, which is why this poem never went anywhere, and continues to go nowhere. But wait! This poem is going to the movies! After the movies, it dances weirdly all night in a computer-banking lobby. It’s a trickster. When I tried to locate the poem, I found it in a marble notebook. But I was too ill to complete the poem. Days later, I felt a little better, so I tried to locate the poem again. It was not in the marble notebook. So I looked in my other marble notebook (I have two in case one ever grows feet and walks away). And in my other marble notebook was the poem. I was kind of creeped out, but I tried to hide it. The poem is a jerk and I did not want it to experience pleasure from my mental instability. Then a pig jumped out of a helicopter and crashed through my ceiling, dressed like a S.W.A.T. team member, with a cord wrapped around his waist. He petted my head and oinked, “It’s okay. Everything will be better.” I felt calm, no longer creeped out. And John came into my bedroom without knocking—without my permission—and slaughtered the pig, and sold him at a farmers’ market.
Bradley Sands is the author of Dodgeball High, Rico Slade Will Fucking Kill You, Sorry I Ruined Your Orgy, and My Heart Said No, But the Camera Crew Said Yes! Visit him at bradleysands.com.
Photo: credit: JasonGillman, morguefile.com