280819

My friend once asked me:

“If money was no object,

What would you do?”

I thought for a moment.

“Hmm, good question,” I said.

“I’d bomb the fuck out the moon.”

I don’t think she expected that answer.

I don’t think I expected it either.

A headline in the paper:

“Another crisis at Mount Trashmore.

Why must this stench continue to grow?”

The next day, a letter:

“Let’s ship all our rubbish abroad

And throw it down the nearest volcano.”

I mean, obviously we printed that one.

I mean, that was a doozy. Amazing.

One of the cats has a cold.

“Atchoo,” he says, not unreasonably.

“Atchoo, atchoo, atchoo.” It’s cute really.

It would be weird, strange, absurd

Were that not to happen occasionally.

Odd things do take place here, certainly.

Most things are possible, like the Beatles said, though I prefer

Them when they’re being accidental philosophers.

I don’t care to waste words

When I’ve got so many unwritten

And better things to spend time doing.

But today everyone’s world

Burns and stinks with its own unbidden

And unnecessary self-shitting.

So let’s send the bombs to the moon.

Let’s throw things down volcanoes.

Let’s say all we need is love.

There’s nothing to lose anymore.

It’s already all fucked.

Isn’t it?