EGGS: ‘PERSONAL ARCHETYPE’

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God isn’t dead, He has just stopped aging, and got really into mime. He does the kooky kabuki, holding incredibly taut poses, where you can see Him shiver, trying to control his breathing in order to appear statuesque, static, and/or dead. He’s been doing the same play forwards and then backwards since D-Day called, “Ubermensch, Spidermensch, Batmensch,” but His silent scream is usually drowned out by sports-talk techno music, while shaman re-kill the suspicious dead with evanescent Silver Bullet by video game, humping the air like dogs, shredding their vocal cords, blood capsules exploding into sweat, veins ripping from their skull, to paint aloud their tombstone in frantic red, ”God isn’t dead, he’s just a flying robot that can see my heat but not my face.”

EGGS: ‘WHEN I RUN FOR OFFICE AND HAVE KIDS’

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After reviewing the full House Committee on Hitler’s Sex Life’s totally badass DVD, I have determined potential validity to longstanding pundit claims of brinkmanship, lycanthropy, and being conceived on a pool table to “The Monster Mash” at my predecessor’s Easter-themed campaign fundraiser. May God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America.

EGGS: ‘MEMORY’

I wonder if in the future, you will be able to buy complete catalogues of topical knowledge “telepathically,” that are, of course, respectively edited by the publisher, with your consumer-ID-microchip, and they will be accessed like memories, like AIFS in your brain from a search engine’s info-cloud. I wonder even harder if access to complete catalogues of no-longer “infinite” knowledge will curb, convalesce, or complicate the whole “human variable” thing, and, in addition, if everyone’s whole existence will feel like an endless version of the moment it takes a human to dissolve into mere shadow from an atomic blast.

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EGGS: ‘THE CHILD’

And the child rolled its eyes, showed “stop” with its cherubic palm, and continued within its cell phone, in wireless communion with some specious Metatron. I was considering phoning the true Throne of Glory, but knew that if I came down from the mountain only leaving a voicemail, the sea would swallow me whole; like Pharaoh. I, like Pharaoh, for refusing to play Ba’al, refusing to confuse oppression and boredom as a unified disease entitled to prescription. The child was calculative, manipulative, unable to live with itself, and excellent at character acting. I studied its programs, and studied it studying its programs: story arches perpetuated by commodity, instructing their social utility, orchestrating existentialist disposable income, showing no wonder but predatory self-awareness: a zero-sum game for precocious sociopaths.

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EGGS: ‘TECH WAITS FOR NO ONE’

As a child, I memorized everyone’s landline number and the differing television station numbers, respective to geography, of my entire extended family. Both of those skill sets are now obsolete, but I often wonder what their contemporary equivalents are, while eating cold, canned ravioli, naked, with plastic dinnerware.

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