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I recall Uncle predicting Google. With Father at the table, and the smoke plume that smelled of marshmallow and made me jumpy giddy sleepy. The problem with people who say the problem with people is the problem with people, he said. I was eight, but I remember exactly the feeling of that, rolled in my earlobe like a tiny plastic ball-bearing maze. One of these days, machines will answer back so quick you won’t have time to know if they’re lying.
Put the launch codes in the heart of a man.
Not EVERY man, but ANY man.
The war of the many mushroom clouds
Begins with a dagger in the hands of a grifter
Going door to door for each chest.
Uncle was a champion racer in the United States of America. Met Mister Kennedy just days before his date with destiny. Mother had a yellowed picture from the paper. But then there was this fire. Uncle told me to never be frightened of Brezhnev and The Bomb. The end won’t come in brimstone, he said, switching the nightlight on. It’ll be boring like a virus, from a supermarket chicken, or a deep jungle frog. Sleep well, my boy. See you, anon. Google me sometime.
