Someday the secrets of your life
will have been translated into
a mode you would not recognize:
a hieroglyphic code of colorfully
candid squiggly naked body parts
(of varied sizes) each depicted in its
intellectual relation to contextually
pertinent particulars of culturally
exigent requirements brought to its
quick perusal by whoever picks
the damned thing up. With luck,
you’ll get a post-grad shaved-head
skinny thirty-two year old who’s
bold enough to think that secrets
can’t be told because they’re secret.
Take a peek at you: tell me if you
have a clue. Need a breather? Down
the road, they won’t know either.
.
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