LITTLE JACK HORNER WORKS HIS WAY
OUT OF A CORNER
Oh I know what you're thinking: it's the opposable thumb keeps piggies like us from lining up to howl at the moon. Or how about this little maxim: When cornered, think of the eyes as particularly vulnerable, which is your Fort Bragg double-speak for two good pops and that bad-boy will believe anything you tell him, like: Hey stupid, I'm over here, but of course you won't be, you'll be over there. Got it? Good. Now you can stand back and watch his head fill itself up with all these little hexagonal cells which of course are always attended by your fabulous drones buzzing and humming away like it's all supposed to make sense, and then there's that big, fat queen somewhere deep inside heaving and wheezing away keeping everyone busier than they probably have a mind to while you're standing on your toes whispering in stupid’s ear, No man did this to you, which right away you're going to wish you didn’t because you know he's going to tuck it away like a hammer he doesn't quite know how to use until you go on PBS to explain the Big Bang, which is this very tricky story about how something called nothing became something called something and then how all your fabulous drones took over humming and buzzing it up until the little piggy homo sapiens finally got up enough speed to fly up over all the other little cells in their heads, which is where you're going to be one night humming Stardust to yourself listening to that Over-Nighter in the overhead ticking away louder than you’d care to think about until something slices through your head like it wasn’t there and all the little ticky-tocky cells inside light up like stars and shit-head what’s-his-name is grinning away at you from across the aisle like, Maybe it's about time you wised up to the fact there aren't any corners. Or cellars. Or walls. Not even stars. Nothing. Zero. Rien. Nullo. Nada. Zilch. Nothing at all.