Spring 2012 — THE POTOMAC

  Cait Turner

So in 1898 two bored Brits capture bits of our atmosphere, because I mean what ELSE could they capture at this point and like anything worth saving it was frozen for later use. Reheated, our atmosphere blazes a brilliant red inside giant capital letters screaming EAT AT JOE'S. Inert and unmoving like the bodies eternally plastered two and in grey barroom chairs, noble neon glows forth from foggy windows in the form of a shamrock greener than any natural grass creeping up in–between cracks in city streets. Chemical bonds lure able bodies out of factories, homes, schools and down memory darkened alleys to places where the sun might always shine indoors. For this we thanks Earle C. Anthony and by proxy the French; two signs sent to Packard Auto from gay Paris now number in the trillions. Supply, Demand, Construct, Consume. Images run underground underneath flowerbeds; this, our least reactive element sticks bodies to couches in front of flat screen televisions and glues thumbs to remotes. Potato chip crumbs will continue to stick stubbornly to openmouthed patrons staring at nothing; the LED revolution will still be televised (what won't, these days?) but like those old bodies coughing spasmodically into hazy neon evening, nothing stays forever bright, sorry just business, nothing personal.

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