He had just put a quarter in the Jesus Machine
when the pile of dead used batteries vanished.
They had been there, a stack of them,
he remembered because he had just put
a new dead battery on top of them- It couldn’t
have been more than ten or fifteen minutes ago.
Now they were gone, just vanished, like his first wife.
Then with full force it struck him- he had not had a
newly deceased battery and he had not put one on a
stack of old dead ones- he recalled instantly that he
had never had a wife. He had never been married.
He walked hastily to his ‘Important Papers’ file
cabinet and looked under the ‘Personal History.’
His birth certificate was gone, disappeared- and
then he remembered suddenly the path to paradise,
laughing as he saw his left foot evaporate and the
leg above begin to vanish.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote

Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride

photo by John Hogl
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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