Chomp.
Terror.
Shrieks swell.
Macy’s torn asunder.
It must’ve been bad chemicals.
The ground shows a leash, disconnected and undone.
Headless and personified, its Calvin Klein boxers soiled bloody, the mannequin stands supreme.
Off to Babies “R” Us, hopefully to make Jonathan Swift proud, but the hike through the derelict mall touts no pre-9/11 exceptionalist onlookers.
Only a young man, looking up from his biography of David Foster Wallace’s biographer, sees the sight, commits himself to the aphorism “form over content,” and begins to sketch mannerisms on a hollow iPad.
It is past the food court now, a strange land of poorly-lit Burger Kings and fully-lit high school slack-offs, unknowingly sitting on chairs filled with jewels, humming ‘Aquearela do Brasil’ without realizing the colossal mess they’ve made, french fries and college dreams all over the place, which no chipotle ranch in the world could satisfy.
The futures look bleak, but no one looks up from their table of combo meals to see the mannequin, who itself pays no attention, and by now has crossed over a hallway display of carts, each offering another piece of the puzzle, protection against the fluoridation of precious bodily fluids, combs for the newly bald, a paint brush with bristles especially designed for rose petals, all essential items for those who are looking to cloak themselves in 50 Shades of Irony, the best-selling fan fiction in New New York.
