standing in line to buy a bag of blood chocolate.
I was feeling nihilistic and depressed in that order.
She pointed out that child labor was behind
the entire global chocolate industry.
I told her I knew that already.
She looked disgusted for less than a second.
Her summer dress had a bright floral pattern.
Her ballerina slippers short hair and tattoos
reminded me of my favorite anime character.
She said, You look like you've been in a wreck.
I said, That's what the chocolate is for.
I told her all about it: the slow motion special
effects as the car flipped over in the air
the broken glass crushed roof jammed door
crawling out the window and across the ground
far as I could get from the smell of gasoline
watching as the upside down car caught fire
police cars firetrucks ambulances rubber necks.
I showed her the tweets.
She said, I have a boyfriend.
I said, That's ok. I'm already
nihilistic and depressed, see?
I shook the bag of chocolate.
She said, It's because of the car wreck isn't it?
I said, I loved that car and now it's dead.
She said, I'm sorry. You're really cute all banged
up like that but I can't. I have a boyfriend.
I said, I like your shoes. I'm glad we got to meet.
She said, Different place different time
who knows? We might have made a baby.
I said, Can we exchange numbers
in case you maybe break up?
She smiled, No, but if it makes you feel better
you can tweet a picture of my feet.
Seven and a half miles wide
twenty miles deep of melted mantle
makes a lot of airborne particulate
hot enough to barbecue everything in sight
much to hot to handle for a dinosaur
which is why by and by we you and me
showed up and why now all of a sudden
we find ourselves in a similar predicament.
Whether of our own making or not charbroiled
or slow cooked it would have happened
again sooner or later with or without our help.
Amy was the first to point out the extraordinary
unlikelihood of such thoughts occurring
to a dinosaur. She had lived a long time
as a human and understood more than most.
She asked questions and gave answers
accordingly. She told us to remember everything
she said and did. She said she went to the same
bar every morning and had a White Russian
and cereal for breakfast. There, in the company
of well-heeled entrepreneurs she stood at the
center of attention, slowly turned on her axis mundi,
smiling as she analyzed the surrounding chakras
auras and sparkly ergodic dynamic systems.
Michael Harold writes under the name Michael Aro, his father's Spanish birth name. Born in 1952, he is a novelist, poet, painter, multimedia artist, computer technologist and inventor. He has worked as a roofer, a truck driver, an urban planner, a teacher and a founder or co-founder of several software companies. His books include five novels, five volumes of poetry and two chapbooks. His work has been published in The American Poet, The Journal of Experimental Fiction, Identity Theory, Smokebox, Steve McCaffery's North American Center for Interdisciplinary Poetics, Unlikely Stories, In Posse Review, Burningword Literary Journal and the Dirty, Dirty Anthology by Jaded Ibis Press. He lives and works in Louisiana.