The plum tree’s boughs bend low with the weight of the fruit, and the grass votes once again to be green. From this, we note how obedient nature is and how well its accessories are displayed. Hello, pretty flower. Bonjour, sunset at the beach. Meanwhile the stamen serves the seed. The river is driven into the bay. A whisper exists in the throat of the wind compelling the heather to sway. The rain’s anger evaporates. The clouds array. A column of ass-sniffers at the beach leaves the collie as the caboose. Every day is a parade, every breath a salute.
The hearts of seagulls beat, beat their careful duty until some wise guy baits them with Alka-Seltzer to see if they’ll explode. They do, but only in a commercial that’s a talented fake. The sun is airbrushed, the horizon a bit off-kilter, but the man with the sunglasses can still get a whole room full of people to believe. He shows the feathers spinning back down to the surface of the well-kept sea arranging every wave to arrive on schedule. The clock is an excellent way to bind us all together. Another is the phone. Human cells are wed to their circadian rhythms, their epinephrine triggers, their interstate maze of interleukins. Some molecule of faith is transferred through the genetic chatter. It shapes the face of deference. It builds the comforts into the home of conform.
Conform or die, you little shit sea slug, you wetback, hitching a free ride on the ocean into this domain. With what certificate do you expect to rank among the legends of this land? You do not fit among the loyal salmon whose beacon speaks to a pattern of clicks inside our brains. We believe in the myth of exploding seagulls, the misbehavior of rodents, the eradication of pigeons. We tie helium balloons to the legs of crickets, and this little package of salt is for you, my new friend. So obey, obey unless you want some oozing innards. You best remember this story of submission if you want to retain your natural grace.
[Submission Story audio version]
