by Matthew Stadler
In the future small children will ghost write books about God and politics. Their teeth will be made of wire. Teachers will hear voices at night. There will be no money. Women behind screens and athletes without number will drift in the phone-lines. The car will say thank you. Television will become self-correcting. The joystick will be replaced by a soft, breast-like bubble of foam.
In the future there will be soft industry. Satellite feeds will help parents sleep through the worst disasters. The roads will be improved remotely. When we drink we will have trouble remembering. Our assholes will not feel poorly. Under clothes we will wear parchment. At night the air will fill with voices, but what they mean will be unclear. In the future it will be difficult to say.
The taste in your mouth will be gone. Clerks will shop with us. Value will be exchanged in a burst of light. No time will elapse between programs. In the future glass will become unbreakable and infinitely thin. A tunnel might link us to other places. Maps will become personal. In the flat sun of late winter your scars will look attractive to other people.
In the future, distance will collapse and time become dispersed, unlocatable. An hour may seem like nothing. Your neck will be warm with fatigue and forced turning. Sleep will prove exhausting. Discretion may already be your best friend. Service will be pleasant and uninterrupted. Poetry need no longer be a distraction.