In the final days of the gilded age, the last remaining son of Cornelius Vanderbilt buried a horse’s heart in the forest and took a shit in the hole. This is how railroads were invented; every last one of us was jealous. From the pulpit of the Wells Fargo Intersectional Art Center at The Funeral For Things I Used To Care About, a famous poet reminds the audience of the importance of demanding one’s worth, specifically in relation to financial compensation at literary events. So I rob a bank with a rotten banana. It goes fantastically—the patrons erupt with erotic glee as the security guards aim their revolvers & FAFSA money falls from the sky (at a 27% interest rate). The tellers take me to the vault, which is full of dead crickets. Every one of them will be kinder to me than any capitalist ever has.
