The bat can carry all the viruses in the world and shows no symptoms Its black wings are skins its happenings affinities in imitation we have N A F T A we have never left the maquiladora crouched over piles of chili powder in a modern spice war proud to reach Culver City in the back of an ice cream truck five for a dollar the powdered chili having been made into a paste that you can push with pump through the perforated top of a spherical dispenser and like a baby baiting the areola to churn except unnamed slaves made you this spicy candy and Chiapas is a far away place you’ve never heard of till it’s too late and how do you tell the fat man he is starving himself do you say: fat man you’re living in a suicide machine of your own making do you say batman is black and I whooped his ass for some cayenne pepper and a rhythm I can’t quite speak
