Since you’ve placed an order
with a cell phone in your ear,
it’s hard to tell you
evolution
is a million years in mud.
I don’t care
that Darwin said three fingers
sticking out of wings
were left there
so that I could make your latte.
If I really was all dinosaur,
I’d tear your face off
like a credit card receipt,
but you should know
that someday my descendants
will be shitting
on your statues.
About the author:
Chris Ridenour, a co-founder of Night Bomb Press, is a writer and artist whose work of either stripe has appeared in places ranging from Washington State to Quebec City. His father-in-law once pulled out most of a bad tooth with a pair of pliers. Chris still writes anyway.
