Propagandhi

Francis didn’t give a fuck about the rollbacks, the overproduction, the reduced demand. He never gave much thought to disputed contracts. In his short life he’d only ever known panic, fear, pain, darkness and pandemonium (in the hell that was his home). Fourth quarter earning expectations expedited his demise. The panic grew as the humans stalked among them. When the screaming began, Francis shut his eyes and felt the hand of inhumanity brush over him. But his would-be killer’s back turned for a moment and a blinding ray of light spread across the floor. In a crimson pool he saw his own reflection as he bolted for the door. Not just some fractured fairy-tale although I wish that that were true. This is a fable far too real. Yet we somehow still cling to the story lines that bridge the chasm between cognition and belief. Any old implausible denial that might offer some relief from the dissonance that Francis left screaming in his wake as deep into the heart of the city’s park lands he made good his escape. And where for 5 months he ran free and replayed his only fond memory-just a warm and distant dream of his mother’s loving eyes upon him. Francis made it farther than she did-a quarter mile just short of the city limits they finally captured him. There’s a statue that the abattoir erected to remind us all of their contributions. To me it marks Potemkin City Limits, this Francis cast in bronze. Not just some fractured fairy-tale, although I wish that that were true. This is a fable far too real, yet we somehow still cling to…