Like opening your refrigerator door

The Facebook experience is like opening your refrigerator door, staring in, not sure what you’re looking for.

—Dani Fankhauser, Mashable, 25 Jan. 2013

At the inaugural Jane Austen Janis Joplin Jubilee Ball now popping in Austin.

A refrigerator lolls on the diatomaceous sidewalk, dreaming in jellybeans, its fingernails razor blades, its face your face. Ride your bike down sloughs of cretaceous molasses that cascade across the forest canopy. Sing of the city on the river where a plague of trout roils.

In the ashen webs of the refrigerator’s deepest recess, goldfish flounder, glinting like maple keys. Like all fish they flip their burned-off beaks in disgust, accosted by the sight of your naked fins. Inhabit the higher shelves like an archduke. The light in the fridge stays on when the door closes. Below you in the shuddering machinery of cold, the fridge’s crispy bowels, your so-called friends, your best friends, forever save for you a chair; they like you to arrive riding two asses and a bike.

Their voices skitter like scabies. In the backend all the addling algorithms riddle red tracks like truth into your aching eyelids: We will melt you into the mysteries like margarine, like the mayonnaise of modernity. We will circumcise you with celery sticks and name you after the gastropod Golem. Your blood will slake our veins like holy iodine.

Their pixelated wishes trickle down your most secret bioluminescent seas. Your true head opens a heather-paved cave. They bury you in their ascent to gory binary love. They link fingers to rasp iron filings and reach for the tear gas canastas.