Google Translate In a New Century
by Robin Wyatt Dunn
“I want your body, and I want it now!”
So was the echo of the President’s words rendered by the translation program, from the Beltway to Our Frozen River, long and slow in the deviation from the statistical software norm, but beautiful, organic, long and long like a woman’s cum, the politics of an aging dwarf from unpronounceable countries, his paean an apocalypse for his people, a revelation we can never understand, runes so beautiful.
“I want your body, and I want it now!” It echoed, like the carefully cheesy catch phrases of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his movies, traveling across the streets and shaking the houses, melting the ice, waking up the children, frightening the old women.
“What in the Sam Hill is that noise?’ demanded one gray matriarch, her hands clasping her cane.
“That’s the president, grandma,” says the child, “We translated him finally.”
Not race or space, not gender or the diameter of human bellies, neither red nor blue nor green nor pinko but always and forever blue, the blue from olde, the blue we knew before, back in the era of tintypes, when transvestites were not funny but solemn, estuaries of a millennium’s thought rendered down to fatty paste by a secular government in an insane religious country, the blue we weep to together in our huts and troughs, in our ruts and traffic jams, the blue that is the last color named by all human societies.
“I love my hound long time, he is a moon! I will control it!” shouts the President.
The people of the city laugh, they laugh. They laugh and laugh; he will control his hound at last. It is about time.