Goodbye From Soybean Island: Goat Skeleton Park

My plans were to visit some outdoor artwork in Soybean Island City, but as I neared my chosen destination I spied a sign that led me to another new-to-me park.

Yes.

Goat Skeleton Park:

My, my . . .

It is a small park half-hidden in the half-hidden underbelly of downtown. My understanding is that it is named after the many long-ago deceased goats that used to inhabit this island. Goats that the ancient Eye-Nye-Hab race used to tend and survive off of, who put them to use for milk and cheese and undergarments and, eventually, meat on the spit.

That is until the current race of corporatists came and systematically slaughtered all the goats, making room for the many many soybean, corn and rutabaga fields.

What can one say about Goat Skeleton Park?

Well, it has the proper display of drainage:

(Look at those pipes! What rapture!)

(Here, a diving board! Jump into the drainage, dear fellow. Enjoy! . . . Or, possibly, this is where they made the goats walk the plank to their carnivorous deaths.)

(Ah. Truncated nature doing its best to reclaim what Islanders have wrought.)

The park also has flowers:

And fences:

And shrubs surrounded by chopped and mutilated shrubs:

True.

What I think is not true--or at least, perhaps, curious--is that there are no goat skeletons. And why is that? Because, I believe, this is not where the goats were murdered. Excuse me, eradicated. I mean, harvested for their own good . . .

Yes, because everyone knows--well, what you can know in this mind-controlled, thought-regulated, informationless cesspool of a place--is that the goats were rounded up and herded and trucked and railroaded down to what is now known as the town of Ste Abattoir des Chevres Pres de la Mer.

That is where the goats were killed and where the many tract houses and strip malls and straight-curbed roads were constructed atop the littered bones and blood of the once native goats.

(And, quite likely, upon the bones and blood of the slaughtered Ancient Eye-Nye-Habs!)

So I think Goat Skeleton Park, in all its shabby and trivial banal beauty, is really but a distraction. A false flag. An erasure of what even a portion of the witless locals know to be really true. It should be named Diversion Park, perhaps.

Oh well. Someday I will be gone from this wretched isle--whether on my own secret volition and locomotion, or by the will of the powers that control me, or in a pine box or urn. That remains to be seen. But I will be gone and then such issues as wrong names and false history or lack of history will no longer compel me to write stuff like I am writing right now. This very sentence . . . Perhaps, in the end, sanity will prevail. At least, one hopes, where my individual brain is concerned . . .

Look!

A roundish object: