You, the industrial intelligence
complex of the mind, the thought that escapes
no thought. Who watches the watchmen
whose leaking brains become the subject
Like the jar upon the hill
the absence of the towers constitutes
They say your inner circles prefer
Guided By Voices. There are reports of beauty
from the frayed edges
of the Empire. Hell, even the unhappiest among us
knows that. Why do you insist we recast ourselves
in the image of something else? My accountant says it’s time
I learn to love myself. What she doesn’t know
is that the curve of her foot beneath the desk
has transformed all numbers into pornography.
Meanwhile, the unwashed dishes pile up
in the White House basement, or an exact replica
of the White House basement. The toilet is stuck on permanent flush.
The salted meat turns sweet.
The Utah Data Center is filling up with sand and thought.