Barack

by X

You, the industrial intelligence

complex of the mind, the thought that escapes

no thought. Who watches the watchmen

whose leaking brains become the subject

of themselves?

Like the jar upon the hill

the absence of the towers constitutes

absence itself.

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.