To undress the corporate swindle and have him ride a stumbling donkey over palm branches strewn about in a hurricane such that the multitude might see what difference makes. Humbly to fit a natural self. To make real language possible again.

Absolute reality is a calendar carved in snow, ticking like a time bomb. Dew on a mossy grave. Spring’s stultification of digital progress. Virga. Between the cloud and a thirsty cowslip, a thinning vapor that vanishes before it lands. Ice in the vein. Marble statues to a moron’s memory.  

The founders thought the war they opposed—bizarrely labeled with a Roman I—had been contrived by governments for autocratic, sordid, materialistic reasons. No Schwitters. Mathematics without numbers. Logic. What is one, or fourteen billion, or a calculus of infinitesimals to the music of the spheres? A harmony. Poll dancers, potluck parties, piggy banks and paparazzi, portly presidents and other psychopaths. A cartel of pelt merchants and profiteers. Pepper-sprayed patriotism for pig-headed philistines, pining for Huītzilōpōchtli’s piñata.

To concentrate the mind on naked existence. What hunger must have been between the tainted apple and the first kebab. Cannibalism. Cannabis. The Cirque du Soleil. Fear in the bones. To marrow, to marrow, and to marrow, ne signifie rien. We have lost our enthusiasm for reality. Money is better. Batter even. Griddled pancakes bubbling in another’s dream. A bearded pun. The paradox of passion in a chatbot love affair.