caveat, imperator

you become a dead language

taught from a textbook with more

revised editions than Sundays

of the New York Times.

overcasts move in with

an electronic hiss, everyone

fears being disconnected.

silence has a way of saying

the bandwidth of your consciousness

is 6,512 times more narrow than

a dial-up modem. (you've got mail).

corporate smorgasbords

find new shades of black and

white; Bob Ross-like stroking

of "happly, little Occidents".

the taxpayers walked by

murals of Phaeton,

as they lit the Western canon

with a kind of UV that

made it all Greek, vincible ink.

"i" is the most trouble-

some pronoun

plurally reptilian;

memory is scratch-n-sniff,

fragrance oils imitating

forgotten essentials.

you can always look

in the mirror

and see Caesar.