i stopped listening to those disembodied voices

with

so many opinions

that almost

for how cruel and negative

a person can be

they forget to have their own…

you know, identity

so easy these people are

nowadays like dominoes falling into place

when someone starts the smear campaign

yelling “come on” engines starting

people so easy—with words

these blind fools word marching

burning torches with words

out their bedrooms

out their back rooms

he starts the dogs

gnarling gnashing teeth out the gates

it meant nothing to read books

or

to capture summertime things in your hand

or, wel

…kisses

those “sloppy fucking hand up your skirt”—

…kisses “running fingers across the side of your back

down to where you arms fold then…stop”—…kisses…

nope

the word marches roll through the word towns of

museums

the night watchman is beaten down with words

while

the night watchman is sleeping—and the paintings

come down

burning one by one

to the ground

on a pile with the other artifacts and the folklore

and

whatever wasn’t bolted to the ground

even the ink pens in the bank with the chains

they were swinging empty on the bottom

over the wood-paneled counter

if they were an idea

you could race the others to the yard with

and stand there on the banks

of the cliff

and

with all that music

watch it go over the side of the quarry

and fall

like a classic car

exploding on the rocks

everyone standing there

at their keyboards

blank

like a killer’s

eyes

it’s super weird

people have stopped counting

on their hands

and

in their heads

everyone is ON SOMETHING

in their mouths twice a day

or ON SOMETHING

electric bicycles

staring blankly into screens

and

those screens have funny lines going across them

when you videotape them—

and people look like they are in a trance

disappeared and

so sad

at the end of the entrance

with no-exit blank eyes

and carrying it now nervous

their little palms always stuck

to their faces

with their devices

unaware of how pretty

it is to be out walking

in all these amazing places

riddled with billboards

screaming into the alleyways

like glass floating houses

into the hurricane

oh well

i pretend i am a hovering diner

full of fucked pirates in their oil-stained linen shirts

cuffs out

smoking and being asses, beer-gutted and crook-toothed

and/or

i am surrounded

in a white formica silver-and-gold flecked booth by

library anomalies

the diner is me but a robot me with shiny insides—

silver on the walls

real metal

in the back—where the swinging doors swing

when the BELL pops and goes RING

like a cat

moving moving across porcelain pizza boxes

reading minds like a psychic trucker

his hand twitches and reaches for the coffee scalding

hot,

always,

as dawn fades up and down like it is note guessing

the bridge

in a trap

called

…get this…

“the white diamond”