Clang-clang goes the trolley of my triumph over triviality; I'm captured behind bars of my own insistence, my inescapable up/down hubris which knows no neutral act, sees no standby stranger, but paints apathy itself in the neons of hard-line radical ambivalence because there are two types of people in this world: yes and no, finding one another in each other's bedrooms, dish racks, and fallen eyebrow hairs; I can't but guess which I am because mirrors lie and draw moustaches on my fool's gold pride; I look out the kitchen window and see my true reflection in the crawling thunderheads and sidewalk ants, humanity scattered across everything like the mist of a sneeze — I, and every one of my brothers and sisters, have scratched our initials in the park benches of the sky and bounced our voices like basketballs off the backboard mountains — there's no turning back from the pollen we've spread with our careless boots; there's no denying the fingernail scratches and medical pins we've inflicted upon the horizon, and though they may pass for pretty, our sunsets bleed a bruised purple all over the stitched fields, bandaged parking lots, and the rampancy of a plague of written words — my addiction to language, the most human addiction, has separated me from the hair I insistently rage against, the fragrances of dirt and musk I beat back with sticks and bars — where are we now? we are here? I search for the red dot on the mall map of time and space, find nothing but the arrogant assumptions of a matrix of firmament, a shimmering spherical bird cage, rattled and slapped by a blind, insane hand, our foundations burst with veins, roots, and worms, our scaffolding is sprouting mushrooms and third-world children, our glass walls becoming opaque with the constant territorial pissings of herds of ties and attaches, everything reeks of hands and subway seats, my facial features have been rubbed bone-smooth with the countless voices and breaths that handle it, I am blind behind marble eyeballs and silver teeth, and I have lost track of the big red dot, the pulp, the harvest, the pink flush of sex all numb with anesthetic in the surgery of modern reproduction — the politicians are bleeding from their crosses, but I can't hear them anymore.