LIPSYNCING THE CITY
Even God doesn't have a script.
Exhausted mimes holding up imaginary walls
finally collapse. Relief clowns sent in with paint guns.
Videogame that, mother fucker.
The empty calories of lighted squares.
The naked model posed into submission.
The naked model whose lust
became rust. The idiot savant misspells fear.
Imagine awakening to light impossibly pure
radiating the heat of the true believer.
Rain obediently sluicing off a roof
into drain pipes to baptize disbelief itself.
Imagine returning home from far away
to look up at the light and recognize
This poem came out of its epigraph, this eerie notion of photoshopping a city to make it look more alive. If only it was that easy.