the narciteck
they build themselves now
out of mirrors.
chrome-spined apostles
with teeth whitened
like cemetery gates.
they speak in blue-lit sermons,
thumbs flickering over glass,
manufacturing love
the way factories once made bullets.
every photograph
another prayer to themselves.
they call it branding.
I call it standing naked
in the middle of a freeway
begging strangers
to describe your soul.
the old drunks at least
had honesty.
they knew the bottle
was a bottle.
these new saints
sip themselves instead—
small poisoned doses
every hour
until the face in the screen
becomes more real
than the one rotting quietly
behind the eyes.
and God help you
if you stop watching yourself.
because silence
is the one room
they cannot redecorate.
I saw a girl crying once
while taking photographs
of herself crying.
that was it.
the whole century
balanced perfectly
inside one human moment.
outside,
a dog limped through rain
without an audience,
without applause,
without needing
to become
a monument to itself.
to its own suffering.
the dog
was holier than all of us.
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