On an episode of Cheers we learn about
a spud the spitting image of the bastard
Nixon. It is photographed and plastered
to all platforms on the roundabout
of our collective consciousness. We quit
our jobs and trawl the tube for simulacra
and facsimiles. We rivet to the Sacra
Publica. We aren’t paid for shit.

Or else, we recognize the fact of Ozz,
the power of I, of Self. The metatube.
We dominate a network in the cube
of private sacraments. The winding gauze
of killing time unravels much to savor
in its snowy haze. A sweet accretion.
We imagine million$ at completion
phase, but realize the fate of Flavor.