A Hitchcock film is being narrated

inside an automated sex machine

doubled as an overregulated paper press

on the top of an old Jazz Era oak desk;

what ruins a generation can make.


Moviegoers watch Greek goddesses

roam the district of lights

hoping Caesar opens his gate

wielding a king’s sword once stuck in stone.

Battles in the jungle trenches leave dead

many men who fought to have

their names heard, otherwise erased.


Hanging rosaries caress the priest’s hand

of a mighty Catholic cathedral

wrapped inside of an Egyptian pyramid.

Doctrines are organized the same today

in the great American Plains.


Aztec ruins paint a blank canvass

in a medium of internal impressions;

likewise searching were the imperialists

who came to enforce a new land.


The ruins of man are romantically studied

only long after the massacre;

the rest thought not to be at all—

even when witches and werewolves

walk the streets cloaked in epaulets

where there are no clean hands.

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