White-Binder Poems  

By David Eide  

They said, "don't write like the old guys
don't write novels filled up with smoke and mirrors."

The narrative has lost its magic, its strings relink to the
          frivolous.

They said, "the world remakes itself a few times each
millennia and this is one such time."

New numbers, new persons, new words, new thoughts.
The perfect moment hangs neatly on the cross of experience.

"And ideas," they said, "strip all your ideas
and express the form that madmen trace along
the midnight skyline of your favorite city."

Everything reduced down to the limp of a tramp
who turned out to be a funny guy admired in many streets.
Illumined by every sort of media; a carnival of machines; 
a drowning of them.

The media is a crawling beast across the face of God.
A new way to torture men and dust the mind with
                 complexity;

The media is a vast planet the people are dependent on.



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