A figure...not tall...not slim or broad shouldered,
Straightening a white shirt under a dark jacket.
Like the man in black, just without the stoney-cool,
Or the golden eagle in the right breast pocket.
Shiny black shoes, pointed at awkward left angles
As he flips off the multitude passers-by:
The chans, the cons, and the last great American whale.
Skinny green fingers lifting to the sky
Spitting static like tiny antennas.
Boneless digits, adjusting a thin tie
The color of nose bleeds and cherry kool-aid.
A shadow...cast on the bedroom wall...
A familiar, ecstatic contortion,
Back-lit in a soothing monitor blue.
Shaped something like an allegory. Aesop's tail.
Except no one here cares about the sign or if
What they say about the pigs and foxes is true.
Hands shoved deep in his pants, hiding twitching limbs
As he slinks low past the van-black, all-seeing eye:
Drifting through the Orgs, Alts, and straight into Nets.
But this is just what happens when we multiply:
When we use our ghastly mathematics to solve for X;
We add it all together and divide by Y.
Anon looks in a mirror, and the blind look back.