They took everything that was already white
and compressed it into a small cake.
Utterly slick, ultimately waxy,
as small as an ironic footnote.
Laid that bit into a chamber,
set it on flameless fire as if
they didn’t care about it, raised it
from its crushed state into the clouds, huffed it,
blew it out into the thickest shade
of pure chalk imaginable,
then stood behind it in deep admiration
over their skills
at being so unlike
the entire everything
that birthed them.
And oh, the beards they grew,
and oh, the monstrous foods they devoured;
the long nights of staring into the eyes
of the disposable past
with sucking love
and hot detachment.
Leafing through the edges
for paths to the dead center;
admirable little men in their circles —
circles that nonetheless
are still just men masturbating
behind vast, thick clouds of white.