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Me:

Green tiles

Minotaurus, 2015

It is love. I will have to hide or flee.

The walls of its prison grow, like an atrocious dream. The beautiful mask has changed, but as always it is unique. What purpose will my talismans serve: the exercise of letters, the vague erudition, the learning of words used by the rough North to sing of seas and swords, the serene friendship, the galleries of the Library, the common things, the habits, the young love of my mother, the military shadow of my dead, the intemporal night, the taste of sleep?

Being with you or without you is the measure of my time.

Now the pitcher breaks above the stream, now man rises to the voice of the bird, those who view through the windows have darkened, but shade has not brought peace.

It is, I know, love: the anxiety and relief of hearing your voice, the wait and memory, the horror of living in succession.

It is love with its mythologies, its little useless magic.

There is a corner I do not dare pass.

Now the armies surround me, the hordes.

(This room is unreal; she has not seen it.)

The name of a woman betrays me.

The same is true with other cultural industries, too, but there’s a trend: later capitalist-era mediums being more totally dominated by capital, then monopoly, and now imperialism; the novel compared with the film as an example; such that this domination is most total with the internet. Every major website is aimed at USAmericans, USAmerican local elections getting more buzz than entire coups and wars elsewhere.