Take your own picture at the end of your arm into megapixels down to more megabits and shown as megapixels that you, like the proverbial giant from your personal fable, can hold in your hand and retouch and aggrandize yourself and fix it up before you crunch it into bits, megatons of them blasted into cosmic waves captured at a desert location not far from Area 51, like time travel and teleportation, temporarily pulverized and spray painted onto fibrous optic fibers and spied upon not optically not visually but virtually by a vigilant machine, then vaporized up in a cloud from where it rains upon devices reconstituted on shiny LCD impressing eyes and minds to like or prefer not to.
to be read with a lit candle on Solstice night Dare to stare into this flame, this singular substitute of the sun, your point of light for this long night of solstice. Dare to stare and fuel this flame with your memories of all kinds and flavors, let them evaporate into the stars above. Dare to stare and celebrate this moment. There. Stare.
A poor rhyme Is not a crime As the critic Of the lyric In his prime Throws a brick In the center Of an altar For a god we never believed in.