“is the solipsist so lonely?”

the philosopher asks no one in particular
his voice unheard
outside his locked office door.

he is drowned out by the humming of
machines that make lunch boxes
machines that make harmonicas
machines that make parts for more machines.
the humming echoes through streets

resounding inside the empty movie theaters
& the empty concert halls
& the empty cathedrals
& the empty classrooms
& the empty skating rinks
& the empty discotheques
& the empty drive-throughs
& the empty apothecaries
& the empty art galleries
& the empty museums
& the empty gay bars
& the empty parking garages
& the empty chinese restaurants
& the empty stadiums
& the empty office buildings
& the empty prisons
& the empty barns
& the empty catacombs
& the empty capitols
& the empty housing projects
& the empty houses.

everyone is inside
the library of congress
lying in her or his own
private opium coma,
but they all dream the same dream.

they dream of the philosopher
squatting in his cave
squinting through his dirty window
wrinkling his vast forehead.