Can I deny—
a little bleed in the brain span—
deny my username—
hardly moving out into continents—
where my body hides,
and the history of changes,
and the language I’ve used to get used to it—
we love, in love, so
love is love, thus
pregnant with acid logic,
the mucus and sperm sail over flimsy tempests,
in a poem, no less,
photographing its issuance.
Trust—an exotic coin—
suddenly you find you’re near a perilous ocean,
kind of melodramatic, with creatures
straight out of Marvel comics
leering like idiots,
and the story of a senile heiress
rises, soulful and distant, but hilarious—
her lackeys deep and full
in tumults, dun piles
that are visceral and excessive—
so, shake it off.
The conversations you believe you have had
blend in an airtight docket—
why can’t that be a comfort?
“God,” after all, “does not play dice with the
You trust her—that’s ok. You
guess, still, hands on
the keys running twelve-tone to The Drift—
the dominant, when fallow.
New—like a baby howling “kill the fucker”
from its iron crib—new
like episodes of your daily blood coursing
transmitted to every computer
day and night—
new—like a toothbrush,
bristles standing straight—
what is it that makes all of these things the same?
They have something to do with “new.”
In one sitting, she could master the controls,
and with that, caromed
off into the simulated NYC skyline on her screen
(HUD off, she was flying with no HUD)
and she was excited.
—It was better than glass blowing!
which she had just failed out of in night school
(partly due to scheduling problems,
but it’s also known that she didn’t get along with the teacher).
So we get this straight, also—
nothing gets “old” in the virtual.
Every word—you turn it over like a cube
in a syntax mesh—like a polygon in Lara Croft’s buttocks—
never failing, and it never fails
to ignite. Thus, your negotiations
revive, cyclical—like T.S. Eliot meant with the term “juvescence”
—not so hotly as to feel religious, only
sacrilegious, as it sabotages our inevitable meat.