Another version of me
you want me to come there so we can drink sugar in our milk
before going to bed.
Or I can stay here and we can get competitive
with this new neural interface
champing at the bit to get in our horsepower heads
full of plans which are windy walls
sawed pharynx from larynx; jaw-lips-tongue soft esophagus
without a metal mouthpiece in my mouth
though I am a mouthpiece for that something I cannot control.
I am not a horse but I am well trained. My eye is on the goal
and understand this: cheering and waving for help
still scans as the same. There are many lists
of eager candidates cheering or drowning for this new neural interface.
Early adopters each with the same vision
of being the champ. I have other visions too
of security satellites
of all 8 billion carefully crafted and connected
into a chair for this seat even I am part of sitting on myself
I am not this; I am multiple states
of 1 & 0 largesse at the same time I am the new United Nations. I am right now
erecting The New Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
An Internet Bill of Rights
carefully crafted and cut to affect
exponential expansion as does dark energy.
Am I really able to face the satellite of my self?
Escape is not an option. With all my security
tape—can I get across what I am trying to say? I am anxious
about connection so I keep repeating myself….Wind in the desert.
Ten years from now living inside our cameras….In control of the lenses of all
dramas, I am some sort of sultan sandman hovering on a nouveau-riche llama
asking myself again if connection is disconnection? If election means this
kind of connection? Am I getting across
my intention? What am I trying to say? What time is it? Why should I wait
where am I—when? Sleep. The neural lace is late and you can't come here. So dark
snow drifting….I will go there through the chance of a childhood tunnel I dug
in the drifting banks under the rug of blue sky and white cloud flag
I vowed I would pull down….
I will work from home in the desert
where I know there is a black market
for dollars and crocodiles
but—come to think of it—how is it coming along the internet?
Is it green, is it blue? Red, black—penal prism?
Is it Christmas for everyone? Is it stars
pulled closer? Whatever it is becoming, whatever name sticks….I can’t wait to drink
underground lakes of sugar milk with you. And when the windstorms die down
can we explore the desert instead of going to bed?
Making of it again the biggest bed supporting all of us with sand for blankets.
A Leopard Tortoise
contorting with us under our one head.
Pillow—a Streets of Monaco rescue boat
on folds, creases or waves twisting
courting us Gaboon Vipers,
Carpet Vipers, Forest Rhombic Night Adders. Channeling you again another
of our night swims resting on a delta: one of our long talks into the night. Neurotoxic,
hemotoxic, cytotoxic, myotoxic. Network toxic.
It’s almost like you’re here with me right now in this room sifting through
reversals wherein the groom of sand is the tomb of time.
Not even nothing can keep streaming…. Even time its own keeper.
Giving it order before letting it out from its…. What—have you heard?
If this is all dust in the virtual then how come it hurt you still?
Because no drug can stop the world
shifting slices of screen:
shattering feverish origins of glass swallowed
again by a dune recast in each of us
in every time. The real
singularity happening in a tomorrow long ago. Furnished from within
a spiraling furnace generating this mixed cartoon river of life….
Wait a while white; wait a while blue
source confluence somewhere near Khartoum….
It’s true—I don’t worry about higher rent and I didn’t wait for my connection
at the airport like a regular person but just like anyone I can’t stop thinking….
Right now I’m thinking about 2004 when Joe invited me to sign up for Gmail.
How I thought it would be a great new way for gangsters to surveil messages.
Through our new frontier of connected minds….
Surrounded by my security, congenially,
I’m drafting rather cordoning off these words right now in the new Gcity
incorporated: a person under the law still aiming for the fences to make new ones
beyond the senses.