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GCITY

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

limbless paths

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.

Entropy everything?

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.

Thomas Osatchoff, 36, lives near a waterfall. He teaches.

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