Notes to Self
his moments of thralldom in. . . deepest
give up the vocabulary of children’s art.” –Roger Shattuck
He knew the names of flowers,
the gem-like words for things--
unlike most of nature,
which, as it instructs,
ceases to entertain
Wegg’s leg became a doll
before cyber-punks were born
When they mapped the human genome
they found me lacking. This can
also be said of the real vs. virtual realm
A song of imperfection so lovely
as to defeat decadent aestheticism.
I saw it on TV. Karaoke.
People moving their lips, a girl
whispering inside a shadow-box.
He pushed his stomach
out of his mouth to eat: must be
a starfish, our tour guide said.
Kristeva writes, “I expel myself.
I spit myself out.”
AM I GETTING IT RIGHT?
was scrawled on the bathroom wall.
Suggesting landscape and cloudscape,
as a sick man who imagines
the illness outside of himself.
Anonymity was growing cold
when death technologies were invented.
She spoke of taking pains to
be a good host. But what do cyborgs eat?
she asked the Panel on Non-food Cuisine.
“Don’t worry. We won’t let you die,”
culture said to anarchy.
Too few skeletons in the closet
to make things interesting. “Born
She thought she’d seen a ghost.
But disembodiment is a technological
fantasy, meant to signify transcendence
of materiality. No syntax
for the concept of memory vs. Memorex.
He said of the abdominal cavity:
“Such a primitive place. One expects
to find paintings of buffalo on the wall.”
Inside the gallery was another gallery.
Inside that a sanctuary.
I’ve never met a utopia I didn’t like.
Simulated war and simulated pain.
“This is not a pipe” written in mind or eye.
Simulated love on the Simulator Channel.
A home inside the neutral gleam.