a stormfront moving into your palms,
automating your fingers with its electricity;
microscopic glasses that can translate
the data in your nerves into filmographic,
freudian moments--so that we may witness
track marks that re-arrange themselves
into a serial bar; a registry to scan yourself into,
measuring your unworth in hearts broken;
rehab that forms icicles only inside your cranium,
so temptation results in immediate brainfreeze
an out-of-body experience in which half of your conscious
watches the other in a VH1 pop-up video--
personal anecdotes only you could know, typed out,
rather impersonally, by a third conscious
the National Security Agency
an exhaustive list of **** titles you've consumed
appearing in chronological order in the pop-ups;
your life, earlier that day, unfolding on the LCD--
as you watch yourself *******--all in hyperspeed.
a smartphone that assembles itself as your eye and
dumps megabytes into your cranium (or takes megabyte
dumps), giving new meaning to the term "*******"
your cranium as a boutique diaper for Corporate
America, where the admixture of hate and fetish for
new products and cultural kitsch culminate--
we can belong if we are willing to self-humiliate.
a lasso for dopamine; a rope whose length increases
in lockstep with unpleasure; a monopoly board for bodies,
so that you can own them like a second property--
unlived in, perhaps revisited, whenever you pass "GO".
Adderall for insecurity, for attendant inattention,
when you don't get the attention you want;
Suboxone for ex-cheaters, simulating
the taste and feel of genitalia in their mouth
as they near relapse into other laps.
stray hairs that crawl through your nose in your sleep
and furtively accumulate in your digestive tract;
a hairball of guilt you can hack-up like a cat, mid-coitus
ideas that aren't conveyed in electronic smoke signals;
camera angles lasting longer than 3.5 seconds;
microchips that detect ADHD-inducing content;
magnetic eyelids that draw down, confronting you
with the darkness you only hallucinate isn't there.
instagram totem poles excluding self-approval--
a monument to our id, identifying our homes
in place of an address, so our ugliness is official
memories that can be collected into metadata,
all images belonging to the same species processed
thru an algorithm that re-creates consciousness
new dialogue options when you recall someone;
an on-demand descent into the nether--like a pain-
killing drip--allowing you to drift into conversation
when you are only talking to yourself.