Saturday, March 5, 2011

International Poem

To spend as much time
talking to the internet as possible. To have
the internet send you pictures
of the internet putting his hands
around his small penis.

How frail is life?

And how much frailer
Lying down at the bottom of the ocean
Talking to the stars
Like they’re going to do
Something for you? Look up.
Pound per square inch
pressure of sea on
eyeball oysters.

To hallucinate and chat.
To chat back at a chat box in
The black box of a plane
That’s crashed.

And look at me, how beautiful I am
With my hair on fire
Making my way to the plane’s
hot door.

From Indiana to Mumbai, my digitized vulva
Like an oval window
Flying above landscape.

But then everything changed.
Someone said
He’s alive he’s alive.

A hand came out of my
Computer screen.
It was bloody and green
Like a couple centuries
Stacked on top of each other

And thrown on the side
Of the road.
That’s what they do to bodies
when they don’t
want to give them names.

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