Lectronic Media Solstice

In my hacker’s suit of netherdawn/hunter’s night,
digital-invincible, for my politest crime wave,
jazzy snare drum riffing out 0s and 1s, glib,

in all this shared cranium space, rebels pout
the spiel: we must start thinking like Ferraris!
(as in, don’t thank me, run me over!)

(as in, what’s a passport to a nova?)
(as in, the end of white women slithering.)
Just type the clues, despite memory-filled cavity,

information neither good nor bad, in collusion
with ground sloths of the industrial age, how
we eat the moralists’ eggs, bleed in facts.

(It’s not wrong, but the way that we cash in.)
They hunt us in Bali, we hunt them in Jersey,
hear them from space, kill us in our office complex.

Coin or copulation, doctors chart only sales,
and leave churches to count the dead, our final war
about time, conflict of centuries, blank tech manifesto.

Be brave my little parasite, the seer crunches numbers,
go to sleep my little stash, heresy can be deceiving.
Ask the boy then ask the bishop, because God gave us

guns, born without a neighborhood, sludge shopper, lethal
cinematic love, every bedroom fetish for the boot, crawl
unto me, vile reproduction, rough trade death, moan

of crisis, no cure for patent leather hats, blame
also ticks the atomic clock, technology of coma.
They string you up with hope, “Don’t worry,

tonight’s thunder is on my credit card.”
Same old buffalo tears, yet we still seek the toxic
as aquatic birds to marsh, each tomorrow slipped

into a vending machine, our shared recall
strictly television. We raffle off the dumb, then
the smart, until we’re all hung on carnival wires,

alcohol our most effective political argument,
sleep the last land of truth, our snoring
protests so loud . . . no wait, that’s us

in a scream-and-run dream, kelp color
of bones turns to albino children, alive
and drowned at once, floating, movement

strictly fashioned by prevailing current,
until tender words require condoms,
nothing more expensive than our acts,

and so we save ourselves to death,
minimalism of cows, stoic as a mall kid
alone, retail clawing away her skin,

as the new Eve covers herself in greed.
A saviour merely says, “Yes, I’m advertised.”
But don’t destroy the phone lines, everyone agrees,

plotters in Portland sync with the FBI in Kabul,
every cell phone capable of calling in an air strike,
battle lines vaporized by the need to be a man,

calumny the name of every-night TV, coroners
star in ratings bonanzas, although no one’s sure
what’s dead, who’s dead, life the width of shoelace.

Get drunk and call a number for promises of love,
(cheaper to cut a check for the disappearing frogs.)
What’s a forest if not logs? Wander in video games,

in fear of all unpaved. De-spine the young, then pour
the children into pudding molds. Jail skate rats for grinding
miracles on the library steps and regulate each wave

for the safety of surfers, the saying of all this
my need, my reverie writhing up from a bare floor,
how I spin purpose so far, so far from our one sun.