There is no mercy in sexual grammar
And the tests of law are outpaced by their politics.
Blame is the game of accusatory mathematics,
And the disclosure of false attributions.
Have you ever ridden the mechanical preacher
Of the word, of an opprobrium in crescendo?—
Perhaps in the spirit of the jilted lover,
As you gave license to every hidden contempt.
In a letter where behind that accusing finger
Is someone trying to retreat to moral high ground.
But such ground is a valley.
But such perception is a shadow.
The harsh word is a quick come-on medium.
It has only one purpose.
It is catharsis made avant la lettre,
Forged ex cathedra the usual encomiums to romance,
An invective epistle designed
To abolish good memory by smothering it.
It is to dissipate all responsibility.
Polemic incinerates peaceful possibility.
A voice of contempt that charges in Napoleonic flourish.
But when the high tide of polemic rolls back,
And catharsis is spent,
Remorse combs the field,
Mourning the bones.
I am a 70-digit rebel without a clock.
Two barcode fronts,
A wireless hub
Swimming in a tank of synthetic goo.
If something needs to be found or paid,
I twitch just one muscle of the finger
And it is found and paid.
In an instant, I say less with more.
I am another security pass code without a referent.
I am another acronym lodged in a random alphabet.
Ass connects to chair,
Finger connects to mouse,
Eye connects to screen.
I am a houseplant without soil.
My thumbs know only manufactured cliterrata
So many buttons where numbers swap for letters,
And letters swap for numerical credit.
My ear attached to a satellite-imbued eolith,
Communication is measured by the dollar-minute.