Cyborgpunk

Oil-slick spectrum gleams on my
shimmering scalp
reflections ricochet from the
spinosaurus ridge
of silver filigreed silicon wafer that
stabilizes my senses

I pause long enough for a trillion flops
my eyes glowing
ultraviolet in the traumatic undercity dark
my tongue smelling
the fear of patrolmen whose silver link to home
is silent
my fingertips hearing the only bytes whispered by
my hijacked satellite

Think of you my love, taken
careless?
Or foolhardy in your ambitions again?
No poetry
in the minds or brains of the thugs holding you
who only care
that a criminal on their wanted list will now
never walk free again

Then I pounce
like
a patient but hungry
snake
breaking necks with my
brain
infiltration entirely
silent
nothing to keep me out of the
archive
unseen untraceable unremembered
gone

Erased your record

A drab bell

The eye was looking in. The woman who called herself a Master of the Wisdom had told me not to fear this, it was in fact the aim of all her meditation training. That I would learn to see myself, to read what was within my soul, the angel of fire, and to rewrite my own being on my own terms. But all I felt now was that I had no secrets any more. I was powerless to rewrite anything, much less to become a liberated angel of fire commanding my own life. This was not my eye, looking in.

Found poetry

Who says poetry is dead among the spraypainting classes?

There is a subtle playfulness in this art, an undercurrent of desperation, the anger of a young man (for surely the artist is male) disenfranchized by the culture to which he is contributing to the extent that shock is the last weapon left to him. Of course the furniture and food metaphors defy analysis, and the humour is blunt but effective. Someone give this boy a grant!

Anonymolocation

I am not, I repeat not, really in Afghanistan.

Revenge

This is it. My opponents believe they can impugn, incite, irradiate, ignore, and ignite me with no consequences. They have never been so wrong in their frequently-mistaken lives.

Barschatz calls my work "pedestrian" (sic) and "marathon" at the same time; she of the 900-page coming-of -age novel with neither birth nor adolescence in its pages. She of the ghosts that waste pages but never interact with the characters. She of the gray covers and fading print. Cayne compiles the definitive list of avant garde poets of 2005, and neglects mention Debuse even as an also-ran. Who ever read Cayne's poems outside of his own anthologies? Who ever still thinks that eighteenth-century diction is garde, much less avant? Brodersen calls me "unpublished" when I have delivered more books of poems to the world in the last ten years than he has written lines. Brodersen who considers Haiku "free form". Brodersen who considers found poetry as "without creativity or merit". Brodersen who failed the Mensa entrance exam the year we both sat. Who considers his wife's work "crucial to the development of our culture". Smith who reviews for Village Voice but has no experience of writing or rhyming beyond highschool. West who thinks the study of meter more appropriate use of a poet's time than the photographing of graffiti. Bradley who never leaves Toronto for fear that it may not be there when he returns.

From now on, I will be here to respond. It may not be pretty.