| i am so poor i love my machines. years ago i built my machines. i wear
machines hide my insecurity / my stupidity / my unoriginality. i wear
machines hide my weakness / my shame / my embarrassment. my machines say
'sondheim is not a pariah.' i am run by my machines in this direction. it
is winter-season and my machines run me. my machines take me places. they
move my body. they pleasure my mind. my machines do not say shame shame
shame. my machines do not say regret every day. my machines empty me into
them. shame shame we do feel nothing. replace your sawgrass slides one
way, cuts another. sawgrass inscribes itself on retinal matrices. it says
'sondheim, there is nothing to look at.' it says, 'sondheim, you will have
nothing to see.' i hide behind tender matrices of digital format and
rastered resolutions inscribed with rectilinear coordinates. saw grass
says, 'sondheim, this is your imaginary.' sawgrass says, 'inscribe
yourself.' red-winged-blackbird |
