- "An ordinary steam-iron
to the soles of the feet
gains the fastest confession."
Creased and stiff-armed, I'm ratcheting up a notch
for the Big One -
I believe I can make it to the morning
I'll rise and suffer no invidious rank
against certain well-off friends facing their wardens,
the legion that dealt them a share of the pillage:
the usual
flaming bank-account rain-killer genocide specialists
and cargo-cult injectors, split-toothed & spayed
eunuchs of the Corporation, gold trim oxygen-rapists,
eraserheads and...
a special detachment assigned to deform tastes;
Between the killer-Yups
and the well-informed in their uniform musics,
"alternative" equals rebellion gone platinum,
the last trend under one flagging conscience
seen first on Ed Sullivan and later under an artificial sky
near you, your piped-in sensitivities
copyright Hearst and Knight, the blue suits'
pre-digested nouvelle sustenance
for the pitless stomach;
Sometimes good, even great people thicken & cake
like milk stars gone sour
in the middle of the night
amber's primeval winged insect
lies shorn of the moral authority its sufferance warranted
but for the money
on a frozen comfort-wheel
they vet expectancies residual from the Cave;
I'm ragged and shopworn till I drop
but I've not got the disease in spades,
trademark glass-faced Rubicon starch-monger-
change-loaded, push-button convertible top
$200/hour schizoid go-bot with three distinct wardrobes,
mistaking career & conformity for risk,
they tell me I'll soon temp'n'shuck
for the President,
make notes on my succession;
Don't hold your sucked breath
Bill, wontcha loan me some sweet child's labor
and innocence?
a low moan from a dank chamber?
one gang of logo-ed, private jail slaves?
John Noto is a poet and essayist living in San Francisco. His writing recently appeared in the CTHEORY book, Digital Delirium, New York: St. Martin's Press, 1997. He is editor-in-chief of a new literary magazine, Orpheus Grid.