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I’m not interested in driving my convertible
today. There is a small cloud in the sky
like a bird shit. This afternoon will be spent
squeezing a little lemon juice onto an erotic
stain on these chinos and looking with
abject pleasure at a high-heeled shoe
covered in dog hair. I can do this
because I have it set up where my money
is automatically exchanged for me.
My secrets in plastic. Secrets that can be
most revealing. So is creating a website
devoted to every object in your room.
Every tetra in the fish bowl.
Every capsule of weight gainer.
Then, when there is nothing left to archive
but the sound, you can record the sound
of the room and it sounds like a biologist has
lifted a cage and the mice begin running through
that field of your burdens, urinating onto some
dry leaves; it is the softest sound a human ear
can hear, which makes you want to take up arms
against the music of the world. Because when I
listen to the music of the world I put on my
BluBlockers and become a time machine.
Because we are the new ancestors of time.
And when I travel back to the origins of a song
I want to charm it for its secrets.
For the pretty peasant girls who walk in rich attire.
For the gossips in the spas of wherever.
For the ecstasy of crossbreeding
at a government border. And it must be dusk
because the romance of it is overwhelming
and the mistress is overwhelming, and the weight
of age comes with a nobility like good people
toiling in a factory until dusk with nothing else
to know but the sound of labor and of machines
and of a future you and of your secrets
you exchange for another’s secrets
and the songs I adore are about them,
about adultery, about a kindness in the pain,
and how the drinks reset the day that is
no longer in a field but a room
with me, my drinks, my obvious themes I address
that repeat through chains of command
like this anthill I know of in a field where
I get down on my knees and scream as hard
as humanly possible just for them to pick up
on my possessed vibrations. So they become
something like me, some sympathizer.
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Reflecting on three monumental works of modernism—James Joyce’s Ulysses, T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus—a hundred years on.
Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.