Market Ideology
after Shakespeare
When I do not count the clock that tells the time
and think of rodents in the mashed potatoes at Roosevelt High,
when Molotov cocktails explode in violins
and Choriomeningitis grows in hamster droppings,
when acid drips on perinea and coccyges
and cyanide is discovered in boxes of juice
and when the perfect sleeves of technocrats
sway forces beyond the control of the market,
I will dream this night
of the sorrows of your changing face
as you monitor the oscillations
of the turbulent Tokyo Stock Exchange.
When I do not count the clock that tells the time,
and stare instead at the perfect imperfection of the sea
which washes transparent horses to the shore
whose glittering intestines remind me
of my inability to outwit
the numinous logic of late capitalism,
I will not misread this vision
as a sign that my dividends will bust
but I will dream this night of shepherds and artichokes
and think of my portfolio
(a firm and salty bottom)
as I ejaculate on my financial forecast
for the following fiscal year.
Sonnet for a Moor
after Pablo Neruda
A sparrow, a moor, violet coronas, and dada;
Mother, I'll entertain your passionate hairy sadists,
lunch on your last dollars, coordinate your lace collars,
put cake on your nose and ego, and steam up your almonds.
Parquet precipice, taste of tofu, eggs, velour, roses;
deep ruts in the trellis, the oaks freeze, as does my canine.
The floor, the petals, the human monster of my mirage;
Can we unseat those pasts caught hopelessly in our levees?
Your ghost is lost. Your house trembles and aches, paves, orates to
the yellow ball; it dazzles and poses, murmurs and yells:
To establish an angel, suppress the celestial.
My entrails quell the cruel moor; my circus bakes in its guts;
hats off, quick, and lacerate my dome: cones and spades to bridge
my broken reason: for uncle is my naughty auntie.
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