Feeding the Monkey

Feeding the Monkey

Incapable of surplus animality,
pre-constituted expression, even
reproduced on a xylophone,
cannot progress beyond

a thousand chimpanzees.
Even without an answer
the question of
constitution is:
meaning, so we say, but
placing the verb
is everything, besides which
there isn’t much
surplus here, not that I can see.

Thus waking up
in a pink Lyotard
to find oneself the victim
of free creative invention
is not a falling short
of ethical requirements,
equally incapable
of nature and logic,
where you wake, where you sleep,
is now the punch-clock’s
operative function. Surrender
being more attractive than
the nightmare’s stroll with fading underwear elastic
and it seems easier, doesn’t it? to just
plug in.

Of course
cybernatically regulated speech machines
also fall down,
but not
like we do,
not with desperation;

the poem that writes itself,
transforms politics, makes love,
and still has time
to sauté asparagus
is the wonderful string
of collective delusion

so buy a ticket—it’s
the lottery of salvation
without pain—and watch now, we’ll see
who wins.

Steals from Chiasmi International
First Published in Liminal Pleasures

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