Poems
Red Dawn
Welcome
to digital cinema.
The helmets
are to protect you
from splatter,
generated
whenever
women connect
in the world.
They
come home
like a fist—
that thud,
displacement
of brute flesh,
recursively
deleting
empty directories,
having
a hell
of a time.
In this scene,
the United States
is affected
by corporate
sneakiness,
iguanas
lackadaisically
checking
their facebook
messages,
indistinguishable
from the other
middle management.
O Ladies
of the World,
virtual
warriors
in scarlet clad,
will you be co-opted
or leave your mark—
an angry scar,
oozing web
of nesting veins—
on the pale brow
of so-called meritocracy?
I would see it,
yes, not as prophecy
but moving picture.
Move me, then,
with your camera's flash,
algal bloom
in time lapse—
a viral reproduction
that turns
theaters to ash.