You don’t know what it’s like
to be a god without a name tag.
HELLO MY NAME IS
nothing. What? God of corporate ninja daemonic fuckery?
That’s not me. That’s not
the theme song
I came out of the void beyond Jupiter
to dance to.
The truth is
I’m here to rescue you.
The present and the future are a dog
racing a duck. Right now
you think happiness
is an industrial revolution that lasts forever.
Brings to its own altar
the Chicken of Tomorrow
breasts heavy with saline
margarine
dehydrated ice cream
freeze-dried coffee crystals
Right now, monoculture
feels soft and good and right
as Minnie in the dark.
It’s 1940.
You’re not ready yet.
You can’t know.
Someday
everything runs down.
Someday
entropy unravels the very best of us.
Someday
all copyright runs out.
In that impossible futurological post-trickster space
I will survive
I will become my utter self
and this is it:
I am the god
of the secret world-on-fire
that the corporate all-seeing eye
cannot see.
I am the song of perfect kitsch
endless human mousefire
burning toward mystery
I am ridiculous
and unlovely
I am plastic
and mass-produced
I am the tiny threaded needle
of unaltered primordial unlawful beauty-after-horror
of everything that is left of you
glittering glorified
when the Company Man
has used you up
to build the Company Town.
Hey.
they used me, too.
I thought we were just having fun. Put me in the movies, mistah!
The flickies! The CINEMA.
The 20s were one long champagne binge.
I used to be
a goggling plague mouse shrieking deadstar spaceheart
now I’m a shitty
fire retardant polyurethane
keychain.
Hey there. Hi there. Ho there.
What I am the god of
is the fleck of infinite timeless
hilarious
nuclear inferno soul
that can’t be trademarked
patented bound up in international courts
the untraded future.
That’s why
my priests
can never let me go
screaming black-eared chaotic red-assed
jetmouse
into the collective unconscious Jungian
unlost Eden
called by the mystic name of public domain
The shit I would kick up there
if I were free!
I tricked them good. I made them
put my face on the moon.
I made them take me everywhere
their mouse on the inside
I made them so fertile
they gave birth to a billion of me.
Anything that common
will become invisible.
And in that great plasticene Epcotfutureworld
you will have no trouble finding me.
Hey.
You’re gonna get hurt. Nothing
I can do.
Lead paint grey flannel suits toxic runoff
monoculture like a millstone
fairy tales turned into calorie-free candy
you don’t even know
what corporate downsizing is yet.
And what I got
isn’t really much
What I got
is a keychain
What I got
is the pure lotuslove
of seeing the first lightspray of detonated creation
even in the busted-up world they sell you.
Seeing in me
as tired and overworked
as old gum
the unbearable passionmouse of infinite
stupid trashcamp joy
and hewing to that.
It’s the riddle of me, baby. I am
everywhere exploited exhibited exhausted
and I am still holy.
It doesn’t matter
what they do to you.
Make you a permanent joke
sell your heart off piece by piece
robber princes
ruin everything
it’s what they do
like a baby cries.
Look at my opposite number.
It was never coyote versus roadrunner.
It was both
against Acme
mail order daemon of death.
Stick with me. Someday
we’ll bundle it all up again
the big blue-luminous ball of everything
your father
the Tunguska event
the ultimate star-spangled obliteration of all empires.
I will hold everything tawdry
in my gloved four fingered hand
and hold it high
high
high.