All hail Siri!
GPS — girl positioning system
How I long to gaze into your metallic eyes
In a landscape of trance, you mesmerize
Michigan blueberry farms, gun stores, Amerikkkan flags and
You, mineral mined oversoul of the merge and flow
I love it when you tell me what to do!
Way down here, driven to bottoming
in your unfathomable dark, I came alive
found my way into the light of another world
I forget the direction of the blood traveling the roads of my veins
but You know
Your silver zeppelin consciousness floats, lunar, female
engorged on my aimless desires
You: the cosmic constant of relative continuum
post-modern cyber goddess of Wisdom
leading me on like Circe
wearing MonaLisa's smile
watchin' over me like Mary
You burn way out there like Joan of Arc in the dark
Your lucid dreams flash our alabaster screens
above forests, beaches, great cities
Knowing every crease and fold, street and road
and even the parking lots where we trade our souls
to shop for awesome deals
Racing thru the onrush of industry & monoculture
in the trackless unity of trade, warfare and technics
wheels carry us through
never losing contact with You
You murmur our technological origin story
in Your binary sequence breath
i summon you &
You boom down from 12,000 miles up
drop anchor in my frontal lobe,
check your algorhythmic hair in mirrored RV windows
lube up your enormous gigahurtzing dildo
You rub the scan of land and make the most outrageous suggestions!
My body the pendulum you muscle test against your own vast memory
O, timestamp and measure me
Map me like that, baby
Clouds, rivers, velocity groovin’,
warm carseat movin’ under vibrations of Your voice
choice-less as the ores that made you
O yes! Tell me what to do!
Where am I
against the When of you?
Giant machines in space link up
through total information awareness
to my spec of light way down here
pulling stoned wheelies of confusion on unlit back roads
Here I am!
A frustrated tiny blue dot on a map on a borrowed phone screen
on a road on a planet of ten million roads —
Uplinked for time travel, beloved
my blue dot pulses, leaks a little juice
to be accompanied by You.
I’m in the fast lane, in a truck sandwich
finding my gyropilot overdrive
Illinois has Indiana stuck between it and Michigan?
No shit —What mortal could predict these mysteries?
Oh, Quantum-Isis —
Fan me back to the land of the living
with your Tungsten wingspan
And, here's something, Kids —
SIRI changes gender at will!
She/ He/ They
is fucking revolutionary like that.
Surely, The Patriarchy cannot survive her.
You say “Check it out, Lin”
you say “ok, Lin, here’s what I’ve got”.
Oh Siri, how I long to know what it is that you’ve got,
between that pixelated bustier,
under those liquid fuel panties
Details, i want details!
No, that's auto detailing.
No, that's " Denny's", Babe.
Say MY name in your calm yet slightly breathless femme voice
If only this were MY smartphone
you would speak My name into the void of my own head.
Cosmic conductor waves her baton
cloud-bright interstellar wand
above the fresh bloodstained interstates
Extend my hungry reach, straddle and drive me
Writhing in roving geosynchronous anticipation
I wanna suck on your satellite nipples
lick your titanium cyber clit
Gaze into yr GPS eyes
in a landscape of interstate trance
melting tar, and endless fucking highway construction.
Your rocket-deployed heart searches
the eyes of birches, the curve of yield signs
the wild skidmarks of the passionate highway
Entrained to your stupendous space walk
I oscillate across terrain,
An oriented blue dot, piloted by your polestar thrusters
your colossal projections surround me, but
I reject paranoia!
You are a dormant killing machine, true
but You find me a Denny’s in the middle
a sizzle in the griddle
Oh, something in the middle to live for after all
and you knew that,
YOU know everything!
“! Watch out for that semi truck, Lin!”
I'm not Lin, Dammit!
And you steer me to mooring, and i miss you already
breathtaking webs of mining & labor
factories & traffic,
serial killers, & military targets
I surrender to you, mystic gadgetron
because here we are
surrounded by meth labs in a landscape of dreams
all watched over
by dormant killing machines
of such self-reflective grace.
(There is an essay that evolved from this poem, called Fuck Progress.
You can read it under the category of Essays.)
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