I found this poem on the internet today. Sometimes writers and artists are the most prescient people. Read on:
have another one cuz the first didn’t do ya any good.
in the camps they had morning exercise
then gruel. we learned how to use cell
phones properly, the adjective text msg.
networking.
revise retro test proc to reflect slop in lenses.
adjust laws to reflect the needs of changing times
i still remember the senate. it’s an ancient institution
founded back in greece, wasn’t it? no matter how
much they make me scrub the walls, sweep the dirt
floors of our communal space, dig new latrines
i still remember some things. the way they used to be.
they have me on this detail b/c i was talking on the line.
when you can talk and work the machines at the same time
they know what you’re in for and they don’t want you around
the ones that are in b/c they bounced a couple of checks
or fell behind on repaying the welfare. they want you
dying, slowly or quickly it’s all the same to numbers,
as long as you’re quarantined. for victory, home, and apple
orchards. i liked the camp in the northwest best
but they moved me to this one bordering las vegas.
every morning they take a crew of the most docile
into town to clean bathrooms there. the commandant
will never put me on that detail, no matter how square
i dig this shit hole. the senate. they still have that don’t they?
the man from texas comes by. he spiels to drafting
while i’m washing the windows. you know sez he
who is the most discriminated against? she says
i know what you’re going to say. he says it anyway.
it’s all i can do to keep from overspraying the windex
onto his silk armani. he takes out his pocket
tivo, covered with the great leader’s face and stars n stripes ring tone.
i dream of chlorine injections while wiping my blade
up and down the window, avoiding, as best i can, streaks. i
hope the man from texas will not remember me
from when i used to repair his hummer’s circuitry after a run
thru the dunes on la braca. where has my zen abandoned me?
i take a bow, notch an arrrow, pull.
his footsteps clip down the hall.
in the camps i learned how to consume
properly. the aversion therapy sessions didn’t work
as well for me as the straight out lobotomy.
they’ve refined the process. it’s all chemical now.
viruses spliced with surgical precision. this row
of connections severed, t his one left in.
i forget nothing. i just
don’t care about it anymore.
they still won’t let me go to vegas yet.
maybe i need to forget more. i know– i’ll ask
the doctor for an adjustment. they gave me
the choice of memory wipe, and i believe
i chose wrong. plus i think there must be something
wrong with the process b/c if you remember then
you can’ t help but care. there’s a senator coming
to the camp today. there are whispers, like a pope.
when you find this, you’ll either execute me
or wipe my brain–a different execution.
when you find this, i’ll be face down
in las vegas, hunkered over the dollar slots.
when you find this. you’ll burn it.
congratulations
you’ve passed the exam.
