sometimes i feel like a golden god,
glowing perfect unstoppable, a colossus
bestride the narrow world, a master
of all domains, an artist
of vast unimaginable scale,
an enigma, a tangle of contradictions–
open yet closed,
public yet secret,
cloaked like christo,
silent like cage,
white like rauschenberg,
a chef who serves
only an empty plate
shiny white
so clean so perfect so pure–
& you pay & you pay & you pay
for what?
for what is not there
for the still center
for the silent surface
for peace for ease of use
for pinch & slide & multi-touch–
this is my genius,
this is my soul & art,
my poet’s heart,
sold so low, i
solo like lowell on
a brackish shoal, stroll in
whole-food supermarkets, an
angelheaded hipster with thin
smart phone containing multitudes,
songs & contacts & email & web, ringing
with rhythm of roethke,
dark, dark my light,
& darker my desire–
which i is i?
iMac, iPod, iTune, iChat, iPhone–
brilliant as bowles,
i am i, but
you are not i.
which is really
too bad for you.