The future is as sterile as a robot’s loincloth.
I drown my hands in sanitizer until they pucker.
Where this soapbox tree germinates, I collect
my germs and make a fountain of them.
Because yellow is yarrow and soot, and the future,
I’ve learned, is no suture. Because where I’m from,
these kisses are infections. Because dirt’s
ammunition against discipline, the blood fills
my clean mouth with dismay. Am I surprised—
Hollywood still assumes we are all the bastard
children of the same evil dictator? That phosgene
and mustard will rack our titanium Maoist husks
until some white man with slanty eyes rescues us
from our mealy, pliant selves? Am I to wear Dior,
wrap my mouth in bloody tulle, before kneeling,
bending to kiss a mouth dirtied by Pantone 136?
No fucking thanks. Because where I’m from,
these kisses are infractions. Darlings, let’s rewrite
the script. Let’s hijack the narrative, steer
the story ourselves. There’d be a heist, a battle.
Audre Lorde would write the script. My leading
man would be Bruce. We’d earn our happy ending.
Instead, they give me 1981. 2012. Quantum quasars,
new dystopia—plutonium wars. We’re not in Polanski’s
Chinatown anymore. Yet we still have the same bowl
haircuts. Bangs, big bang, a city of fetid promise, new
minor galaxy where we cannot touch. Instead our skin
is rust and metal. It gratifies the technophile in all of us.
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