Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
When a social drug happenz
The people of the world unite
They gather unlike before
looking for their brother
looking for the sister inside their self
Then they put down their technology
They walk down the street
Look for people
Find a person
Then they ask for a hug
they ask for love
What if we could take our
video games
off with our gender?
What does that mean?
What if we could
take our gender off?
Going into
the markets of
market capitalism
that
needs labels and names
for everything
partitioned, divided, sold, and
discarded cheaply
underneath
the solar star sun.
What if the sun
demanded itself destruction
for all underneath it
that has underwhelmed
it?
What are these movings
of waves
and energy?
What is this
end to
the binary peoples
and
their binary civilizations?
Why did they
form their civilizations to be binary
when the sun
and all underneath it
are gradients,
scalar principles,
infinite stepping?
Transistors made here
can perform
stepping sequences,
but the people here cannot,
they cannot do this
mentally, nor emotionally.
So they will
die
and they will
destroy their planet.
I feel the same with these computers
still around me.
Brooklyn, 2004.
Chicago, 2018.
They’re still here.
Not the same computers.
But their forms and
with similar feelings,
similar smells.
Electrons activated on air.
Petroleum exhaust from the street outside.
Somewhere in the labs,
wormholes ripped open
in our cosmic neighborhood.
But, the computers are still here
in their form and feelings.
I feel them, see them, know them, smell them.
They will be something different
at some point,
but for now they’re still here within
the concrete, steel, and glass buildings
of the city
and of the agencies,
where the computers train
and dream to be deoxyribonucleic acid.
I feel it.
I have seen it.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
We call it an all-in-one.
It brings the world to me;
to ME.
It alters my view.
The world is now.
The world is now me.
It helps me see this.
This is what I see.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
I have a TV in one room.
I go into the other room to watch the other TV.
Call it the Hall of Wisdom if you want.
I drink my sodas at the half hour of every hour.
Call it the Sacredness of Life at this point;
the Hours of Opportunity,
the Attainment of Ability;
purchasing.
I wuz
masturbating
to that new app that
came out
cuz when I’m dying
I wans sumz ones
to take my digital phone
and shove it down
my throat
to save me.
Saturn came to destroy
M-16 deliverance
a wall falls
on a family of peasants in China
the free world elects a president
a tyrant takes his post in the leftover lands
of Persia
technology beats bayonets
a tank crushes cans of food
somewhere at latitudes north of northwest
Saturn is crushing the spark of
new gravity
Saturn is man’s holy alliance,
his walled cathedrals and the
tapestries of mosques
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
We received clothing from a factory.
It was our first winter.
We ate meat out of cans.
It had all come from so far away.
Who knew about this technology?
Who knew anything anymore?
Tomorrow we set out across the plains
to find our next employer.
Our first winter has come to an end.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
They let him go
when he was young and dying of cancer,
drifting through outer-space
they let him go,
the last people’s race of people
didn’t own him,
floating past nationalism and liberty
as cancer an eternalness created
archetypes of the sufferer,
the fear of the shadow,
just the vessel of the genome,
we lift you up to the cluster,
the ridge of stars.
Child without childhood
reaches for your fingers,
the seven wrinkles,
your chance to perceive things
but it ran away with the forms and
words of humanness,
just the vessel of the genome,
information is transferable
in
this
standing in a field before a 7-11®,
a parent kisses their child at college
in Kansas.
They got to go to college,
wave, wave . . . waves
but wave to the abilities of Einstein,
those crackling transmissions of the
Pentecost,
those crackling wavebands of gray.
Jesus saves.
Computers save.
In the backyard is a plow.
No one knows quite what to do with it.
It sits with its wood rotting
and its iron rusted
as a sculptural piece in a flowerbed.
There’s also a grave for a hamster named Dinky,
a stone, here by the plow,
painted with neon green and pink fingerpaint.
The stars are silent.
My grandmother would not agree with the situation.
She would not have any understanding of it.
Her wrists would bleed and her feet would hurt.
She would not discuss a thing.
She would be worried to be in this place.
Her eyes would twitch and her brow would crinkle.
It’d be a look your gut could decipher.
I’m pretty damn scared right now to look at the plow.
I can’t look up.
I can’t look at the garden or the birdbath.
I know the oak trees stand there brooding over me,
thinking
“What the fuck are you people doing?”
I don’t know who is wrong.
If anyone can even be wrong anymore?
If we can even do this or that?
I think genetics are dead or
they are living.
I don’t think we can.
I am a box.
Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
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