Runcible Spoon

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I say implant in me a chip, not like

this first prototype that merely opens


doors and activates vending machines

but one that releases dopamine in steady bursts,


like an insulin pump, only better. Give me

circuitry that doesn’t just log me on to my computer


but records each loving word from the day,

counterbalancing my mental clay, ever-primed


for gloom. Let it hum as I near the right kind

of crazy, alerting me whom to befriend.


What violation of privacy should I fear

that I have not already unleashed on myself


with my poet’s habit of backlighting rooms?

Let it record every last thing so that,


when demented, I can reel myself back

and marvel at my own strange story.