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.