In The Coming Utopia There Will Be Even More Paperwork

Poem 173 of 365

When the revolution

comes, they’ll have to resort

to torture to persuade

me to stop talking,

even though, or rather 

exactly because I’ll be on their side

but I won’t be very good

at it. Too much poetry will do

that to a person: make

them incalculable. My data

breaks spreadsheets

because it refuses 

to be information

of any kind. My pronouns are

actually verbs. I don’t think

ghosts are real but I talk

to the spirit of my stepmother. I appear

on the Street View photo

of my block to have two

heads, three arms,

& a blur for legs.

I believe in gods whose names

& shapes & requirements

change hourly.

I am never where the blue

dot of the global

positioning map

says I am. None

of this will be ok in the utopia

of the future. They will want me

to take the medicine,

confess my sins,

retweet the condemnation.

The sorting hat will spit

me out because I don’t taste

like any of the four houses

so they’ll send round the hammer

brigade to work me over

until I look like the statistics.

With the math adding

up, the algorithm pleased,

they’ll tell me it’s better

this way, with the parts

of me we once called the soul

excised, flopping

on the floor under the operating

table, then mopped

up & poured into a ziploc

baggie. Remember,

they’ll say, none

of us was anything at all

before Human Resources created 

a folder for us, to hold our paperwork

with certain boxes checked.

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