Abrupt

For awhile we could live
where the air blew rumors
of trash barges up the Hudson
and helicopters pounded the dome.

We could watch the ferry boats weave
webs across the space
begun by water and finished with
ratios of styrofoam and steel.

There were no spiders there;
they couldn’t afford it.
There were barely bugs, but even so,
this was cockroach turf.
Except that one time, which only proved the rule.
The spider prowled like a tiny bear
on the marble floor near the loading dock,
a stowaway from Korea.
I crushed its life with my shoe
(no bodhisattva, I,)
saving the New Jersey ecosystem
from certain contamination.

They let me have that one, the spiders,
but they are waiting for me
in the corners of my new home,
in the closets.

They will raid my dreams from their sacs
where the ceiling meets the wall,
dying in my mouth:
a bolus of hair and leg and fang.
They will parachute into my cereal
while I am half awake,
twitch and spawn by the window screen.

They know what I am;
all of spider-dom knows it.
But I will run their gauntlet for the
sake of my children.

In the hedges, orb weavers vibrate in the wind, waiting.

Dr. Phil was angry today.
We talked about my feelings,
which I thought he wanted to hear.
But the man kept shouting at me,
and I couldn’t stop staring at the reflection
of the studio lights on his head.

I think my feelings were wrong.
Then the audience laughed at me and we
cut to a commercial.
When we returned, I was back in the audience again,
watching the show.

The world blinks.
The world blinks
and it is awake,
awake in the dark
beneath History’s load,

Clawing pine to splinters
as the air runs out.

 

 
rough stuff

 

 
tickle

 

 

 

 

 

 
* puff *

 

 

Every time word gets out of another athlete on steroids, there is a huge uproar. How could they be such cowards? How could they disrespect the spirit of honorable competition? How could they cheat like that? Inevitably, there’s talk of tightening rules, of increasing screening, of rooting out and punishing those who would seek some unfair advantage over their colleagues.

But that’s the Twentieth-Century talking: if you don’t like it, ban it. Wouldn’t a more sophisticated approach try to get at the psychology of cheating, rather than wage an endless, escalating war against it? What if there were a way to allow the use of performance-enhancing drugs and devices — without impinging on the purity of traditional sports?

It is from such thoughts that the idea of the Transhuman Olympics arises. The Transhuman Olympics (T.O.) would lift the restrictions on mechanical, pharmaceutical, and biological augmentations to performance. Within the limits described below, athletes would be free to use a range of means to enhance their natural abilities. Not only would this remove some of the incentive for athletes in traditional sports to engage in doping, it would create a whole new category of human excellence.

THE RULES

The T.O. would not be a free-for-all. Just like the regular Olympics, there would be specific sports and categories, each with its own regulations. Most events would probably encourage and allow only specific augmentations — steroids, stimulants, nanotechnology, perhaps in specific parts of the body. Compound sports like a decathlon might allow several enhancements. And there could even be a place where different augmentations could be pitted against one another (say, strength versus speed).

Certain rules would apply to the application of these techniques:

1. Any augmentation must be declared.
2. Any augmentation would be performed with medical consultation and supervision.
3. Augmentation would have to be certified by a governing body. This body would produce standards which would guide athletes and their medical supervisors in the development of an augmented physique.
4. No augmentation would be allowed which posed a risk to other athletes, staff or spectators, beyond the inherent risks of physical competition. Athletes would be informed of any risks to themselves as part of their medical supervision, in accordance with T.O. standards.

THE GAMES

At first, the Transhuman Olympics might be modeled on the traditional Olympics. A separate set of world records would be created to parallel the traditional records. Growth hormones and cognition enhancers would probably be the primary boosts used at first. Smart fabrics and nanotechnology just now becoming available could also play a role. Imagine a wrestling match between two steroidal hulks, or a discus throw which dwarfed any standing record. Imagine a long jump with bionically-enhanced legs, feet and knees. Archery and riflery could benefit from cognition and eyesight enhancements. And runners could reach speeds and distances previously unheard of.

As the augmentation technology evolved, completely new events might emerge. Genetic engineering and nanotech could blow open the possibilities of what the body could become. Some games might become more primal and animalistic — more smashing, throwing, pulling and lifting than ever before. Others could reach new heights of delicacy and refinement. Gymnastics with extra limbs or cat genes? Floor exercises by strong but freakishly-light bodies? This open-endedness is implicit in the Transhuman ideal, and would be built into the Games’ governing structure.

THE TECHNOLOGY AND PROFIT

In addition to redefining what it means to be Human, the T.O. would offer an enormous incentive to develop augmentation and related technologies. This in turn could have spinoffs into medicine, manufacturing, and other areas. It would create a burst of innovation, while at the same time creating a whole new market for extreme entertainment. No doubt people the world over would be fascinated by the spectacle of augmented humans at peak performance.

WHAT ABOUT THE REGULAR OLYMPICS?

The idea of the Transhuman Olympics will not sit well with many at first. It is important that the traditional “Human” Olympics be maintained in its current form. In fact, it might be that the traditional Olympics becomes even more traditional, reversing recent decisions to allow hi-tech accessories like low-resistance swimsuits, requiring that their use be restricted to the T.O. The Human Olympics would remain a showcase for the biological limits of human excellence. The T.O. would expand the context in which all performance is measured.

CONCLUSION

But will it help with cheating? As long as there is a prize to be won, there will likely be cheating. The T.O. is not proposed simply to address this one issue. But it is hoped that by allowing an outlet for mankind’s natural desire to self-transcend, the T.O. will relieve pressure on traditional athletes to dope. And in the process, we could come together as a species to find out what we are truly capable of becoming.

POSTSCRIPT: I am apparently not the first person to think of this. A Google search for “transhuman olympics” revealed some discussion in the past few years. Although it occurred to me independently, clearly this is an idea whose time is coming.

The poem I will write
Will blow your fuckin’ mind
Twenty megatons of Word
Wrapped in brown paper
And left outside your door.

The poem I will write
Will not rhyme
No matter how much you beg
And despite your wandering hand
And that low-cut dress
Which screams, “I like cheap rhyme.”

The poem I will write
Will not appease the scholars
Whose clip and judgment echo in the foyer
Of their own impending fame.

The poem I will write
Will set me free — set us all free:
The Last Poem,
Shining like the City on the Hill.

The Last Poem will be
An ignorant suicide
Note to no one
Scrawled onto scraps
The day of a death
I never saw coming.

“Watch,” he said, and he was digging,
with a plastic cup,
timing the scoops just right,
so in the moment before a wave,
when the sand was still wet from the last one,
he was digging.

It was the standard scene: the tide,
the gulls and salt.
How long did Man stand at this frontier,
having reached the absolute limit,
until the first ships tore through the screen,
and the beach became a beginning?
But I was just a boy, playing here for a day.

“Look!” he said, and in the cup,
I saw a scoop of sand, and some water
he’d collected. And — there –
a small crustacean, scrambling for an exit.
“They live inside the sand.”

He repeated this routine and I watched,
two boys, crouched at the edge of the sea.
But for one plastic cup, we could have been
a million boys, digging on beaches
before history, lost in the understanding
that everything — everything is alive.

I’m going to talk you
to the edge of revelation, tease
one hundred grasping tangents
like anemone that sway
in purple seas.

I’m going to watch you
feel the heat of my attention play
on your assumptions,
till your hidden contradictions
lie exposed. I’ll treat them well.

We have so many edges, lips
that can be touched –
so many combinations
(my creative instinct urging)
in surprising –
in surprising –
ways.

What I do to you in
darkness triggers memories of
morning. Now the scent of secret places
washes over us
in waves.

Reading louder I
intone the words that boom
like milkweed bursting,
fill the air with sweet suggestion
till our wills lie writhing,
synchronizing, intertwined.

In the synapse, charge
is building, lightning’s grinding
clouds are clearing –
and contracting,
thought contracting to a single
iron core.

A tang is tasted — wait!
defenses throbbing
holding back the inspiration –
holding back — then fears and habits
lose their grip and

synapse foaming, information
floods the gap.

Now let’s just lie here,
no more talking, just the
wind in empty vessels
slowly filling up. Another
fruitful session,
you’ll agree?

communist sperm storm consommé-ting
soup rite seed time action

moon pull polyp tide pink slick mucus
micro tube contraction

farmland maximize bleach beach fading
gland knot future fraction

Argyle socks, cozy stoned cats,
lick the ankles of my beloved.
Running through the Texas night
in her panties and socks,
past torchlight and painted sheets,
she eyes me out across
her gracious orbit.

I commemorate the porch
of a railroad hotel,
where metal groans, and cows
bellow at night in the middle distance.
At first, alone, the smell of mud,
as meaning — as words –
collapse and explode,
collapse and explode.
A thousand sunsets a minute –
burned through the Film
by a righteous mushroom mango lhassi.

Now my lover on vicodin approaches,
settles next to me in the Texas air.
She speaks to me through syrup
of permanence and cats,
permanence and cats,
until words
spiral back to me,
haphazard.