Cookie
a cute name for a snitch
in the business of lust.
it goes right for that most private pineal,
Descartes’ bridge,
where secrets babble forth
between lobes steady as a brook,
vulnerable and sweet.
a coup d’etat for Toll House & co.
the gossip mind of the soul exposed,
all our inner palaces of personal ego
wheedled, invaded, taken.
within lower floors
of marketing firms on fancy Avenues,
clerks giggle near admen
who monitor, label and jar
our deadly secret embarrassments
in gargantuan subterranean mainframes.
somewhere deep
in the insatiable corporate guts
of offices sectioned like tapeworms,
executives map out the economic nation of our evils--
garnering clues from every click on keyboards--
to marry the doll of each citizen’s demon
with invisible, purchasable voodoo pins.
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