a cute name for a snitch
in the business of human lust.
it goes right for Descartes’ bridge,
that most private pineal,
where secrets babble forth,
vulnerable and sweet.
a true coup d’etat for Toll House & co.
the gossip of the mind exposed.
all those palaces of personal pride
wheedled, invaded, taken.
on the lower floors, clerks giggle near admen
while they monitor, label and jar
so many deadly embarrassments
in gargantuan mainframes.
deep within the insatiable guts
of offices sectioned like tapeworms,
the executives map out a nation of evils--
every clue garnered from commonplace keyboards--
to marry the doll of each citizen’s demon
with voodoo pins.