Cookie
a cute name for a snitch
in the business of lust.
it goes for that most private pineal,
Descartes’ bridge,
where shame babbles between lobes,
steady as a brook,
vulnerable and sweet.
a coup d’etat for Toll House & co.
the gossip of the soul exposed,
our inner palaces of personal ego
wheedled, invaded, taken.
somewhere
among the lower floors
of marketing firms on fancy avenues,
servants who serve the machines
that monitor, label and jar
our most private flaws in subterranean mainframes
giggle.
somewhere deep
in fantastical corporate guts,
offices sectioned like tapeworms,
executives map out
the economic state of all our woes,
reaping clues from every keyboard click--
to torment the doll of each citizen’s demon
with invisible pins.
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