Cyborg Manifesto
The receiver tells me I’m full
of shit, and I swear I’m not. I’m empty
like a cloud or an Oregonian
spring breeze. Well-lubricated like
a machine, that’s what Frye wrote.
It doesn’t really matter what Frye wrote
anymore, the only mattering is my sore
voice and my one wrist on the keyboard.
The signal is weak and flickering between
my brain and fingers, like the static
playing in my ears. Both are dismissed
by my supervisor as mere noise. I am
mere noise who would rather be a Goddess
than a Cyborg. I apologize that you didn’t
hear me, we are aware of the connection. I
said, I’d rather be a Goddess than
a Cyborg. I’d rather have Donna Haraway’s
paycheck than this paycheck. I’d rather be
full of shit than hungry. I’d rather have comfort
than write a poem on my phone in between
calls. The most dangerous call would be
for your sympathy, which philosophically
becomes a call to arms, and I’m not so good
at arm wrestling these months. They’ll blame
the estrogen but it’s really from typing. Relatedly,
I’ve been reading Lenin while daydreaming
of being summoned to your home one night, uninvited,
while you sleep, to ruthlessly annoy you.
Amy Marvin
Amy Marvin wakes up in the morning and makes coffee, not necessarily in that order. She is currently interested in waiting at bus stations late into the night, and hopes to drive to New York City someday. What else?