George Frisbie

This is a Test

For this test to work
I must give you my blood;
One of us should be at risk,
But more important,
For this poem to work
It must be me.
Let me share my needles
I want to infect
With rhyme and meter or steer
With verse a little freer
Your slumber to a waking threat
Through shaking night sweats.
Do you have unprotected sex, but
Wear instead a thought-condom
With non-idea-9
With a snap of rubber gloves and
A cold clinical absence of love
We both ask questions afraid
Of answers - Positive or Negative
For this to work I must give blood
And you must know now
That each of us
Is at risk
And how.

Biological Industry

You draw more flies with honey than vinegar
Someone's grandmother once said
As if you wanted to attract flies.
You're so sweet you draw flies
I say whenever I'm paying someone
Less than a compliment.
I never drew flies but once constructed ants
Graphically, bit by bit
Like the ones I remember crawling over
A shattered jar of powdered sugar
I'd carelessly dropped.
Reminding me of peace brothers
And Sisters I heard talking about industry
Like, "ants never sleep, they just work until they die."
And I never asked if ants sat around smoking joints
Discussing the spiritual implications of
Shit someone's grandmother
Never said attracted even more flies than
Honey; never forget I'm full of it, and talk about it, about
That dog and the carpet of that Gentleman's house
At that very refined party.
Would he call me
Honey to pay less than a compliment?
I never forgot what that dog and I had in common.
I swat at flies
When they crawl up my nose
Fuck in ten thousand insectile positions
Drop on my bourgeoise toast with flypaper glue, and
Feast on the bodies of their dead comrades.
They hang on to what is sweet,
And will never let it drop -
Some grandmother's jar of powdered sugar.

Our Sacred Guardian

Give us a kiss with your gunmetal lips
Remember us fondly as ones and as zeros
Your thoughts at our stares may be silicon quips
But we'd never dismiss our mechanical Hero.

In this program of holiness we are your guests
Synthetic angel wings shelter above
And to the extent that you pass Turing's test
We then must concede just how we fail in love.