PART I – PREAMBLE:
Last year a Vancouver magazine calls me
and they say:
In 1991 you were on the cover of our magazine
and one of our young interns was going through
the old archives, and they found the issue…
and we’d like to remix your pix
and use it on the cover of our magazine next month
Wow Cool, I say thinking,
I’m going to look like I haven’t aged a day
in twenty years
Great, she says, we’ll use you on the cover
and oh I should tell you we’re going to call the issue
“Micro-celebrities”
Silence
Micro-celebrities … (*&^%$#!)
Do you mind?
Silence
Micro-celebrities …(*&^%$#!)
Do you mind?
Silence
Micro-celebrities …(*&^%$#!)
Do you mind?
So I say,
PART II – ODE TO MY MICROSCOPIC LIFE:
to the micro-micro dot
the quantum shot—rife with “drink me” alter rot
to coming in under-the-radar
maybe millionth, between centi & zepto, milli & nano,
‘cause there was no race, in the first place
just open space by-which to muse
to dance up-close, no socks no shoes
with a beautiful delusion of bones,
like a rhizome poem; or to zoom-in tight
on a biome org—the complete unknown
so synonymous with anonymous,
my life’s almost hieroglyphic, microfiche-alistic
zip zilch zero—that’s me, a beautiful mythic
snippet of micro-free-dom, I say
maybe I’m an apeirophob
with the mortal fear of infinity—not divinity
my life in the vicinity of obscurity
a molecular semi-celebrity,
if I were a marble I’d wanna be a peewee
surveillance cameras are the only paparazzi for me
Ode to the quasi, and the demi-tasse
to the infinite infinitesimal
and the ass with sass in a micro-mini
and the stingless drone, who lives to love
and the microphone, of cosmic-cosm’s above
so below; then again, the zero in tarot is birth
of our hero/heroine’s first breath toward death
the new million’s a trillion, and I’m comin’ in
nothin’ for nothin’, I’m a trilobite
compact disk—with nothing to risk, except the calamity
of my own omni-vision vanity
RAM ROM RAM ROM DNA—d’oh!
Microb! “attack of the killer micros”
they’re as big as micro is soft
so not to be micro-scoffed
and I hear Jiminy Cricket’s a macrophiliac
with a giant fetish, so I guess you’d say
he was micro-giga-boffed, obviously
I’m not an eve I’m an atom
the bigger I get the smaller everything looks—
a floccinaucinihilipilification
surfing the micro waves
Ode to being and nothingness and the minimalist
to the tiny titanic and the minuscule gigantic
to the micro macrobiotic and the macro micro-icontic
naked to the unnaked eye—we’re all size etherized
when the only way to be seen, is through a lens
on a slide—then, get a midway ticket and take a techno-ride
straight into humanity, cause that’s what I chose
over social insanity—compression oppression
denied, denied, denied,
as Gertrude Stein so aptly put it on her death bed
when she said:
Now what was the question?
Now what was the question?
Now what was the question?
©Sheri-D Wilson
Goddess Gone Fishing for a Map of the Universe, Frontenac House (2012)
