This is a poem about copyright law and my fear (the chilling effect) of quoting other authors (eg. Pigeon & Page). There is something perverse about living in what some describe as the postmodern era, where quotation and mashup are cultural norms, while our laws increasingly operate to suppress these norms. But cultural norms are often internalized; we can’t help ourselves. We might as well legislate that fish can swim, but not in water. What is left but to grow a thick skin and resist impossible circumstances?
Let me launch a fresh poem
from a sturdy pad.
Let me lash my fleas
to the back of a Pigeon
and coax tiny words
to leap from the Page.
I live in trepidation
of the surreptitious buyout
that turns small presses
into kiss-ass sycophants
of big-media empires
where lawyers hide in ice lockers
and jump out on demand
to expel their hoary breaths
over the ground at my feet.
It’s chill or be chilled.
Let me sit like a watermelon
in the desert. I’ll grow my skin
thick to keep the juices
from drying up too quickly.
Let’s hope the buzzards
pass me by. Who ever heard
of buzzards sucking the pulp
out of a watermelon?
They don’t have to, of course.
Even if all the buzzards
fall dead and the melon
thrives, the seeds will never take.
I’ll launch my poem instead
from onion skin or go splits
with a long-dead monk:
a palimpsest, more illuminated
than illuminating, scored
on animal hide, like a brand.
That way I know they won’t
take their imprint with its logo
and sear it into the flesh of my ass.