So now I'm just going to read one more thing,
and it's called "Baggage Claims."
And it's sort of a poem-- you can
think of it as a geolocator, a futuristic geolocator
of atomic energy inside the body.
About going through-- like, think of it
as going through the space of some border.
And this is called "Baggage Claims."
It was part of an exhibition at the Orlando Museum of Art,
where actually, I came here from Orlando.
Isn't that kind of cool?
Yeah, it's far away.
OK, "Baggage Claims."
"The atlas with its gushing promises, its radioactive
embrace, enters my system and catalogs
my metabolic functions.
My binges and [INAUDIBLE] the world in microseconds.
The atlas spurts out of my belly and breath.
It locates the basic stages of being
and nonbeing in my ganglia.
In a streaming montage of geocoordinates,
tracking all my scattered belongings and excrescences
as they regroup and decay.
I message spices, [? analgesics, ?] and algae.
I message magnetic fields, cracking Antarctic ice
and subtropical gyres.
The atlas reveals to me the nomic detectors
of pollutants and low mass particles,
despite my limited ability to love.
Oh atlas, I feel your seagoing stem cells.
I feel the legacies of cold, cold gas
in the wandering mosaics of my congestion and combat zones.
I instruct you, atlas, locate the molten oracles,
collect song unit projections, collect other bodies
everywhere."
OK, thank you very much.