Making Love to the World Trade Organization

i try to miss, if
i see them, avoid
the insect vines, pull
back the webbing,
dart around or under
the snares, per
mitting the instru
ment of someone else's
lunch to remain
intact. but usually
i don't see them
& tear down the
whole contraption,
stringing empty
body shells all
over me like some kind
of hep new jewelry,
entirely covering myself in
spider excretions, flap
ping my arms to dis
lodge the sticky stuff,
& often cursing every
thing, using everything
as a dirty talking foreplay,
stimulating the global
economy,
enabling me to make
love to the W.T.O.
without spending
the whole night
(or so i tell myself
after i fall asleep
in someone else's
hotel room, in some
body else's bed,
waking in an over
cast morning to the smell
of convenience store coffee
in a paper cup with a plastic
lid, handed over to me
like a constellation prize
by my distasteful compliance
to the great Multinational
Corporations' dream
of obedient, worldwide con
sumers, accepting them
selves as feed
for the greater will
of spiders,
for the greater might
of spiders,
for the greater needs
of spiders—
so say we all.
amen).

— J. M. Scoville