Poetry: Protocopy

Recently, I was rummaging around in old boxes looking for a particular picture. Those sorts of activities always take longer than I anticipate because I inevitably stumble upon some other old memento that gets me waxing nostalgic, and I end up spending way too much time re-reading and reminiscing. This time was no different. Among the things I unearthed were this photo that my cousin took of me and this poem that I wrote when I was in college. For some background - I wrote the poem not too long after Dolly was born and was so very proud of myself for getting it published with two others in my college's annual literary journal focusing on women, Siren. I was struck by the similar narcissistic themes of the poem and photo and thought I'd share them in juxtaposition:

Protocopy*

Instead of working to make it
safe to have sex
again, scientists have spent endless funds
and time to learn how
to clone. Boom, baby!
Bang, the reproductive
end of sex
taken care of just like that.
Then, of course, we have virtual reality
for fuck-free fantasy fulfillment.
But what about the physical
pleasure? Well,
(and the traditionalists will like this
one) we still have
good old-
fashioned masturbation. And for the self-
obsessed - love will still exist with spitting
images of ourselves everywhere
we look, a bunch of egotistical
asexual cattle - evolution with a
catalyst.

*I was very (very) tempted to rewrite this poem when I read it again for the 1st time in 11 years, but it, just like the photo, captures a certain moment in time, and I think it would be no more appropriate for me to "doctor" the poem than it would for me to photoshop the picture. So, please enjoy (or withstand) it, warts and all.

Ah, your early 20s - the perfect time for navel gazing ( . . . not to be confused with omphaloskepsis).