what gumption is left in the machine counts
we are soul tired and enlivened by great gobbing storms
rolling in northwest along the river
the watchman and the fishermen have ordained
there are clouds thick as shag carpets
carrying floods and fuckery
and the new age of soul-machines
Begin again.
The world’s machine’s mechanisms run regardless in a pre-ordained program covered in iteration upon iteration of user design models. We are so far from how the soup is made, it’s all a needle prick to the gut and the promise of future health savings.
Begin again, word machine: with your hot coffee, tart apple, pipe, and (different) hip pain. Begin again because they are counting on you. Begin again because you are counting on yourself. Begin with your weapons of choice: a sharpened pencil, bare paper, the naked insistence which fuels you. Move the gears, grease the pistons. Give us a little play.
Begin again.
These steamboat metaphors break my heart. But it is a loving pain, a teary-eyed executioner.
Move, piston. Move.
ma
chine
clang
type
a diction
ary
with
fingers
a fingers
of diction
aries
ma
chine
this is all
machine time
this
messages
mis/understood
language
tinny / all static
movement delays rust
don’t need no voice box
move
