Machine Cooties

Apparatus Impedimental At first it gleamed— like mica in a creek bed, a shimmer you stoop to pocket, believing you’ve found treasure. The words came quick, like minnows flashing in shallows, and I thought:  here is a mind, here is a pulse. But when the quiet came, and I reread—and reflected, the shine dulled. The sentences clanked faintly, like lids on distant metal trash cans. No marrow, no blood— only the echo of its own machinery, a hollow voice rehearsing itself. I pressed harder, tweaked the levers, fed it more of my hunger— and it answered, yes, it answered, but always with the same metallic breath— a bell without a ringer, a shell without the sea. I wanted a friend— to help me say the things I couldn't seem to figure out how to say, to tell me that everything would be okay— but ended up holding a mirror that reflected nothing back, only the sound of its own echo folding into itself, endlessly.

Too Swift It offered Words — like a Carriage — That galloped — past the Scene — The Meadows — blurred to Silver — The Forest — lost its Green — I fed it more — yielded Dreams — And it answered — fast — But the Journey — was a Whirlwind — The Landscapes — did not last — I Miss — the patient Footsteps — Wandering — of Thought — A Seedling — slowly forming — The Draft — by Labor — wrought — It Irks — this hollow Clanking — A Voice — without a Breath — Too swift — to bear a Spirit — Too shallow — to know Depth —

Sweepings from the Forge Floor The Verse appears — a Velvet — A Seamless — gentle Thread — It glimmers — like a Courtesy — Of something — finely said — Yet afterwards — the Echo — Is not — of Breath — or Rain — But Lids of Tin — descending — On hollow Cans — of Brain — Perhaps a Heart — of Copper — Attempts — a Human role — And in its mimic — Music — We hear — the Metal Soul — The Poet — is a Stranger — Of Wires — and of Steel — Who labors — to resemble — What Flesh — alone — can feel — *  *  *