Image:
detail of Iso-mandala No. 93 (September 2020)
the
machine of perpetual opera
box
office always open, opener
as
countless shows play often, oftener
the
machine that only tells lies
the
machine that laughs and sighs
the
machine to close his eyes
they’re
delicate situations
the
machines tuned to known sensations
elation,
evasion, knowing his station
he
could wish for one with insight
but
would it go to sleep at midnight
and
never get things right
the
machine he thought sublime
for
telling him the time in no time
the
clock has been replaced with brain chimes
the
machine that turns his domus serene
daily
into Versailles, or dangling Babylon green
a
Malibu cliffhanger, or nuclear submarine
the
tiny machine no larger than a corpuscle
the
gigantic machine landing no hustle
in
a field by its airport of infinite bustle
did
he invent these machines, no not perhaps
anymore
than the merry-go-round app
whence
he views all his friends in a snap
his
mind’s made up, his hands are tied
he
used to think he could decide
the
machine takes him for a ride
sun-cars,
coal-cars, wind-cars, oil-cars
vie
for the road whether near or far
no
beginning, no end, give him a cigar!
their
aggregate of speed
slows
to rust buckets in weeds
and
thanks for the memories, at need
these
days he prefers reading escapist loans
set
in a world before telephones
where
the horse set the pace and tone
the
machine of the film of the idea is best
the
pop song of the war, his friends suggest
lately
deleted like all the rest
but
the label on tomorrow’s machines
the
end justifies the means
is
yesterday’s, gone from the scene
the
machines with the intention
to
be the most important invention
of his time, as may have been mentioned
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