Zoltar Speaks
Written: June 18, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Robert James Liguori
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In glowing slime, Zoltar coins click and pile,
A silver box for green bills makes him smile.
Its glassy shell goes ticking a tinny refrain—
A zinc gear strikes a copper vein.
The soiled, smeared glass catches my sheen,
A ghost-volt amid grime fuels my adrenaline.
Two unblinking bulbs, too cold and bright,
As I put my money in his slot, it ignited—
Not breathing, not dead—stuck in sterile zones,
A painted mannequin on camphor thrones.
He lifts a hand of yellowed, brittle wax—
His features locked against a smirk’s cracks.
“Press close,” the speaker rasps in rusted mesh,
A synthetic tongue that mimics human flesh.
Static unfurls, within decades of dust—
A fake artifact that begs for your trust.
No prophet stirs inside this iron cage,
No cure to soothe a modern mortal’s rage.
The cipher fails to heal, or serve to cope—
It’s just a camshaft cranking out false hope.
He slams a plastic fortune through the slit,
a card saying I will reap fortune with lousy wit.
I read the inked spectrum of false desire—
While bulbs merge in bright phosphor fire.
I turn away and leave the box behind,
A trap of gears designed to catch the blind.
It whispers riddles to the empty floor—
A Zoltar speaking, stilled, forevermore.
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