Mechanized Poems

Sheila and Jim

Sheila stepped out of the mechanized gear-filled lab with her robotic dog.
her lace blouse a contrast to her steam-powered eighteenth-century hog.
Another inventor looked up gave her a quick friendly boy-next-door wave.
His invention would make robotic airships flow and cascade.

Is that another automaton? Sheila yelled at her childhood friend of forever.
He did not divulge secrets, for Sheila was exceedingly clever.
She tucked her auburn hair into a helmet from Leagues under the sea.
But she was not fooled by his quick answer, not by any degree.

these rival inventors had been steampunk friendly since twenty-twenty.
She had phenomenal forthcoming mechanics almost ready; he had plenty.
Nothing frilly or fancy about her robotics, she intended they be the best.
Jim understood this, but he still wanted to carve out for them a love nest.

Sheila had avenues to conquer, airships to build too.
Eventually he planned to make a move, for without her, life would be blue.
Sheila congratulated herself for her coolness as she rode her hog away.
She planned to make him fall in love with her, tomorrow might be the day.

In a universe of lights flickering on the edge of consciousness

In a universe of lights flickering on the edge of consciousness,
The desire to possess becomes a hypnotic melody, cold and painful,
Binding our souls to the shape of objects, captives under a mechanized sky,
Where the thirst to consume flows through veins, a "biological" need that consumes us.
The market, a labyrinth of exploitation, weaves the unseen class structure,
Advanced capitalism hides its fangs under a technological veil,
Transforming class interests into glittering commodities, their enchanting shine,
And it is not the machines that suppress dreams, but the unseen masters who decide their numbers.
It is necessary to remind that science and technology are couriers of liberation,
Only their use in a repressive society makes them tools of domination,
In a world where the sky is covered with endless desires, we find ourselves captive,
Seeking answers in the darkness, melancholic dreamers on the sea of illusion.

The Haunted House

Why, in a haunted house, do we scream?
We know that the monsters are mechanized.
We know that the bumps are all oversized.
We know things are not what they seem.

Why, in that haunted house, do we chuckle?
We’re bombarded with bright lights, loud screams,
thumps and bumps; we imagine extremes
but know it’s all fake as we grip the belt buckle.

Why, in our own home, when we hear creaking,
don’t we cry or guffaw, but instead
we tiptoe, gasp and believe the undead
and the zombified trespasser come softly sneaking.

Why, when the horror and terror aren’t real,
Do we shriek with delight, while thrilled to the bone?
Why, when we know that we’re really alone,
Are panic and dread the emotions we feel?

Existentialist Box

walking waiting for
nothing but walking 
can't decide, just do,
actions mechanized
briefly burnt out, ai!
the end is the start of
something else (some
one break this box)

Untitled Machine

The process in a hive
surgical snippets of allopathic
functioning and standardized
the unequal rhetoric 
of a stolen paradise

Reaction homogeneous undiversified
to clacking gear
of working mechanized
the robotic motor
for economic lives

Buy the used up trash can of civilized 

Such are the things of love in their passing
waste recycling 
no longer applicable
the useless detritus
the human industrialized 

The process in a hive

Sweet fortuitous profit
for living in life only to survive
the laws of credit
the hum drum mechanic
steadfastly brutalized

Cut, swipe the cure-all chemical
the ready cash
with its easy voodoo
its empty idols
strangle to a last breath the spiritual

Flip through the catalog of the hive

Its children become weaponized
uniformed internment
scrutinies institution
of all their varied lives
a scrape of paper tossed upon
the economies expendable garbage pile

Invisible

Excuse me. I saw you there.
Pardon me. I saw your stare.
You want to judge what you don’t understand.
Instead of offering to lend a hand.
What is it that you see?
Why do you want to judge me?
Do you see a young person who is lazy?
Or maybe you see someone who is a bit crazy?
I heard your exasperated sigh.
I saw your judging eye.
You think I was playing around in that mechanized cart?
I’m hurt but certainly don’t look the part.
What you don’t know is that my unseen pain got the best of me today.
The pain was too much to bear to complete my task, so I had to find another way. 
My family needs to eat, as you saw, I have a growing girl.
She’s the apple of my eye, my hard won pearl.
So, judge me if you feel you need to...
But if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t judge you.
There are far more important things in this world, that’s for sure!
Than who rides in that little cart at the store.

Eulogy For a Psychiatrist

Listening never heard
Watching never seen
Relating unrelated
Screening behind a screen
Eyes
white lights in a blue pool
maybe one watt
Voice
warm soothing
a computerized hum
Thoughts mechanized
Battery recharged every hour
on the hour
Grown man
Alone man
Stone man


6/28/17

Pondering a Desert, a Proposed Wall and Skeletons, Not a Poem

a walk through the organ pipe 
cactus fields along
a contentious boundary

a place called Mexico on one side, 
a collection of semi-independent States
on the other

Barrels of water with spigots
preaching survival
placed at intervals by
good samaritans

hoards of armed guards
roving in every mechanized
contraption imaginable

illegal immigrant skeletons
are collected frequently,
four in the last few days 
within a ten mile radius of where 
I sit, comfortable and secure,
well-coffeed, well-fed and complacent.

What inspires people to attempt
crossing a very hostile environment
with slim chance of survival
to reach a place where folks
seem so unhappy and fearful?

Why are the unhappy and fearful,
extremely blessed, well-coffeed, 
well-fed and complacent people 
so resistant to helping folks 
risking their lives in such a fashion?

Singing Soul Strong

Billie Holiday said
The artist of soul never sings a song the same way twice,
the artist never sings the same song twice.

This sounds good and right to me,
as soul artists and lovers, 
great optimally effective researchers and scientists and communicators,
never live a day,
a felt relationship,
a poem,
a dance,
a sacred ritual or tradition
the same way twice.

As we learn to stay within our zones of synergy,
we can never go quite back to yesterday again
because we live through this fluid imagination
and experiential place
where life's co-relational time
flows a bubbling nuanced inside/outside integrating stream
never organically sung as mere mechanized repeat,
each moment learning now's renewing voice
from soul's most resonant
remembering 
strong-hearted
full-minded
passion-embodied space.

Soul sings inside songs 
of out-streaming full-hearted 
improvising
synchronizing voice.

American West

The true story of the American west
Is one of killing field slaughters and 
waste
The bison killers worked day and night
They were all busier than a kennel full 
of dogs in heat
The bison had never seen anything 
equaling this
And therefore knew nothing of how to 
resist
Their bodies piled up on prairies by the 
millions
While human beings continued their 
killings
Humans had no thought about an animal's 
soul
Mention of such would have laughed them 
into a slop bowl
This all points out a basic flaw in the nature 
of man
The evidence was there since man's time on 
earth began
Animals to Man are just mechanized bodies 
of meat and fur
Causing no lapse of conscience for killings 
humans incur
But human beings think to improve Mother 
Nature's rules
What they forget is this mother suffers no fools
When Man becomes comfortable in his unnatural 
habitat
Then mother will send earthquakes and floods to 
level Man flat

Picked Up Potatoes

We walked over the rough soil
previously churned by machine,
exposing potatoes to open air.

Mechanized harvesting 
sheds debris
like careless love hands 
whose only aim is gain.

We picked up those potatoes
scattered like rubbish, 
floating on ocean waves.

Peelings pitched as casually
as the unwanted debris of our lives,
left a freezer stocked
for an entire winter.

There's an old cliché,
One man's trash . . .

Dear, Teach Me How To Relax

Be positive and upbeat
Think of our loves
And also our love ones
Of the things so simple
We just give without any hesitance
And whatever their response
Always believe they too love.

When our goal is a good cause
Learning and doing  are services
Mechanized service de luxe
Be sure its been wholeheartedly done
Never think of the negative
For we don’t want our family die
And God knew our intention is sincere.

A Story From My Imagination

Not long ago did I meet her
She was like an angel
draped in tight fittings and sweater
She walked with the most graceful gait
and smelled so nice
In an instant I became a wormed bait
Came up to me and said the most sweetest "Hello"
I was on the verge of passing out
yet holding my nerves, I replied back with my voice all mellow
Never mind the questions she asked, I stood mesmerized
Like a zombie
I thought "Alas! I am about to be exorcised."
Then lo nature's cruelty, the beauty makes a 90 degree turn
In comes a mechanized wagon
carrying a cool intern
Gelled hair and cool sHades
I was boiling
with unwanted sweat and lot of hates
The beauty and "the beast" made a run to the cinema
I stood unwanted and realized
It is hopeless for a student without a diploma
Later I heard she was a doctor specializing in cardiology
Trying to pinpoint 
at my unhygienic smoking philosophy
Any-ways it makes a good story for poetic inspiration
It's just a story
A story from my imagination.

Land of Milk and Honey

Land of Milk & Honey. 
The president has banned the verb “work,” there are no job seekers 
or unemployed people, but those who administrate the state are on
duty. Since all is mechanized, digitalized and robotozied there is little 
need for citizens to do anything, but receive a monthly card to spend 
on food, clothes and other things, and they will be well enumerated. 
At last the masses have been set free from the toil of labour.    
They can sleep as long as they want, walk in the park or pursue sport, 
 meet in the evening and read poetry, with the understanding “work” 
is not mentioned, ‘cause the state know some poets are insubordinate
and will try to sneak in “work” by calling it something else. If the state 
censor find out the writer will be banned from all public gatherings and 
not being able to buy yogurt till he repents and writes nice things about 
the beautiful colour of plastic flowers, made by a robot called Rose.  
It has taken mankind thousands of years to reach this stage of maturity, 
and they will look up to the clear blue sky and say: “Truly this is Utopia.”

Brambles of a Futile Existence

Earthquakes
Hurricanes
Fire
Heart attacks
Cancer

Do the circumstances of your final breath
distress you?
All destinations lead to equal results,
infinite non-existence,
the permanent extinction of your unique soul.

Some lives are enshrined with granite headstones,
temporary monuments of polished absurdity.
Will virtue or vice be left behind?
These are superficial concepts
in this ruthless, mechanized universe.

I grant you full permission
to spread my diminished remains
where the mice will convert the marrow
of my surrendered bones to dung,
for the benefit of weeds and noxious brambles.

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