Tuesday, July 21, 2015

prose poem 15 | a sick machine



Like a sick machine, coughing up lapsed spaces in logic, the controls seized. In fits and starts, it stumbles and splays, in nearly the needed direction.

Is it user error or just some stuttering construct?

A wrench looms in wait, poised to fall. Do you blame the wrench or the jostling mistakes of poorly chosen ground? Either way the gears will be broken, missing teeth from a screaming maw.


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