Noticing Machine Suicide

for DFW

 

Why would you choose your last physical
movement of air? There’s so much
real: a cashier in the grocery line overworked,

agonizing from a stress
fracture in her right foot, suffering
since her husband’s not what she thought

he was—last night, she caught him wearing her
wedding dress as he stared at himself
in the full length mirror exclaiming, I’m trapped

in a man’s body. She has an unfriendly
look to her face, while she inquires, How are you
this evening? It’s 2:43 p.m., there’s no response to her

apathetic query. Is she really paid enough to care
about your lack of manners, or her indifference
to anything you or anyone in her line

has to say? The vine fresh tomatoes
in your rusty cart with the wild wayward wheel
are modified to look bigger, better, brighter, being nearly

resistant to aging, while the unnatural
compounds do strange things to us, but you try not to
think about that because you want

a tomato. The minutest particulars of every single
thing complicate and drive your mind
from each encompassing exterior

visual, sounds praying
for your engagement. These things
want astute observation of what they are, you

making them real. It’s the obsession of unearthing
contemplations evoked by consequences—
the externality—interesting. Only words like yours can

deconstruct the culture in one book, which no one can
read—still they know they should—because the book
demands so much from the reader. You can’t escape

yourself: you being the center of your
world. Like you: so center you become
a vacuum no longer able to touch

the things you thought to write
down, or had written down, or that missed
sensation of touch, should have touched

because it might have saved
you. The mind’s verbiage is vertigo
leading to dead, lifeless sentences being

stuffed in boxes marked, Burn when I’m dead. Stupid
self-imposed turning blue
then stowing yourself into a trunk, a casket.

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1 Comment

  1. Wow those last two stanza really were quite a powerful end to the poem…excellent read.


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