THE PERPETUAL MACHINE
Too big to fight, too slow to change,
the wheels on the outside are painted-on,
layers of faces disconnected from gears
that grind-out promises, grind-down reserves,
and grind-up dreams. It ingests us, growing
still, and almost stationary, always hungry
for power. We dodge cogs and rollers
in the sort to nest near broken welds and seams
for the outside light, praying to our gods.
You are old enough, now, to see where
we’ve come from, and what has become
of humanity dumbed-down with slogans
from the poets on the payroll, the quick
and easy assonance that lubricates
today's friction to absolve us all.