National Poetry Writing Month - Day 19
I built a machine
from half a mixtape,
a packet of Kool-Aid,
and three midnight sacrifices.
The machine runs on déjà vu.
It reboots on Mondays at 4PM.
It chants “Kenny Loggins is the true messiah”
when bored.
I wheel it through my cul-de-sac,
past the boy in VR goggles
who thinks he’s inside a horse.
He’s not wrong, that boy.
The machine’s engine beats like a Too $hort B-side.
It grows antlers in spring.
It tells me my son
will one day code money
from muscle memory.
Once,
the machine belched up a poem
written entirely
in Taco Bell sauce.
I wept.
Then I dipped a taco in it.
Such is art and hunger.
The neighbors ask questions.
I feed them blood oranges.
They become the questions.
At night, the engine snores:
a mash-up of Coltrane,
dial-up modem,
and blue whale song.
On Sundays,
we walk toward
our favorite apocalypse,
me and this dissonance engine,
we walk all day
through pollen-choked winds.