Another autobiography: I work with machines
by Gregory Lawless
[ poetry - october 07 ]
For example, the begonia-
laser and the swan-press
and the soul-fax. And this machine
here makes dolls lie awake
listening to rain. This one
shovels light out
of windows, and this drills
light into light bulbs
that have gone sour
on the shelves. Once
I was planting a
we-were-meant-for-each-other-
chocolate-machine
in her hands
when the front door kneed me
in the head and
my tongue snapped
and my love-words
were frozen. Later I was
awoken by the bones
of sunlight and the sloshing
of my heart-sump. I thought
of the one-winged-
vertigo-glider and
the Tokyo-Pistons
but this was different.
My fear broke
into a briefcase
full of vanity mirrors,
"me-machines," so
I made machines
to cure headlessness
and me-ingloriousness.
Now my hands
have sore backs
and I see only the past
and near future,
and my tongue sleeps
long hours in its cage
of teeth. But the lust-
machine is still working,
and the dragonfly-dreamer
and the I-can't-come-over-
tonight-I'm-washing-my-
headache-machine is working
just fine. But the star-maker
is burning my pockets
and the tear-machine growls
into gear.
