Their sleek sides
return my unastonished glance. They might be content, nestled among the
calculators and bandannas. Lukewarm in my hands, this dull-silver egg
is complacent as a child. Under today's reflected sky it looks like a
gift from a robin. Trees overhead dim and stretch as my eyes follow the
oval curve. Rotated between my palms, cirrus down streams on metal skin.
Closer now, my reflected eyes stream toward both ends.
Once activated, each egg is its own incubator, my rug near the window their nest. I turn them at dusk. The reflected moon finds each orb, where it sprawls like a ticking yolk. Fissures crawl, slow lightning tracing remembered circuits wrapping my swollen bells, my basket of moons.
(Each self-assembling structure siphons off the petrol sulfide yolk
A first tooth rises--eggshell
splits--ice yielding to a periscope--With no thought of eating the pieces,
a gawking colt on derrick legs chickensteps into my life. It approaches
my chair with hydraulic precision.
iii. The Automaton
Sovereign to a triple demiurge, I remake my world: doillies were never smoother and no webs complicate high corners. Only the automatons know when it's best to water a violet or how to spice sauce for veal. I navigate their new course from sofa to table.
Freed at last for
reading and chess, I dine while they sing. And what did I do to celebrate
my leisure? I wrote this. Most of it.
on newsprint peeled from 8 limp arms
inked darker than clouds from a squid.
The paper is buckled from cup-pocked limbs
that released it with black regret--
creature helpless as a criminal
booked into the sea of inhumanity,
a victim with too many toes to tag (or not enough)
and eyes too bulbous to be closed by pennies
or mouths of tubas.
This print speaks of spidery fishnet stockings,
swimming through a child's imagination
with 8 brutal arms to ward off trademarks and logos
while ink's at high tide.
on ROBOT EGGS:
Some years ago, I was saving tattered aluminum foil to donate to a recycling center. I wadded the foil into balls, which over the months grew into metallic ovals, suggesting robot eggs to my imagination.
This work is a dystopian cautionary tale as practiced by Orwell and Huxley. Furthermore, the style and tone reflect the influence of Sylvia Plath.
When a child gave
me a print peeled from an octopus, I tacked the image to my wall.