iROBOT

This morning on the TV I watched

an intelligent machine the size of a curling stone.

It vacuumed hands-free, sensing where it was,

on the floor, reversing on collision,

diving under beds and lounges in search

of roach bodies, desiccated cat piss,

toast crusts and babies’ lost single socks.

The device, the salesman said, was an iRobot

selling at a low price for Christmas,

the season when gravity is especially strong,

and the need for machines that will suck up

what the dogs leave is at its peak

as families meet amidst repulsive dynamics

and spilled food, drink, urine, dribble

of old farts and the puke of young.

This was the ideal gift, the salesman sang,

for the woman or man

who has everything.

Imagine a nano-version of iRobot

stronger than Satan

that I could inject

that would vacuum up the stinking sludge

and slop that I slip in on the floor of my brain,

remove my need to seize a semi-automatic gun,

search out a classroom full of little children.

CALL FAILED

Damn it, we were like gorillas,

vision reduced, tripping on tangled vines,

shouting and cursing in the mist;

gorillas, hulks, arms hanging,

dull brains firing off

random instructions to limbs

that did not connect.

Gorillas in the mist:

we missed as though miles apart

for all the good our shouting did.

Instead, let’s shed this fur,

enough of these make-believe uniforms –

remodel our jaws,

let human talk begin

and textured skin shine.

Be mysterious if you will,

but speak your mind!