Sunday, July 4, 2010

Toast in the Machine

A poem advocating condom use.

Freud opened the hood up,
and what did he see?
A fistful of pistons,
but an absence of me.

And Minsky, my old friend
(and a really smart guy,
(though he waffled on free will)
still supposes A.I.

All my dreams? 0’s and 1’s
going mano a mano.
And those bats in the belfry?
Just a grotto of guano.

It seems we're all tubes
with an 'in', and an 'out'.
We wiggle, and niggle,
and squiggle about,

but are rarely aware
of the motives inside-
which themselves are just beggars
gone along for the ride.

We scrape out a living
on this big ball of dust,
while self-replicating DNA
scrapes out an us.

And we love, and we bitch-
but mostly, we eat. ,
And we borrow, and lend,
and pretend we're not meat.

We perform, and we prattle.
We thank, and we think.
We poop, then pronounce
that our shit doesn't stink.

And before we go down
in the ground, we ensure
that our pipe dreams extend
just above the manure

long enough to disgorge
vision’s seed on the breeze,
on the off chance tomorrow
might cure our disease-

A new sun! A new world!
In a future so bright
as to justify aeons
spent alone in the night.

Brand new bodies to house
our vicarious selves,
with a thousand new gurus
to line our bookshelves,

who’ll assure with a wink
and a word from beyond
that we’ll all live forever
if we’ll only press on.

Then we pray to the sky,
suing stardust for mercy,
cashing in the old ghost
for a ride in the hearsie.

The story’s much older
than mold or sliced bread.
Everybody gets burned,
and we all wind up dead.

And so, if you’d value
your daughters and sons,
keep that twist-tie secured,

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