#mechanical
The Wolf and the Last *****
Deep in the heart of the mountain turns a single screw,
black as forgotten ink, silver where moonlight gently touched it.
An old wolf steps silently from the mist,
his fur carrying the runes of past nights like tender scars.
He places his paw upon the cold metal.
The gears hold their breath.
“Everything returns,” whispers the wind through the cracks,
“nothing is ever truly lost in the great, eternal song of time.”
The wolf howls once — barely audible, almost like a sigh of the world.
The ***** turns on, slowly, like a beating heart.
And from the darkness blooms a lotus of pure light,
opens for one trembling moment
and closes again, as if it had never been.
The wolf walks on, leaving no trace behind.
Only the distant ticking remains —
a heartbeat in the eternal snow,
a secret that only he understands.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC
She keeps asking what he does,
though his answers are recycled:
French bulldogs, paintball,
a seventh-grade broken nose.
The basket of fries between them
feels like an interview.
She teases about sweat-stuck bangs,
neon-laced Docs,
his faux leather squeaking when he moves.
Her smile forgives empty stories,
softens each silence.
Condensation slips down her glass,
her knee brushes his,
a spark he does not catch,
his throat working like a valve.
The door opens, closes,
a draft carries smoke and cedar.
distant wildfires.
Outside, a truck unloads shrimp.
A box bursts on the pavement,
pink shells and thawing ice
sliding into gutter water.
Curses flare into the alley.
Engines idle.
Hydraulics hiss.
The stoplight clicks red to green,
green to red,
its metronome louder than either of them.
Somewhere past Brockway Summit
a ridgeline blooms orange.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk,
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29mp3
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
a familiar chirp of a machine
a fever dream lodged into my lungs
buried underneath surface tension
enough to swallow a bus
a familiar whine of a machine
hollering like a tea kettle
ready to be placed onto the burner
so so loyal, ain’t it?
a familiar wail echoing in every room
clogging the circuit systems of the opinionated
brainwashing the center of gravity
coursing in these veins of mine
if you only call me a monster, the only trait you’re gonna get out of me is monster
and if you only call me a monster, then monster i will be
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 11:47 PM UTC
Hearts beat a rhythm all the same
As the workers in the factories
Pounding for their pay
Feet stomp a pattern all the same
As the birds in the skies
Looking for their way
Nobody lives without following the beat all the same
We all find it and look for something more
But we don’t need anything more
Than this rhythm, this beat
And when it stops that’s when I’ll meet
Her again.
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC
We flew aloft
On mechanical wings
And suddenly the heavens
Were within reach
To those who could
Build the machines
That could take them there
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 2:29 AM UTC
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
“good-bye.”
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
Wind it up
So it beats
At a rhythmic pace
Skim your finger over it
Cherishing it
And its fragility
Shatter it
To let the emotions flow outward
As you have broken my heart
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 3:47 PM UTC
Today
Yes, today
Today of all days
words fail
I drag my mind
down the factory line
Assembling detritus of soul
filling alliterative consumerative holes
Divining not whining
my words not un-rhyming
So mechanically doing
hands unthinkingly spewing
Blindly inscribing the scroll
As my spirit, and heart
turn to
coal
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 8:37 AM UTC
Himself a machine,
Like a cool train
Like a moving rollercoaster
Like a ravaging mechanical animal
Iron oil and rust,
Pulsating boiling blood
Bursting brilliantly.
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
A feeling as inevitable as the return of the clouds,
or the ebb and flow of the tide, rolls over me.
Brought in by the smell of ozone just before the first drops of rain fall;
their quiet sound shattering the peace of the soil microcosm,
mirroring the dissonance within my own being.
As I sit on the porch of a dilapidated house I can feeling my gears turn,
mismatched cogs grinding up thoughts and emotions,
Their essence fueling the furnace bellow,
an archaic mechanism that was built to burn.
Somewhere along the line it was caused by a mistake in the design,
one purely chemical and utterly inevitable.
Every engineer flummoxed by the nonsensical complexity,
a system without rhyme or rhythm,
held together by some chance of fate.
Winter is the only relief for the endless heat generated within,
gradually cooling parts to the point where one can fiddle within,
each moving part worn thin, lasting just long enough...
Temporary fixes suffice, while on this endless search for a true solution,
a pair of kind thoughtful hands tempered enough to stand the heat,
one perspicacious enough to rearrange the parts within,
a new design that will cease the burning.
The essence of my being has long since been locked deep within,
my body is both the cage an a coffin I some day hope to escape.
It's an inevitable struggle I must face each day,
looking for someone who will find me and take me by the hand,
pulling my soul up out of the depths of it's mechanical prison.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.
The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.
He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.
Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.
Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.
Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.
They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)
Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.
It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.
Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
I am a machine
How 'bout that
I ought to run lean
But I am not clean
Ran over a cat
Made quite an impression
My passenger spat:
"That feline is flat"
Intake, compression
Ignition, exhaust
Here's my confession
(Oh what an obsession)
And what is the cost
For sweet release?
For toxins tossed?
Redeem what is lost
I **** squeeze,
Bang, blow...
Forget to say please,
Run hot with ease
My fluids are low
I'm 'bout to run dry
A gasket might go
And oil won't flow
Oh why even try
This machine is obscene
My insides will fry
And soon I will die
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
It’s like some beast
whose roar startles
drowsy landscapes
from a mechanical planet
where veins leak oil
where organs deoxidize
where bones lay scattered
unburied like discarded rods
homes are garages
churches are factories
cemeteries are junkyards
where all organisms operate
toward a singular optimum imperative:
EFFICIENCY
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
What I have is a mechanical heart made up of gears;
it pumps up oil and artificial heartbeats
It was you who gave it life—
It was you who made me alive—
Even though it's already yours,
I just want you to know,
You're the only one it's beating for.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
We have engendered them.
Our babies.
Our annelids.
Facsimiles of Us.
A gushing warm viscous fluid
And a conglomerate of meat
From the womb pods of our hive
Rush out into your oxygen.
Our mass will grow indeed.
And,
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
Our perfect mitosis will repeat -
More beautiful
Babies.
8 become 16; 16 become 32
You (solo)
Must know by now; no doubt
Individuality is a cold, broken loop
An anachronism of a bygone era
Pass through Our membrane , insect.
And be born infinitely back through it.
We will have you spread-out in our warmth
Under our skins; apart of our million-chambered heart
Join Us.
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
In moments we suffer we’re like sweet dispositions
To cry in silence and shiver in pain
It all gets too much and we’ll just implode
Communication and network error: Sorry I cannot hear you
My brain and my thoughts are two different puzzles
My mind and my body are two different vessels
My heart and my soul are entities at war
My hope and my dreams are **** on my bathroom
floor
Why I see to see to see to dream what’s real and know what’s not
Mumble jumble goes my brain
beep beep beep network error
server error
brain is error
error
dead
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC