The Religion of Robotics

Headaches anonymous meetings continue regardless of the temper tantrum weather that crashes down on our heads the size of pinwheels. I have grown silent as of late due to the need to communicate through micro-expressions and folly furniture. Was there a grief that can be risen above: destroyed by some grandiose leisure or flammable log cabins in the woods when you were nine and killed your first rabbit for dinner and you cried once the deed was done and the limp flesh sizzled while roasting on the spit. Guilt seethes to conquer our virtues that we count on our fingers, one at a time, to make sure it was worth it to wake up this warn down body in the middle of the afternoon.

I was so angry at the world for delving me deep and cutting me short with scissors that I shrunk to the size of a virus and left the earth for a time to contemplate the angels falling and the vast canyons under the ocean. The brilliance of the moonlight glistens the water awake and as she sets, her mouth gently kisses the everglades’ edges until tomorrow. We all mood swing to the beat of a capitalist psychoanalysis drum- as it is in constant thumping out of what we are to want to buy, need to buy, must have to survive: cosmetics and feelings of cool and that the world is driving itself insane.

We arrive with the weather to the tollbooth of insincerity and found that all of us had our lies to keep, our secrets to furrow deep in the base of the brain, the diseases we have yet to catch and craft the spells of the witch hunters that betrayed their own kin to the policed thought taverns and tourniquets. Mass graves drift in and out of sleep and screaming redemption to a god that seems to be busy unlearning the mechanics of our human-machine sex appeal as we transition to the religion of robotics.

Counting the human to ghost cross-overs as I toss and toss again, waiting to notice the blood dripping from your eyes and the spider in your skull. The artists cater to no man and then unknown they escape the pilgrimage to the intersection of sell-out and sanctuary. To not create would be a sin huge enough for my desperate need for confession.

I raced the hare and found him sleazy and confrontational. And I awoke from my dream to go to the unmarked grave tribunal. The war crimes, dirty rhymes, pick-up lines and scarlet women dance just out of eyesight once the night takes us back in time to see our history unfold like a snake sheds its skin. I am plagued by the bloodthirsty; the medicine man shuffles into town and could save the world though the masses see a revolution as a waste of time and money. But what is still left unknown is that if we are the souls of intervention, when can our chorus begin?

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