Man the Machine

Take out the timing that sets all your watches 
Spin all the gears like flat metal globes 
You’re a god of the nothing, a seal on the void 
That practiced its humming before it ran dry 

Spin on a dime some Saturday night
Catch the flicker of road maps from the streetlamps in cars
Like now you’ll be idling with no place to go
Steam rises like spirits from carbonic sighs

And the storm stung your eyelashes with its little glass beads
Like the Indian magicks that were traded for land
Little life bubbles in an ocean of air
You should breathe them through straws and count them like sands
And figure out what you’re doing here

Angelheaded hipster in the muttering retreats
There’s no fight to fight and no loss to win
Slide in your quarter at the old Laundromat
Watch the slot machine roll and know it’s no sin

Oatmeal for brains carries no shame
It’s not the consistency but how you survive
Be a god of the nothing and a duster of keys
Just clack out the words that keep you alive

I hope a storm stings your eyelids with its little glass beads
Like the Indian playthings that they traded for land
Little life bubbles in an ocean of air
Try to breathe them through straws and count them like sands
And figure out what you’re doing here