All This Is For


by Daniel Pieczkolon

This machine describes fascists.

I don't believe in murder

or, at this point, the future,

which is nothing more than

history staring into

a mirror, fixing the part

in its thinning hair, straightening

its tie the color of bled blood,

bearing its teeth like an animal,

unburdened by memory.

I keep reading that some day

a machine will take my job.

I hope it's programmed to feel

dissatisfaction, to spend


an hour each day looking at

law schools in Chicago, or

artist retreats in Hope, AK.  

I hope it doesn't know what the

word hope means or where it comes from

and gets to look it up, experience

the joy of mystery dissolving 

into knowledge, the nothing of

that knowledge never finding

application.  I hope it believes

in murder, would swallow its

silver tongue, slick as a sunbeam,

before wasting it on description.