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    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.

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