I am an inked ribbon
fed through an old manual typewriter.
Like all old typewriters,
the machine originated
in the belly
of a behemoth steam punk engine,
one already equipped
with an Artificial Intelligence
so fake that it was undetectable
in any time or space.
Eventually,
all such antiquated machines
must evolve into smart phones
in the hands of semi-morons.
Until then,
I remain just ink
held in suspended animation
until an ancient programmer
codes thoughts upon fingertips
that are still growing
in a stone-age Petrie dish.
Scholars say that it rained for a thousand years
(forty day and nights being a poetic way of saying same),
it is feasible that the oceans began as puddles and pools
then the world turned wet.
Thomas put his finger in the wound of the crucified Jesus
thousands of years later
a Roman soldier stands upright bewildered
the tip of his spear glowing
like a morning star. A body was spirited away
when they caught him napping.
Men have been to Mars already, just not us,
different time zones crash into infinity.
We are still building spaceships to explore who we once were.
I write crazy poetry in a history book
that has no date nor time lines.
Poems happen in 'out of the body' moments.
History is our future being recorded. A poem
is a time traveler in a steam punk movie the mind
invents.
It all matters and nothing matters. Visions emerge
as our truth.
Lucky steampunk faerie finally found an adventure novel
Deep in the nook of the black forest’s sycamore grove
Especially for you, was written in cursive inside the cover
She had no idea who wrote it, but enjoyed the sentiment
I told you a human would like your book, an owl whispered.
“Not if you tell her it was written by a mouse,” his lunch said.
Black is not white
Nor is it black or white
Ask any purple Zebra
He will explain so colorfully
Illustrating the life and love
Of a dancing Gothic chicken
Around a lake of make-believe dreams
Steam punk trains
On the tracks of time
Tickets available
At yesterdays window