Machine

this machine does not give change so give it up
the empty apathy of sitting by a window watching the storm role in
given up on the fat swelling up the salty seaside daily

empty megaphone on the lawn and lying on the beach in Mexico
the sand-footed vendors prancing palm frond t-shirts there
lace up and walk out on the street
storm clouds on the window sill
the pocket book left underneath the feet pressed flat
that’s my life when my life your life is money
and picture imprinted IDs
but wha’s the name?

this machine splits open at the sides
feed it dollar bills slowly so it can eat
and grow
and prosper
blocking out all the others
chocolate breath but tightly bent to fit a certain model
Smith or Marx or Keynes
maybe Prince
a prince inside the leaves folding downward
and there are ghosts in this parade
small and large
running into the ground

this machine kills fascists and poets and the leftwing media bought out by corporate interests
feed us the news so we can eat the dull comfort of it

this machine this black box
our answers
the box was black in “The Lottery”
and all that came out was a name