someone asked me if
i was a robot writing
i do not think so

I am too rational
To fall apart completely
Like a crumbling leaf
In the autumn breeze
But here I am.
I am a piece of machinery
With a faulty circuit board
With a touchy circuit breaker.
Tiny signals
Trigger a robust response
Because anything larger
Exceeds my design limitations.

We are miraculous.
Ropes of corded muscle
Intertwined—
A system so efficient
We have spent centuries
Attempting to imitate it.

We are
Astounding.
Life is a miracle
No robot
Can replace.

Isn't it fascinating?
Telling you they're down
Telling you they're suffering

Isn't it amusing?
Telling you they give up
Telling you they want the end

Pessimism fills their statement
Dejected faces
Inconsolable souls
Shells impossible to move

Yet it amuses me more
Their smiles
Their laughter
Their permanent changing masks

Their tears
They wipe off
As if it's a raindrop
Just happened to come down

How does it feel?
To be in pain
To hurt
To be happy

How does their life go?
Having more marks
More than in my system?

It must be really amusing

and if we never reach the stars
       (...earth to explorer v...)
her robot said
       (...fatal error [...] oxygen supply...)
what matters is we are
       (...no crewmen left alive...)
together, even if we're dead

Welcome to Misadventure, you're drawn to it in some berserk way, maybe due to it's atomic habits or technological urges,

sometimes there are cool, but irrational gun-totting robots who speak in foam, their presence detected by iron filings or teeth fillings or both or neither,

I just know there are tire tracks on your wife's new dress, the smell of gasoline coming from the guest bedroom, and a half-eaten Stouffers lasagna rotating on the record turntable,

and here a replicated version of your wife dances to the Italian Song, her ******* like lodestones, upturned and pressed together,

drawing you to them in some berserk way,
and they give such life and merriment to your brain's parcel of needles, that they prance and sway as if the devil were in them.

There was a sort of whizzer boy,
The tinker blinker clinker boy,
With gears and knobs and springs abound,
A head full of thoughts and gears that go round.

He liked to paint and make and build,
For every craft, yes, he was skilled.
“Working hard but with time to play?
Why, that’s my favorite kind of today!”

But what made him different, you see...
He was always quite metallic-y,
And when it was his time for bed,
He charged his battery, and turned off his head.