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The Evil Machine

It is all simplicity drained
into a medium-sized metallic
box. One that you can carry
around all day and never know

it’s even with you, until you look
down, whether you’re holding it,
have it held by a strap over your
shoulder, the box dangling at the

side of your butt, or have it rigged
to sling over both shoulders, like a
backpack. Like the one in which
you once would carry at least a

half a dozen books. You don’t
really know what it does, nor
why you’re compelled to have it
with you every second of your

existence. It wasn’t always like
this. There was a time when you
felt light as air, when you believed
in the myth of freedom. You dreamed

you could soar. All the normal stuff.
But then there was that box. Did you
make it? Was it a gift? Did you find
it somewhere, like in a dumpster, or

some executive’s office? Perhaps
washed ashore, back when the
beach of the deep drain was
the only ominous that you knew.

That you felt. And still, as you
look out over the vast ocean,
and at the setting sun, say. Do
you remember what was prom

inent? What was at the forefront?
When you could go anywhere, be
anything and, most importantly,
that you could escape any time

you wanted. You could just leave.
For a moment. For a few days. Or
to begin again, to start fresh, and
this you did on occasion. It was

rare, but it was an option. Yet look
at you now, so completely unaware,
so devastatingly out of options, with
out even the memory of those days,

of that freedom, of those choices that
were at your disposal. And that you
got to decide. Sometimes a glimpse
of the idea of choice, as if deep within,

as of the ashes of what used to be 

the coal in the furnace of your skull 

is stirred, just enough to whip up an
ember. But then. It’s gone. And

you look around as gooseflesh crawls
across your skin. Thinking maybe
someone.... But there’s no one.
Nothing. Except the box,

which you clamp tighter between
your arms, hoist its harness up
closer to your neck, or tug at
the straps across your chest,

bringing what’s behind you closer,
tighter, feeling it flush, a square
to your back, that gives you, so
clueless, the idea that you are

safe, that you are secure, that this
world is yours.  And with these thoughts,
the ember darkens, and you blindly find
your comfort, your security, your peace.