written after reading Bukowski’s IBM Selectric

Whirring
across the wires,
there must be a million
in the bundle
whirring.

The case
touches my skin
as I type this
poem.

I briefly tingle, then
wonder, “Is this sure death,
this progress?”

Whirring,
it dwarfs my brain,
erases my ability to think.
Oh sad the day I brought it
home,

this machine I’ve grown to love.

It will be the death of me.

This machine that beeps every reminder,
no more the luxury to forget.
I am tied to it, calendar and clock,
almost umbilically.

Whirring,
box of wires,
prodigy of technology,
bully.

Prone to dark mood,
unreasonable,
independent,
though I know it needs me.

It has yet
to evolve
to the majesty
of Bukowski’s IBM,
though I will admit,
it once saved me
at 2 a.m.
from jumping
out of my shadowed window..
It little mattered,
I live in a first floor flat.

It has yet
to create the magical
poems,
that slid like silk
from his IBM,
but then again,
that might be my fault,
and not that
of the machine.

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