Freckles gather at one corner

of the right eye, forced together

from the squint you give my exposed

engine. I stare out bug-pocked glass

through the slit of the hood, raised

like hackles on a rubbed-wrong cat.

A thought, to press my key past

my cheek squishes me flat against

the seat. But thumbs up, so I ignite

my machine and I feel power

rumbling underneath. We unhook.

Disembodied, I bumble off, Buick-style,

as easily as those freckles could evacuate.

Idiots. the two-footest idiots ever invented.
that’s what they are. so pleased to figure
out symbolic systems and algorithms.
enchanted with warped perceptions,
glib parakeets in fun house mirrors.
we make gears with teeth and fancy feast
but we still haven’t cured cancer or landlords.